Chapter Five

The car was already waiting in the driveway.

Sleek, dark, and quiet—its engine a low purr, like a predator at rest. Elara had never ridden in anything like it. Her father called it a courtesy—“the least the Valtoris could do.” She suspected it was more of a message: We’re watching now. She belongs to us.

Elara stood on the front steps, dressed in pale blue. The gown was simple, elegant, pressed within an inch of its life. She had spent the morning being combed, powdered, scented, and rehearsed like a product being inspected before shipping. There was nothing personal left on her—not the hairpins she liked, not the bracelet she used to wear when she was alone.

She had left her childhood room with a single suitcase. The rest would be sent ahead.

It was better this way. Cleaner.

“Stand straighter,” her father said from beside her, his voice a sharp whisper. “You’re not a burden. You’re a gift. Act like one.”

She obeyed instantly, tilting her chin just slightly upward, eyes lowered. Her mother had told her that a woman should never look directly at her husband until he offered her that privilege.

The house was quiet. The staff watched from behind drawn curtains. The maids had already said their goodbyes the night before—some stiff, some reluctant. The ones who had helped "prepare" her were the most distant now. Their work was done.

But then, just as the driver opened the car door and her father stepped forward to usher her in, a hand touched her arm.

“Wait,” her mother said.

Her voice was different—low, urgent. Not cold.

Her father paused, surprised. Then he frowned. “For what?”

“I’ll walk her to the car.”

That wasn’t tradition. That wasn’t protocol. But he didn’t argue. Not aloud. He simply gave her mother a hard look, then turned toward the driver with a barked instruction about the suitcase.

Her mother led her away from the front door, around the side of the house to the rose garden. It was blooming. Overgrown. Untrimmed. No one had tended it since the engagement had been finalized. Too feminine a space. Too emotional.

Elara didn’t understand. She followed, silent, confused.

Her mother didn’t speak at first. Just walked beside her slowly, the hem of her silk skirt brushing the grass.

Then, quietly, “I wasn’t allowed to say anything during the lessons.”

Elara blinked. “You taught them.”

“I repeated them,” her mother corrected. “There’s a difference.”

They stopped near the white trellis arch. The same one Elara had walked under every spring as a child, wearing her Sunday lace and carrying her mother's parasol.

The air smelled like memory.

Her mother turned to face her. There was something in her eyes Elara couldn’t name—too soft to be sadness, too raw to be love.

“I need you to listen to me, Elara,” she said.

Elara nodded, automatically. “Yes, Mother.”

“No. Not like that.” Her voice cracked. “Not the way they taught you. Not with your head down.”

Elara lifted her eyes. Slowly. Hesitantly.

Her mother stepped closer and touched her cheek.

Not with discipline. With care.

And that—that was what made Elara freeze.

Her mother had touched her before, of course. Straightened her posture. Corrected her hair. Slapped her when needed. But never like this. Never gently. Never in a way that asked nothing of her.

Her breath caught.

“I’m sorry,” her mother whispered. “For everything you were never allowed to want.”

Elara didn’t know what to say. Her throat closed up.

“You’ll be safe if you’re quiet. You’ll survive if you obey. But that’s not the same thing as living.”

The words didn’t make sense. Not fully. Not in the world Elara had been raised in. And yet, some part of her—a tiny, fragile part—heard them like an echo from another life.

Her mother touched her braid gently, smoothing it over her shoulder.

“I hope he’s better than the rest,” she said. “He looked... different. Distant, but not cruel. And that’s more than most of us ever get.”

“I will serve him well,” Elara said automatically.

Her mother winced. Then, carefully, she leaned in and kissed her daughter’s forehead.

The softness of it undid something in Elara.

Not visibly—she didn’t cry, didn’t shake—but something inside her tilted. Like the foundation of everything she’d been built on had been nudged, just slightly, off-center.

Then it was over.

Her mother stepped back. Composed herself.

“Go,” she said. “And don’t look back. It’ll only make it worse.”

Elara walked in silence toward the car. Her father was waiting, expression tight with impatience. He held the door open like a man doing her a favor.

She didn’t glance at the house. She didn’t glance at the garden.

She only looked once more at her mother—just briefly.

The woman stood perfectly still under the trellis, hands clasped in front of her, as if she were posing for a portrait she had never agreed to sit for.

The driver shut the door behind Elara.

The engine hummed.

As the car pulled away from the house, Elara pressed her hands to her lap and kept her back straight. Just like she’d practiced.

But something strange was happening behind her ribs. A heaviness. A quiet pressure.

Not sadness.

Not quite.

Just the echo of a moment she didn’t know how to understand.

Her mother had been kind.

And somehow, that terrified her more than anything else.