Chapter 1: The Ghost of Graystone Manor
Mary Rose POV
The rain tastes like failure on my lips.
I stand frozen on Fifth Avenue, water seeping through my supposedly waterproof boots, staring up at Gothic spires that pierce Manhattan's gray sky like accusations. My hands won't stop shaking. Not from the October cold, but from recognition that hits me like a slap across the face.
I know this place. God help me, I know every stone gargoyle, every arched window, every iron gate that guards this fortress of old money and older secrets.
"You'll never be worthy of seeing the inside of Graystone Manor," Henry's voice echoes in my memory, his cruel laugh following the photograph he'd waved in front of me three years ago. "My family's estate isn't for girls who smell like restaurant grease and speak with trailer park accents."
Now I'm here. About to walk through those very gates as the hired help.
My fingers find the small scar on my palm, pressing until pain replaces panic. Breathe, Mary Rose. You need this job. Fifteen thousand dollars for one weekend of wedding photography enough to pay off the last of those crushing debts that followed me north from Charleston like hungry ghosts.
"Ma'am? Are you the photographer for the Wellington-Morrison wedding?"
A security guard approaches, his umbrella a small kindness against the downpour. I straighten my shoulders, force my voice into professional registers that hide the tremor beneath.
"Yes, I'm Mary Rose Bennett. I have an appointment with the venue coordinator."
"Right this way. Mr. Gray is expecting you."
Mr. Gray. Not Henry he'd be in London still, drowning in whatever expensive mistakes drove him away from his family fortune. This must be his father, the mysterious patriarch Henry spoke of with equal parts fear and resentment.
The guard leads me through gardens that must be breathtaking in spring but now lie dormant under autumn's gray blanket. Gravel crunches beneath our feet as we approach the main house a Gothic Revival masterpiece that belongs in European countryside, not Manhattan's Upper East Side.
Inside, my breath catches. The foyer soars three stories high, crowned by stained glass that casts jeweled light across marble floors. Oil paintings in gilded frames watch my approach with disapproving eyes. Everything whispers of generations of wealth, of bloodlines that stretch back to America's founding fathers.
Everything Henry said I could never belong to.
"Miss Bennett?"
A woman emerges from a side corridor, clipboard in hand, designer heels clicking against marble. Her smile is professional but warm.
"I'm Sarah Chen, the event coordinator. Thank you for coming out in this weather. Let me show you to the ballroom where you'll be working."
Working. Not belonging. Never belonging.
We walk through corridors lined with family portraits, and I catch myself searching each painted face for Henry's golden hair, his cruel smile. But these ancestors wear kindness in their expressions, dignity that Henry never possessed.
The ballroom steals what's left of my breath.
Crystal chandeliers hang like frozen stars above a floor that could accommodate two hundred guests without crowding. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook grounds that stretch beyond my sight, while alcoves hold arrangements of white roses that perfume the air with promises of forever.
This is where love gets celebrated. Where promises are made under witness of beauty that makes them feel eternal.
My chest tightens. Once, I believed in forever too.
"The ceremony will be in the memorial garden," Sarah explains, her voice echoing in the vast space. "But the reception happens here. The bride specifically requested you after seeing your portfolio in Manhattan Weddings. She said your photos capture something other photographers miss."
I nod, not trusting my voice. My reputation has grown in three years of documenting other people's happiness while my own heart remained carefully locked away. Ironic that heartbreak made me better at seeing love.
"I'll leave you to get a feel for the space," Sarah continues. "Mr. Gray will join you shortly to discuss any special requirements."
Alone, I pull my camera equipment from its battered cases. The vintage Hasselblad that belonged to my mother feels solid in my hands, its weight a comfort that steadies my racing heart. This camera survived the accident that killed my parents. It survived Henry's cruelty when he called my dreams "pathetic hobbies for girls who can't find husbands."
It'll survive today too.
I adjust the strap around my neck, muscle memory taking over as I begin testing angles. Through the viewfinder, the ballroom transforms into geometric patterns of light and shadow. This is my language, my sanctuary. Behind the lens, I'm not the girl Henry discarded. I'm an artist with vision worth fifteen thousand dollars.
The shutter clicks as I capture the way afternoon light streams through rain-soaked windows, creating diamonds on the marble floor. Another click for the chandelier's crystal tears that scatter rainbow fragments across white roses.
My shoulders relax for the first time since entering these gates. This is what I do. This is who I am now.
"Breathe, Mary Rose," I whisper, my mother's voice echoing in memory. "Beautiful things exist, baby girl. Your job is finding them."
I'm adjusting my camera settings when memories ambush me without warning.
"Mary Rose, sugar, you're embarrassing yourself."
Henry's voice in my head, delivered with that particular tone he perfected amused contempt wrapped in false concern. We'd been at his Harvard roommate's engagement party, and I'd been photographing the couple's joy, caught up in capturing their authentic emotion.
"Put that thing away. You're not hired help here."
But I felt like hired help everywhere with Henry. Never quite good enough, never quite right. My accent too thick, my background too humble, my dreams too small for his grand vision of what his life should look like.
"The Grays don't marry photographers, Mary Rose. We marry women who understand society."
Three weeks before our wedding, he said those words. Three weeks before I found him in our bed with Jessica, my former best friend who understood society just fine.
My fingers find the scar on my palm again a thin line I carved with my engagement ring the night I discovered his betrayal. Not intentionally, but because my hands were shaking so hard I couldn't get the damn thing off fast enough.
"Stupid," I breathe, forcing the memories back into their boxes. "You're here to work, not wallow."
I raise my camera again, focusing on the rose arrangements. Through the lens, I notice how some blooms are beginning to fade at the edges, their perfection temporary. Like everything beautiful in this world.
The shutter clicks, capturing imperfection that makes the beauty more precious.
That's when I hear them footsteps approaching across marble, steady and confident. Authority in every step.
My heart hammers against my ribs. What if it's Henry? What if he's returned early from London? What if seeing me here, in his family's sacred space, triggers another scene like the one at our canceled wedding venue?
I lower my camera, turn toward the sound.
"You must be the photographer everyone's been talking about."
The voice stops my breath entirely.
Deep. Warm. Nothing like Henry's sharp tenor that could cut glass when he was angry.
The man in the doorway isn't Henry.
He's devastatingly handsome in a way that bypasses my brain and hits my body like lightning. Tall with broad shoulders beneath a perfectly tailored charcoal suit, silver threading through dark hair that suggests wisdom earned rather than inherited. But it's his eyes that undo me – steel blue depths that seem to see everything while judging nothing.
This is what Henry will look like in fifteen years, if kindness tempers his cruelty. If life teaches him compassion instead of entitlement.
But those eyes hold warmth Henry's never possessed.
"I..." My voice comes out breathless. I clear my throat, try again. "Yes, I'm Mary Rose Bennett."
He steps closer, and I catch his scent something expensive but understated. Cedar and bergamot, maybe. Nothing like Henry's aggressive cologne that announced his presence before he entered rooms.
"Thomas Gray." He extends his hand, and when our fingers touch, electricity shoots up my arm. "Thank you for coming out in this weather. Sarah tells me you're the best in the city."
His grip is firm but gentle, calloused in ways that suggest he works with his hands despite his obvious wealth. I should let go. Professional boundaries and all that.
I don't want to let go.
"I appreciate the opportunity," I manage, my Southern accent creeping in despite three years of voice coaching to flatten it. Damn nerves. "This is a beautiful space."
"It is." His gaze travels the ballroom before returning to me. "My late wife designed most of the interior. She believed celebrations should feel transcendent."
Late wife. He's a widower, then. That explains the shadow behind his eyes, the careful way he speaks of beauty as if it's fragile.
"She had exquisite taste," I tell him, meaning it. "The light in here is perfect for photography."
"Show me what you see."
The request surprises me. Most clients want to dictate exactly how their events should be photographed, having Pinterest boards full of poses that strip authenticity from moments that should feel spontaneous.
I raise my camera, adjust the settings. "May I?"
He nods, and I capture him in profile as he gazes toward the windows. The late afternoon light catches the silver in his hair, the strong line of his jaw, the slight crease between his brows that suggests he carries burdens gracefully.
Through my viewfinder, Thomas Gray is poetry written in masculine beauty.
"What do you see?" he asks softly.
I lower the camera, meet his gaze. "Strength. The kind that bends instead of breaking. And..." I hesitate, then decide on honesty. "Loss that's been transformed into something gentler."
His eyes widen slightly. "You see all that in one photograph?"
"I see what's already there. The camera just preserves it."
We stand in silence for a moment, something electric building between us that has nothing to do with wedding photography and everything to do with the way he's looking at me. Like I'm worth seeing. Like my vision matters.
Like I matter.
My pulse pounds in my throat. This is dangerous territory attraction to a client, especially one connected to my past in ways he doesn't know. Ways that could destroy everything I've built.
But God, when was the last time someone looked at me like this? Like I was something precious instead of something to be endured?