Chapter Seven

The car slowed as the trees thickened.

Elara sat upright in the back seat, hands folded over her knees, posture perfect despite the fatigue crawling along her spine. Her mother had reminded her: First impressions matter most. So she did not slouch. Did not look out the window like a child. Did not fidget.

She stared straight ahead.

The iron gates loomed up like jaws, black and ancient, set into stone pillars veined with moss. The driver didn’t speak. Just pressed a button. The gates groaned open, reluctantly, like something old and angry was being disturbed.

Beyond them, the road narrowed. Trees arched overhead, knotted branches forming a tangled ceiling that blotted out much of the sunlight. The mansion appeared slowly—first its roofline, then the high spires and gargoyle-tipped corners.

It looked like something out of a forgotten century.

Elara didn’t let her expression change. But her hands had started to sweat.

The car curved around the final bend, gravel crackling beneath the tires, and pulled into the wide courtyard in front of the estate. The building stretched upward and outward, all sharp angles and ivy-covered stone. A house built for power, not warmth.

It didn’t feel like a home.

It felt like a warning.

The driver stopped the car and got out, walking around to open her door. She stepped out slowly, as she’d practiced—one foot, then the other, with grace. Her skirt barely rustled. She stood fully, adjusted her posture, smoothed her palms along the sides of her dress.

She did not speak.

No one was there to greet her.

No open arms. No welcome.

Just a man in a gray uniform standing by the large double doors, watching her silently.

She waited, unsure if she was expected to move forward or be summoned.

The driver retrieved her suitcase and set it near the steps, then returned to the car without a word. He drove off.

Elara watched the taillights vanish through the gate.

And then she was alone.

Well—not alone. She could feel the eyes.

They were watching. From behind the curtains, behind the tall windows.

She turned toward the doors and stepped forward.

The man in gray opened one for her, barely inclining his head.

She stepped inside.

The air was cold.

Not from the weather—though the stone walls surely held the chill—but from something deeper. A stillness. A silence that pressed against her ears like water. The entrance hall stretched upward two floors, crowned with a massive chandelier that looked like it hadn’t been lit in years. Dark wood floors. Columns. Oil portraits of grim-faced men and women, none of them smiling.

Elara stood still, waiting.

The man in gray stepped past her and disappeared into one of the side halls.

No one told her where to go.

She stood there for what felt like an hour.

Finally, another woman entered the room—a maid, she assumed. Older, with a severe bun and a pinched mouth. She did not greet Elara. She did not smile.

“You will follow me.”

Elara nodded.

They walked in silence through the mansion. The corridors were long, lined with rugs and wall sconces that gave off more shadow than light. The ceilings were too high. The air too dry. Every door they passed was closed.

Elara’s footsteps were the only sound, and she made sure they were quiet.

The maid stopped at a heavy wooden door and opened it.

“This is your room.”

The chamber was spacious but bare. A large bed with dark bedding, a wardrobe, and a vanity. One narrow window with thick curtains drawn tightly shut.

Elara stepped inside.

“Dinner is served at sundown. You do not speak unless addressed. You do not eat until the men have finished. You will take your food with the other women in the south wing. You will wait until summoned.”

“Yes,” Elara whispered.

The maid’s gaze lingered on her face. Something unreadable passed between them—judgment, maybe. Or expectation.

Then she left.

The door shut with a soft but final click.

Elara stood in the center of the room, still wearing her coat.

She took one deep breath. Then another.

The air smelled of dust and old wood and something faintly metallic.

She moved to the window and hesitated. Then pulled back the curtain slightly.

There was a garden below. Dead vines, tangled hedges. A single stone bench half-swallowed by weeds.

No life.

No color.

She let the curtain fall.

The room was too quiet. She could hear the sound of her own breathing. The pounding of her own heart.

She sat on the edge of the bed.

Her hands were shaking now.

This is your life now, she thought.

This house. This silence. This bed.

She wondered if he was here. If he would come to her room. If he would expect her to speak, or kneel, or smile.

She didn’t know what he wanted.

She didn’t even know his name.

But she would serve him.

That’s what she’d been raised for.

To be a good wife.

To obey. To endure. To please.

She looked around the room again.

There were no flowers. No books. No warmth.

Just space.

Just silence.

She folded her hands in her lap and began to practice the words she’d been given for her first night.

Good evening, my husband. I exist to serve. Please tell me how I may bring you peace.

Her voice didn’t waver.

But her stomach twisted.

And far down the hall, out of her sight, behind a different door, a young man leaned against the wall—silent, still—waiting.

He had not come to greet her.

But he had heard the car.

And he hadn’t moved since.