To His Hell and Back

Chapter 529: You Said Trust-II

Standing from the dining table, Arabella folded her napkin with deliberate calm and placed it neatly beside her untouched cutlery. The soft rustle of fabric was the only sound that followed, yet it felt loud enough to echo through the vast dining hall. She then turned toward the head maid, whose posture stiffened the instant Arabella’s attention settled on her.

The woman had been watching the entire meal with a trembling sort of vigilance, her eyes darting between Arabella’s face and the plates as if expecting poison to reveal itself at any second.

The tension within the castle had grown so thick it was suffocating, and everyone knew who would bear the consequences should anything go wrong. It was never the lords or ladies. It was always the servants.

When Arabella’s sharp gaze moved toward her, the head maid flinched before she could stop herself. Her fingers curled tightly into her apron as she bowed her head.

"What may I help you with, milady?" she asked, her voice careful and subdued.

"I want everyone to clean the castle," Arabella said evenly.

The head maid blinked, genuinely taken aback, her mind struggling to catch up to the command. "Clean... the castle?"

"Clean everything," Arabella repeated, her tone unchanging.

"The rooms?" the maid ventured hesitantly. "We already clean the rooms every day, milady. We make certain not even a single corner is neglected."

"No," Arabella cut in at once, lifting her hand slightly to silence her. Her eyes hardened, sharp and unwavering. "I want it cleaned today. Every floor is to be swept and polished. Curtains are to be taken down, washed, and replaced. Windows are to be scrubbed until not a single speck of dust remains. I want the walls to shine. I want everything to gleam."

The head maid felt the blood drain from her face.

That was not a request. It was a sentence.

The castle itself was monstrously vast, five times the size of an ordinary mansion, with countless wings, corridors, staircases, and sealed chambers that had not been touched for years. Even if every servant worked without rest, it would take days to complete such an order.

Her throat tightened as panic bloomed in her chest.

"Is there... any problem?" Arabella asked, tilting her head ever so slightly.

The question was soft, almost polite, yet it struck harder than any raised voice ever could. How could the head maid possibly complain? How could she protest when the woman before her held more power than anyone else within these walls?

She pressed her lips together and bowed deeply, eyes fixed on the floor as if staring too long might cost her something vital.

"No, milady," she murmured.

In that moment, she felt as though a vampire had already drained her dry and left her standing —though, truthfully, that might have been kinder.

Arabella did not linger to watch her leave. Instead, she made her way to the second-floor hall and settled into the carved wooden chair set within the alcove overlooking the corridor. Folding her hands neatly in her lap, she closed her eyes and listened.

The castle stirred to life in reluctant chaos.

Footsteps hurried across stone floors. Doors creaked open. Buckets clattered, brooms scraped, and muffled complaints drifted through the air as servants moved with mounting urgency. The sound of labor echoed endlessly, rising and falling like an uneasy tide.

Time passed.

Then, faintly, voices reached her.

"What is this room?" one servant whispered.

"I can’t open it," another replied. "Should we ask the head maid?"

"I don’t think you can," someone else muttered. "I heard only Lady Esme has the key."

A pause followed, thick with uncertainty.

"Should we... tell the lady?"

Before a decision could be made, a presence loomed behind them.

Arabella stood there, her steps soundless against the stone. A calm smile curved her lips as she regarded the servants frozen in place, their faces pale with alarm.

"It seems," she said gently, her voice smooth as silk, "that you’ve found a room that cannot be opened."

The servants turned slowly, dread settling deep in their bones. They bowed when they saw her face, looking at each other, sharing glances of fear as they had heard how Lady Arabella had a terrible temper.

"The door can only be opened by Lady Esme, milady! I shall call her here right now."

"Where is she?" Arabella asked the maids. "Isn’t it odd that I have ordered the entire castle to be cleaned yet I can’t even see a single strand of Esme’s hair?"

The servants shared glances again and one bravely muttered, "The lady is with the Lord, milady."

Oh, so she must be near him in order to stop him from making a reckless decision and doubt her which would end the third test in a bad note.

But even if the servants asked for the key, Esme and Morpheus wouldn’t want to open the door.

"Then leave this room."

The three maids smiled happily.

"I’ll open it myself."

Their smile was so short lived as it fell so quickly before one could see it.

"Milady-"

"It’s a bad idea, milady... this is Lord Morpheus’s favorite room."

But one of the maids stepped back, her breath catching in her throat as she saw Arabella place her palm against the door. Power rippled outward instantly, violent and unseen, striking the wooden surface so hard that the door trembled within its frame. The sound was low and resonant, like something alive recoiling from her touch.

The maid let out a strangled gasp.

Fear seized her limbs before reason could follow. She turned and ran, skirts gathered in trembling hands as she fled down the corridor, her footsteps echoing wildly through the halls. Watching her retreat, Arabella’s smile deepened, slow and knowing.

Inside the study, Morpheus tapped his fingers against the arm of his chair, the rhythm sharp with impatience. The air felt stagnant, thick with waiting, and when he finally glanced toward the tall windows, he realized with irritation that time itself seemed to crawl.

"Just a few more hours, milord," Esme said gently from his left, her voice carefully measured. She had repeated the same words more than thirty-four times already, each attempt failing to soothe him. If anything, they only fed his growing agitation.

"Keep her away from me," Morpheus said at last, rising abruptly. His voice carried a dangerous edge. "As long as she is not in my presence, I will not be tempted into demanding answers."

"Of course, milord," Esme replied, bowing her head obediently.

Inwardly, she smiled. The third test would soon end, and with it, the path toward the marriage would finally open. Then Morpheus would reign not merely over the human realm, but over Hell— and even Heaven itself.

There was a pang of disappointment, faint but present, at not being the chosen bride. Yet she had long since learned to swallow it. Morpheus would always choose her first in all other ways. It did not matter that her face mirrored another’s. She no longer cared.

All that mattered was that she would stand beside him when Arabella, that irritating, intrusive thorn, was finally cast aside and destroyed.

Her thoughts had barely settled when the doors burst open.

The same maid from earlier stumbled inside, breathless and pale. She was fully dressed now, yet her face was even whiter than it had been when she had fled half clothed through the halls before.

"Th— the room," she stammered, her voice thin and trembling, as though she had seen a ghost. "The room... Lady Arabella wants to open the special room."

"What?"

Morpheus rose instantly, the chair scraping sharply against the floor.

"You said what?"

"She ordered the entire castle to be cleaned," the maid continued desperately. "Everyone was working when we reached the special room. I told her it could only be opened by you, milord. But then... then the lady smiled. She said she would open it herself."

Esme froze.

Their gazes met, and in that brief exchange, she knew what she should do. She should warn him. She should tell him not to fall for such an obvious provocation. Unlike her, Morpheus’s patience was already threadbare.

She opened her mouth—

And hesitated.

That room belonged to the woman who shared her face. The room preserved in silence, untouched, devoted to the one Morpheus had loved most. For years, Esme had guarded it, resented it, loathed every moment spent standing watch before its door.

She hated the room. Hated the memories it housed. Hated the way it existed as proof that she would never be enough.

She had longed to destroy it herself.

And now Arabella was about to do what she never could.

How, then, could she truly stop him?

Without her restraint, Morpheus stormed past her. He did not walk. He ran.

The Lord who always moved at his own deliberate pace, who commanded time itself with ease, was now racing through the corridors toward the special room. His urgency tore through the silence like a blade.

Esme remained behind, watching his retreating back, a hollow sense of loss settling deep within her chest.