Chapter 5- Packed And Promised

BROOKLYN

SATURDAY 

I didn’t sleep.

Even after hours of sorting through drawers and deciding what counted as “essential,” my brain wouldn’t shut up.

By midnight, my suitcase sat open on the floor, only half full—my mom’s locket tucked into a sock, a framed photo of my parents wedged between two folded shirts. Everything else was practical. Toothbrush. Jeans. A jacket I couldn’t bear to leave behind.

No pajamas with holes. No chipped nail polish. His rules echoed in my head like a metronome.

This wasn’t just packing—it felt like erasing myself.

I barely touched my instant noodles at breakfast. Elliot sat across from me, swinging his legs beneath the table, humming a tune from some cartoon he liked. He was too bright. Too trusting.

And I was about to upend his entire world.

He looked up at me, milk mustache on his lip. “Is this about that job thing?”

I swallowed. “Sort of.”

His brow scrunched, just enough to show how smart he really was. “Then why are we packing so much?”

“Because,” I said, forcing a smile, “I’m getting married.”

The spoon froze in his hand.

“To the guy from the job?”

I nodded slowly.

He blinked, like he was still trying to process it. “Are we going to live with him?”

“Yeah.”

“For how long?”

I hesitated. “A while.”

He didn’t ask if I loved Dominic. Didn’t ask if I was happy. He just went quiet, then whispered, “Will there be a TV?”

I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding and ruffled his hair. “I am sure there are tons”

By the time Riley arrived to say goodbye, I was double-checking zippers and biting the inside of my cheek.

She took one look at the packed bags and narrowed her eyes. “You’re really doing this?”

I nodded. “He’s offering stability. For Elliot. For me.”

Her arms crossed tightly. “You don’t even know him.”

"So you're telling me that you crossed paths with the Dominic Blackwell? And he magically asked you to marry him?"

I stayed silent.

“You won’t even tell me how this happened. That’s not shady?”

“It’s… complicated.”

Her eyes softened, just a little. “You scared?”

“Yes.” I didn’t bother lying. “But I’m more scared of what happens if I don’t do this.”

She didn’t hug me. That wasn’t Riley. But she touched my arm and said, “If anything feels off,if he so much as raises his voice.I want you out.”

I gave a weak nod.

SUNDAY

The driver showed up at exactly 8 a.m. Sunday, black car gleaming like it had never seen dust. Elliot’s eyes widened, and mine darted to the man holding the back door open. Sunglasses. Earpiece. Perfect posture.

He wasn’t just a driver. He was security with a steering wheel.

The drive was quiet—Elliot chattered about what kind of mansion had secret rooms and robot butlers. I stared out the window, my stomach in knots.

The Blackwell estate came into view like something out of a nightmare and a dream. Iron gates. Stone pillars. Glass windows tall enough to swallow you whole.

We pulled into the circular driveway, and the front door opened before I could even knock.

A tall man in a dark suit stepped forward, refined and unreadable. “Miss Carson. Master Elliot. I’m Mr. Alcott, the household manager. Welcome.”

Elliot grinned like it was Christmas morning. “Do you have a robot butler?”

A ghost of a smile crossed Mr. Alcott’s face. “Not yet, young sir.”

Inside, the mansion was silent. Cold marble floors. Art I couldn’t name. Walls that whispered money.

Dominic was already waiting in the grand hallway, dressed like he was heading to a boardroom—black suit, cufflinks, no tie. His eyes raked over me like I was an invoice he’d been waiting to collect.

“You’re late,” he said mildly.

“It’s just 12:02.”

He arched a brow. “I don’t do grace periods.”

I wanted to snap something back, but Elliot was looking at us with wide eyes, so I bit my tongue.

Dominic turned to Mr. Alcott. “Show them to the east wing. Elliot’s room has been arranged. Uniforms are in the closet. School drop-off begins at eight sharp.”

I stiffened. “You already got his uniform?”

“I said Monday. I meant Monday.”

Of course he did.

Dominic reached into his jacket and pulled out a small black velvet box. Inside was a ring—thin, elegant, sparkling just enough to whisper money without screaming trophy wife.

“For appearances,” he said, holding it out. “Left hand.”

I slid it on, feeling the weight settle like a manacle.

Then he handed me a sleek phone. “Everything you need is preloaded. You’ll find my number saved under ‘Emergency Contact.’ Because that’s what I am to you now.”

My heart skipped for a second because of how calm he said it. Like being his wife was no different than a fire drill.

He started walking away, then paused without turning. “Your orientation starts immediately after you settle down. Be ready.”

Then he disappeared down the hall. And went up the grand stairs.

Mr. Alcott showed us to the east wing—ornate, but quieter. Elliot’s room was bright, cheerful, stacked with books, and stocked like someone had done their homework.

He ran to the bed like he’d won the lottery.

At least he was happy. That alone was enough for me.

I stood in the hallway, gripping the phone and the now empty ring box, trying to remember how to breathe.

My room was just down the hall—twice the size of my old apartment, all beige and ivory, the view stretching out over hills and private forest. With a queen bed in the middle of the room.

I closed the door behind me, leaned against it, and let the silence crash in.

This was it.

No turning back now