CHAPTER ONE
“And to marry for money I think the wickedest thing in existence.”
—Northanger Abbey
JULIANNA
I will never know if it was the heat of the flames or the suffocating smoke that woke me …
My face pushed deeper into the soft pillow as I rolled onto my side.
But my unconscious mind refused to calm.
Something was wrong.
My legs kicked at the heavy covers as my skin flushed with warmth. The edge of my palm rubbed at my eyes. When I inhaled, the air scratched the back of my throat, choking me. The moment I opened my eyes, hot, prickling stings tormented them.
The darkened bedroom blurred behind a haze. No, not haze … smoke.
Light danced across the polished oak floor. Then an orange flash. Then another. And another.
My sleep-restrained mind finally broke free.
Fire.
The bed was on fire.
Not content to free me from this wretched engagement, he was going to kill me in the most gruesome way possible the night before our wedding. Then he’d play the grieving groom, dancing on my charred corpse.
Not if I could help it. I threw my arm across my face and coughed into my elbow as I surveyed my options. Throwing off the duvet, I shifted to the right side of the bed but was forced back by a spark of flame. If it reached the canopy, I would be burned alive.
Two centuries ago, the first Tilney bride, married to the infamous General Tilney, died an agonising death in this very same bed. It had been ruled an accident, but Jane Austen had hinted at the truth, that it was cold-blooded murder, in her book, Northanger Abbey.
And now his descendant, Victor Tilney, was trying to kill me.
Just as Jane Austen’s curse warned he would.
As the fabric burned, the canopy tension between the posts released. The mahogany headboard caved forward, striking me. I gasped in pain, filling my lungs with more smoke, as I clutched my shoulder. Sharp pangs radiated down my arm and across my back as my body jerked with each wracking cough.
Without hope, and dizzy from the oxygen-starved air, I curled into a foetal position.
A swath of fabric floated down from the canopy; a piece embroidered with a hyacinth on a background of lustrous pale blue silk. A white hyacinth, the symbol of new beginnings. I stretched out my arm and clutched the fabric, its still-smouldering edges burning my palm.
With renewed determination, I pushed onto my knees.
I would get out of here.
If for no other reason than to spite him.
I would live just to see the look on my fiancé’s face when he realised his sick plan had failed. I threw the duvet over my head. Using the fabric as a makeshift filter, I took as big a breath as I dared, then shifted towards the edge of the bed.
A wall of heat struck my face.
My survival instincts warred with an equally entrenched fear of fire.
The bed groaned and shifted again as the front post pitched backwards, dragging part of the burning canopy down with it, setting the duvet I was holding on fire. The acrid stench of burning hair filled the air as the heavy wool carpet under the bed became engulfed. White goose feathers from the duvet floated around me before disintegrating into ash. I shifted closer to the leaning headboard, the wood sticky to the touch, blistering as decades of varnish burned away, giving off an unpleasant chemical tang.
I was going to die.
Forever remembered only as a footnote in the Tilney family’s cursed legacy.
A gothic cautionary tale for Jane Austen tourists who visited Northanger Abbey.
“Julianna!”
Victor’s shout cut through the heat.
For a wild moment, I thought he’d been in the room all along, watching from the dark.
But no, he’d gone to his own chamber, insisting we sleep apart tonight so as not to tempt fate or defy wedding tradition. He was also the one who’d insisted my family and friends stay away. Had it all been a manipulation to get me alone so he could kill me?
“Julianna!” he called out again with more urgency.
My body stiffened in fear as I refused to answer.
With an arm raised to shield his eyes, he strode into view. Bare-chested, soot smeared across his skin, with his jeans clinging to his body, his only armour against the flames.
“Julianna, are you in here?”
He stormed towards the bed with reckless determination. Without hesitation, he tore the burning bed curtains down, ignoring the embers that scattered around him.
Then he reached for me.
“No!” I screamed, kicking out at him, scrambling away towards the centre of the bed. “Get away from me!”
“Woman, stop fighting me,” he growled, his voice a low rumble of fury and desperation.
After rolling onto my stomach, I clawed at the edge of the bed, desperate to escape him. Then I made the mistake of looking over my shoulder. Ash streaked his face, and his chest rose too fast. His eyes weren’t angry now. They were wide, unguarded. For a second, he looked almost … afraid.
I froze.
Dammit. My hesitation cost me everything.
In one swift motion, his hands clamped around my hips.
The memory of my first night at the abbey came back to me. This very same bed, his hand on my thigh as he commanded, Ask me to kiss you, and my defiant reply, No.
The sheets bunched under my hands as he dragged me to the edge, throwing me over his shoulder as the fire roared around us. Just then, three footmen burst into the room, extinguishers hissing with streams of toxic foam.
Victor carried me through the choking smoke and searing heat, ignoring the chaos, while his body shielded mine. Out of the inferno, he emerged into the darkened corridor, his every step unyielding. Servants lined the hall, their slack-jawed stares following us as he kicked open the door to the closest room away from the worst of the fire. Their horrified whispers of curses and murdered brides followed us.
Finally, he set me down, but there was no relief.
His hard gaze raked over my body, scanning for injuries.
“Are you hurt?” He gripped my chin, wrenching my face toward him.
I stumbled back, wide-eyed, blood thundering in my ears.
But he followed, relentless.
When his hands clamped down on my shoulders, his fingers dug into my wounded arm, pulling a sharp hiss of pain from my lips. He dragged me closer, his grip bruising, his breath ragged against my temple. “Goddamn it, answer me.”
Was this all just staged to cast him in the role of a hero?
A macabre way of proving the curse was a lie?
I broke free of his grasp and swung my arm with all my strength. The crack of my palm hitting his cheek echoed in the sudden silence.
“Murderer,” I spat, the evil word dripping with venom.
His head turned back towards me, jaw tight in a scowl. “Oh, sweet Julianna, I promise you I am something far worse.”
Copyright © 2026 by Zoe Blake