Chapter 2 The Truth of Madness

Morning light filters through the curtains as Gabriel stirs beside me. For a moment, confusion clouds his features—he never allows himself to be this vulnerable around me. I watch as realization dawns, followed by a quick succession of emotions: surprise, concern, and finally, an attempt at composure.

"You're still here," he says, voice rough with sleep.

I offer a shy smile. "You asked me to stay. I didn't want to upset you by leaving."

He sits up abruptly, wincing at what must be a splitting headache. "I don't recall... Did I take my medication last night?"

"After your third whiskey," I lie smoothly. "You said it would help you sleep."

Gabriel runs a hand through his disheveled silver hair, a gesture I've rarely seen. He's always so carefully put together, so controlled. This glimpse of disorder fascinates me.

"You should return to your room," he says finally. "Mrs. Chen will be bringing breakfast soon."

I nod obediently and rise from the bed, still wearing last night's blue dress, now creased from sleep. At the door, I pause. "Gabriel? You spoke in your sleep last night."

His head snaps up. "What did I say?"

"Something about mirrors. And a name—Eliza? You sounded frightened."

The color drains from his face. "That's nonsense. I don't know anyone by that name."

"Of course," I murmur. "It must have been gibberish. I'll see you at breakfast."

Back in my room, I change quickly into the day clothes laid out for me—a modest sundress, suitable for the "troubled young woman" Gabriel presents to the few visitors he allows. As I brush my hair, I review my progress. The name "Eliza" was a calculated risk—she doesn't exist, but Gabriel's reaction confirms my suspicion that he harbors deep-seated fears about his past being exposed. Something to exploit further.

Breakfast is served on the sunlit terrace. Gabriel has recovered his composure, dressed impeccably in a light linen suit. Mrs. Chen places a plate of fresh fruit and pastries before me, her expression as inscrutable as ever.

"Thank you, Mrs. Chen," I say warmly. She nods curtly and retreats.

"You seem chipper this morning," Gabriel observes, studying me over the rim of his coffee cup.

"I slept well," I reply. "Being close to you... it made me feel safe."

His expression softens marginally. This is the dance we do—I play the gradually healing patient, grateful for his care, while he oscillates between clinical detachment and possessive affection.

"I've been thinking," he says after a moment. "Perhaps it's time to try a new approach to your therapy. Your progress has been... notable."

"What kind of approach?"

"Memory recovery. There are aspects of your past that remain blocked. Accessing them might help with your healing."

I hide my excitement behind a sip of tea. This is perfect—an opportunity to plant more false memories, to further destabilize his reality.

"If you think it would help," I say hesitantly. "Though I'm scared of what I might remember."

Gabriel reaches across the table to take my hand, a rare gesture of physical comfort. "I'll be there with you. You're never alone in this journey, Vivienne."

The irony of his statement is delicious.

Later that afternoon, we meet in what he calls the "therapy room"—a softly lit space with comfortable chairs and recording equipment. Gabriel has prepared extensively, reviewing notes and setting up a small camera to document the session.

"I'll be using a light hypnotic technique," he explains. "Nothing invasive, just a way to help you access buried memories."

"Will I still be... me?" I ask, injecting a tremor into my voice.

"Of course. You'll be fully aware, just more receptive to recollection."

I settle into the chair as instructed, feigning nervousness. Gabriel's voice guides me through a series of relaxation exercises. I pretend to follow along, appearing to sink into a trance-like state while remaining perfectly lucid.

"Now, Vivienne, I want you to think back to before we met. What do you see?"

I let my eyelids flutter. "A hospital room. White walls. I'm... restrained."

Gabriel leans forward. "Good. Why are you restrained?"

"They said I was dangerous. That I hurt someone." I pause, then add with calculated precision, "But that's not what happened. She fell. Elizabeth fell. It wasn't my fault."

Gabriel's pen stills. "Elizabeth? Who is Elizabeth?"

"Your wife," I whisper, watching his face carefully. "Before the accident."

The color drains from his face for the second time today. "I've never been married, Vivienne. This is a false memory."

I continue as if I haven't heard him. "She knew about the others. The women in the basement. She was going to tell."

"Stop this," Gabriel says sharply. "You're confabulating."

I open my eyes wide, appearing disoriented. "Gabriel? What happened? Did I say something wrong?"

He composes himself with visible effort. "You experienced some confabulation—false memories created by your mind to fill gaps. It's common in your condition."

"But it felt so real," I insist. "Your wife, the basement—"

"Enough!" he snaps, then immediately softens his tone. "I think we've done enough for today. You should rest."

That evening, Gabriel locks himself in his office. Through careful observation over months, I've identified the surveillance blind spots in the house—areas where his cameras don't reach. I use these to move unseen to the door of his office, listening.

I hear him pacing, mumbling to himself, the occasional sound of glass against glass as he pours another drink. Perfect.

At dinner, he's distracted, barely touching his food. I notice his hand trembling slightly as he lifts his fork.

"Are you feeling well?" I ask solicitously.

"Fine," he replies curtly. "Just a headache."

"Perhaps you should take something for it."

He gives me a sharp look. "I know what I need, Vivienne."

After dinner, he excuses himself early, retreating once more to his office. I return to my room, waiting for the house to grow quiet. At midnight, I slip out, making my way to the east wing of the mansion where Gabriel keeps his most prized possession: an antique mirror, allegedly once owned by a European royal family.

I stand before it now, admiring my reflection in the dim light. Behind me, a floorboard creaks.

"You shouldn't be here," Gabriel says, his voice unnaturally tight.

I turn, feigning surprise. "I couldn't sleep. Sometimes I wander when my thoughts are too loud."

He approaches slowly, his gaze fixed not on me but on the mirror. "What do you see when you look in it?"

"My reflection," I answer simply. "What should I see?"

Gabriel steps closer to the mirror, his face illuminated by moonlight streaming through the windows. "Sometimes... sometimes I see someone else."

"Who?" I whisper, though I already know the answer I've planted in his subconscious.

"A woman. With your face, but not your eyes." He reaches out to touch the glass, then jerks his hand back as if burned. "It's happening again, isn't it? The episodes."

"What episodes, Gabriel?"

"Nothing. You need to return to your room." His voice has regained some of its authority, but his eyes remain fixed on the mirror.

I move as if to leave, then pause. "Gabriel? Who is Eliza?"

His head snaps toward me, eyes wild. "How do you keep—I told you, she doesn't exist!"

"Then why did I find this?" I produce a small locket I'd planted in his office earlier—an antique piece I'd had delivered through one of the few staff members susceptible to bribery. Inside is a tiny, faded photograph of a woman whose features are just similar enough to mine to be unsettling.

Gabriel snatches it from my hand, staring at the image with horror. "Where did you get this?"

"It was in your desk drawer. I was looking for more paper for my journal." Another lie, smoothly delivered.

He clutches the locket so tightly his knuckles whiten. "This isn't possible."

"Gabriel," I say gently, laying a hand on his arm, "maybe you should talk to someone. A colleague, perhaps? You don't seem well."

"I'm perfectly fine," he hisses, pulling away from me. "Go back to your room. Now."

I obey, but as I leave, I glance back to see him still staring into the mirror, whispering to his reflection, his face a mask of confusion and fear.

In my room, I sit by the window, watching the night sky. Phase two is proceeding even better than I'd hoped. The seeds of doubt have been planted, and Gabriel's mind—that brilliant, controlling, cruelly precise mind—is beginning to splinter.

Tomorrow, I'll push further. The locket was just the beginning. There are photographs to be discovered, journal entries to be found, whispers to be heard in empty rooms. Piece by piece, I am reconstructing Gabriel's reality, replacing it with one of my own design.

And the beauty of it all? He's helping me do it, his own fears and secrets providing the fertile ground in which my deception can take root.

In the mirror of his mind, Gabriel Sterling is beginning to see a stranger. And soon, very soon, that stranger will consume him entirely.