POWERLESS

I didn’t expect the world to crumble in a single afternoon. One moment, I was hoping for a miracle. The next, I was holding a medical report with a death sentence wrapped in a six-figure invoice. “Your mother needs immediate surgery, Miss Monroe,” the doctor had said. “If it’s not done within the next seventy-two hours, she may not survive.” He said it like he wasn’t talking about someone’s life. Like he wasn’t talking about the only person I had left in this world. When I walked out of that office, it felt like my legs weren’t mine anymore. My fingers clutched the hospital file so tightly, my nails dug into the plastic cover. I didn’t even notice when I stepped into the rain. I was numb. Cold. Lost. $500,000. That’s what it would take to save her. Five hundred thousand dollars for the surgery and the post-operative care. I couldn’t even wrap my head around it. It was more than my life’s earnings. More than I’d ever seen in one place. And I had no one. No backup. No plan B

The first thing I noticed was the silence. It wasn’t the peaceful kind. No. This one was suffocating, heavy, eerie like the walls themselves were holding their breath. The Blackwood estate was unlike anything I had ever seen. More like a fortress than a home. A sprawling mansion built from polished gray stone, lined with steel gates, surveillance cameras, and perfectly trimmed hedges that looked like they had never known chaos. Just like him. The driver dropped me off at the entrance and left without a word. I stood there for a moment, suitcase in hand, feeling like an outsider about to trespass into a world I didn’t belong in. The massive double doors opened, and a woman in a dark uniform appeared. “Mrs. Blackwood,” she said, bowing slightly. “Welcome.” Mrs. Blackwood. The words made my chest tighten. I wasn’t a wife. Not in the way anyone imagined. Not in the way I once dreamed of. No love. No vows. No warmth. Just a signature on paper and a ticking clock counting down my

The sound of his voice still echoed in my ears as I stood frozen by the stairs. “Get dressed. We’re leaving.” No further explanation. No gentleness. Just a command. The kind that didn’t expect resistance. I stood in front of the vanity mirror, fingers trembling slightly as I fastened the last clasp on the delicate gold necklace. My reflection didn’t look like me. Not the girl who walked through rain-soaked streets. Not the woman who sat beside a hospital bed hoping for a miracle. No, the woman staring back at me had been sculpted by elegance curated like a mannequin for a man’s world. The gown was satin emerald green, hugging my body like it was stitched to my skin. It flowed at the hips and shimmered under the soft white light of the mirror. The slit rode high on my thigh. Scandalous yet elegant. My dark hair had been curled into soft waves cascading down my back, adorned with golden pins that sparkled like stars. Even my makeup had been done by a professional the staff summ

I’d always dreamt of going on a shopping spree like this—designer stores, endless racks of silk and fine wool, the swish of elegant fabrics against my skin. But not like this. Not for this reason. This wasn’t a dream come true. It was a wardrobe crafted for deception—a carefully curated illusion meant to help Alexander secure his inheritance. Or so I told myself. So, I let the saleslady an overly enthusiastic woman in stilettos and red lipstick make most of the choices. She seemed to know exactly what would impress, what would flatter, and she was clearly thrilled by the endless stream of credit flowing from the Blackwood account. Still, I couldn’t pretend I didn’t enjoy the feel of silk gliding across my skin. I’d never owned anything so luxurious. Every piece fit like it had been made for me alone. Cinched waists, flowing skirts, soft fabrics that draped my figure in quiet elegance. The woman I saw in the mirror didn’t look like a girl from a rundown shack. She looked… poised.

It seemed I’d be cocooned in the comfort of his room tonight. Alexander’s cold voice still echoed in my ears, lingering like a cruel aftertaste from everything that had happened in the dining hall. We had no other choice at least not if we wanted to keep up appearances in front of his stepmother, Gratia. Sleeping in separate rooms would only raise suspicion. And so, I found myself standing awkwardly in his space for the first time. His room was nothing like mine. Where mine was airy and soft, his was dark, bold, unapologetically masculine. The scent of sandalwood and musk wrapped around me the moment I stepped in intoxicating, commanding, and undeniably him. Alexander moved toward the bed, casually tossing extra pillows at the center as a divider. His eyes flicked to me, cold and unreadable. “So,” he said flatly, “there’s no way I’m sleeping on the floor. The bed’s big enough for both of us. You stay on your side.” I crossed my arms tightly. “So we’re just going to pre