Chapter 5 – Lessons in Obedience

Elise rememebered another one of her mother's lesson when she was eight, she had learned how to sit perfectly still for three hours without moving.

Her mother, Camila Caro, called it “grace.”

“Stillness is power,” she’d said, tapping Elise’s shoulder with a silver spoon as she adjusted her posture. “A woman who fidgets is forgettable. A woman who waits in silence is remembered.”

Elise remembered.

She remembered the ache in her back, the itch on her ankle she wasn’t allowed to scratch, the way her legs shook when she finally stood, and how she collapsed outside the drawing room, and Camila didn’t blink.

“Next time, wear thicker stockings,” was all she said.

—

Now, Elise stood in that same room, sunlight pouring over polished marble and gold filigree. It hadn’t changed. Neither had Camila.

But Elise had.

Camila sat on the cream settee by the window, reviewing place cards for an upcoming charity luncheon.

“You’ve been quiet lately,” her mother said without looking up.

“I’ve been thinking.”

“That’s dangerous.”

Elise tilted her head. “You used to say stillness was power.”

“Thinking isn’t stillness. It’s motion. The kind that shows in the face.”

“Then maybe I’ll have it carved out.”

Camila looked up. “What’s gotten into you?”

Elise gave a pleasant smile. “Nothing you didn’t put there.”

—

Later that day, Camila appeared in her doorway holding a garment bag.

“This is your dress for the Carozzi engagement party. The press will be there.”

“I thought the Carozzis hated us.”

“They respect the D’Amaros. And the D’Amaros like you. That’s enough.”

Elise unzipped the bag. Inside hung a dove grey gown — delicate, demure, designed to disappear.

Camila touched the fabric like it was sacred. “This will soften you.”

“I don’t want to be softened.”

“You’ll do as you’re told.”

“I’m not eight.”

Camila’s smile didn’t falter. “You don’t need to be. Power never changes. Only how we wear it.”

Elise looked her mother in the eye.

“Then I’ll find my own tailor.”

Camila crossed the room and slapped her.

“This isn’t a game, Elise. That family is our future. Do you think you can afford to behave like a spoiled girl just because he looked at you like you mattered?”

“He doesn’t matter.”

The slap wasn’t hard. It didn’t even sting. Camila never slapped to wound — only to remind.

“You will dress appropriately. You will apologise. And you will make him believe you’re worth marrying.”

Elise didn’t look away.

“Tell me something, Mother,” she said quietly. “Did you ever love Father?”

Camila blinked.

Her face didn’t change. Not one muscle.

“Elise,” she said, “love is for girls who don’t inherit anything.”

Camila said nothing else. Let her have this rebellion. Cassian seemed intrigued — and that was leverage. If Elise wanted to burn a little brighter for now, so be it. The D’Amaro name would smother the flame soon enough.

—

That night, long after the house went still, Elise sat by her windowsill with a single candle flickering beside her. The scent of roses still clung to her sleeves. Her black notebook lay open in her lap.

She didn’t write about Cassian tonight.

She wrote about her mother.

Camila Caro: master of performance. Controlled the house, the servants, the family narrative. Blind to resistance unless it’s loud. Only sees threats if they misbehave.

New strategy: behave better than expected. Smile often. Obey when it costs nothing. Reserve real disobedience for where it counts.

She taught me how to disappear. And now I will use everything she gave me to take back control.

Elise stared at the words. Then, at the very bottom of the page, she signed it — not with her real name, but with the one she was building.

Elena Cruz.