Chapter 2: BRAMHALL'S MANSION

I woke up to sunlight stabbing me straight in the eyes. Not hotel sunlight. Not the kind filtered through cheap curtains with a complimentary “continental breakfast” waiting downstairs.

No. This sunlight poured in through twelve-foot windows framed in velvet drapes. The bed beneath me felt like it had swallowed me whole, the kind of mattress NASA probably tested for astronauts.

And the ceiling... dear God... the ceiling had frescoes. Actual frescoes. Cherubs with golden trumpets were blowing judgment day directly at me.

I groaned, pulled the covers over my head, and prayed this was still the tequila hangover nightmare.

Spoiler: it wasn’t.

When I peeked out again, the room was very much real. And enormous. There were gilded mirrors, a fireplace big enough to roast an ox, and double doors that looked like they belonged on a castle. My bridesmaid dress from last night had been dumped unceremoniously over a Louis XIV chair, mascara still crusted on it like war paint.

And then I noticed the diamond.

Still on my finger.

Mocking me.

Glinting in the sunlight like it knew it had ruined my life.

I sat up too fast. My head throbbed. The memories came rushing back... the champagne, the tequila, the vows I didn’t mean, the paparazzi shouting “Mrs. Bramhall” like it was the name of a celebrity scandal.

Ethan Bramhall’s mansion.

Ethan Bramhall’s wife.

Oh God.

A knock sounded at the door before I could spiral further.

The doors swung open without waiting for my answer. A woman marched in, balancing a tray stacked with fresh orange juice, croissants, and something that looked suspiciously like caviar. She was tall, dark-haired, dressed in an immaculately pressed pencil skirt, and her face was… blank. No smile, no frown. Just flat efficiency.

“Good morning, Mrs. Bramhall,” she said, tone smooth and robotic. “I am Laura, your personal assistant. I will be managing your schedule, dietary preferences, public relations, wardrobe coordination, and general life optimization.”

I blinked at her. “My what now?”

She placed the tray on the bed and handed me a tablet like we were in a boardroom. “This is your itinerary. Ethan requested I brief you before the press briefing at eleven.”

“Press briefing?” My voice cracked like a preteen boy. “Why would there be a press briefing? I’m not the president. I’m not even coherent.”

Laura’s expression didn’t flicker. “Your marriage to Mr. Bramhall has been covered by seventy-three media outlets. Vogue has requested an exclusive. People magazine is debating whether to rank you above or below Amal Clooney. Public statements are advisable.”

I threw the covers off me. “No. Absolutely not. I’m not doing this.”

“Would you like me to schedule a panic attack into your calendar?” she asked blandly.

I gaped. “Are you serious right now?”

Laura tapped her tablet. “I am always serious.”

I wanted to scream. Instead, I grabbed a croissant and shoved half of it in my mouth like carb armor.

Before I could stage a mutiny, another set of doors opened across the room. Out strolled Ethan Bramhall, freshly showered, hair damp, white shirt rolled to his elbows, tie slung loose around his neck like he was starring in a cologne ad.

He took one look at me sitting in his bed, feral, croissant in one hand, orange juice clutched in the other, and smirked.

“Domestic bliss looks good on you, Ellinton.”

I almost threw the juice at him. “This is a hostage situation, not domestic bliss.”

“Call it what you want.” He tugged his cufflinks into place with infuriating calm. “The world already calls it marriage.”

I shoved the croissant at him like an accusation. “Do you have any idea how insane this is? I don’t want to be anyone’s wife, least of all yours.”

“Relax.” He brushed past me, stealing a bite of the croissant like it was his. “You’ll survive.”

Laura handed him another tablet. He scanned it, nodded once, then gave her a look that clearly meant dismissed. She glided out silently, leaving me gaping.

“Who is she?” I hissed.

“My gift to you.” He buttoned his jacket. “Every queen needs her steward.”

“I don’t want to be queen!”

He smirked. “Too late.”

That was how my morning began: with me being crowned the reluctant Queen of Bramhall Industries against my will.

By noon, it got worse.

The mansion wasn’t a mansion. It was an empire disguised as a home. Marble floors stretched on forever. Hallways branched off like a labyrinth. There were so many wings I half expected to stumble into Narnia. Outside, fleets of cars gleamed in the driveway... black town cars, vintage sports cars, something that looked like a spaceship but was probably just a Tesla upgrade.

And all of it belonged to Ethan Bramhall. Correction: to us.

Because somehow I was now Mrs. Ethan Bramhall. And apparently this hellscape of wealth came with the package deal.

And everywhere I turned, there were staff. Gardeners, maids, chefs, security guards who could probably bench-press a rhinoceros. And every single one of them greeted me with a polite, deferential “Mrs. Bramhall.”

I died a little every time.

By afternoon, I’d had enough.

If Ethan thought I was going to sit around playing trophy wife while he ran mergers and made smug comments, he was wrong. I was getting out.

Escape Attempt #1: The Front Gate.

I strutted out in oversized sunglasses, clutching my purse like a shield, and made it all the way down the long driveway. But when I reached the gates... massive iron monsters taller than a giraffe. Two security guards stepped forward like synchronized robots.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Bramhall. Car will be ready in five minutes.”

“I don’t need a car,” I said sweetly. “I’m just going to… walk.”

Both men looked horrified, as though I’d suggested streaking through Times Square.

“Walk?” one echoed. “On foot?”

“Yes. With legs. Revolutionary, I know.”

“Impossible. Paparazzi are stationed a mile down the road. Please return inside.”

They herded me back like I was livestock.

Escape Attempt #2: The Kitchen Delivery Truck.

I waited until evening, snuck barefoot through the kitchen, and tried to hitch a ride in the back of a produce van.

Unfortunately, I forgot that produce vans are staffed.

“Mrs. Bramhall?” the delivery guy asked, startled.

I froze mid-crawl, half inside a crate of lettuce. “Uh… field trip?”

Ten minutes later, Laura was at my elbow, unruffled as ever. “Would you like me to add ‘running away in lettuce’ to your wellness log?”

I nearly strangled her with a cucumber.

Escape Attempt #3: The Roof.

Don’t ask me how I got up there. Desperation makes you creative. But apparently billionaires have roof sensors, because I hadn’t even spotted a good jump point before Ethan himself appeared behind me, hands in pockets, looking like I was the child and he was the weary parent.

“Thinking of flying, Ellinton?”

I whirled on him. “Thinking of freedom!”

He shook his head, hauled me back inside without breaking a sweat, and muttered, “You’re exhausting.”

I screamed into his expensive shoulder the whole way down.

By nightfall, I was a mess. My hair was wild, my mascara had smudged again, and I was pretty sure Laura had logged “severe psychological breakdown” into my permanent record.

Ethan, meanwhile, looked serene. Smug, composed, not a single wrinkle in his stupid shirt.

“I can’t live like this,” I told him, pacing the grand library while he lounged in a leather chair sipping brandy like some Bond villain. “I will not be paraded around as Mrs. Bramhall, Queen of Hell.”

“You’ll adapt,” he said smoothly.

“No! I’ll escape.”

His mouth curved. “You’re welcome to try. I like watching you fail.”

That did it. That smug little twist of his lips.

Which is why, at midnight, I found myself in a black hoodie, sneakers, and sunglasses (yes, at night) sneaking toward the stables where I’d overheard staff mention an old service tunnel.

I gripped a flashlight, my heart hammering, whispering to myself: This is it, Grace. Freedom. Sweet freedom.

I tugged open the rusted door, crouched down, and squeezed into the dark passage.