Chapter Four

Two slabs of black iron slid apart like something ancient and alive, revealing a long stretch of wet asphalt curling through manicured trees and stone statues that gleamed with rain.The Hale Estate didn’t so much unfold until the car was swallowed whole by its silence. Lena pressed a hand to the window, her breath fogging the glass.Everything looked unreal.The gardens were sculpted into geometric perfection; fountains spilled silver water into marble basins that caught the last of the stormlight. Even the air felt filtered. She had never entered the grounds of Hale Estate before but through Amara she had gotten a mental picture of what it looked like but unfortunately it was wrong. It was magnificent.

The car stopped at the front steps and for a moment she couldn’t move. Her fingers clung to the seatbelt in anxiety.

Clara opened the door. “We’re here.”

Lena stepped out. Her shoes sank slightly into the rain-soaked gravel, and the cold air hit her immediately.

Up close,the mansion’s perfection felt heavier.The windows reflected the gray sky her figure splintered into a hundred versions of herself–timid, unsure and terrified.

A gentleman in a charcoal tailcoat so perfectly ironed bowed at the threshold and inclined his head the way people trained to never surprise anyone inclined their heads. His name badge read HOLLIS. He offered a gloved hand without waiting for hers.

“Miss Wren,” he said. “Welcome home.”

Lena wanted to answer with, I’m not her, but the phrase felt heavy to say so instead she let him guide her into the foyer as she felt the chill of clean air settle on her skin.

Clara was at her elbow again.“Hallway to the right. We’ll start with hair and makeup here. Try to relax. The process takes forty-five minutes minimum. We’ve scheduled Mr. Hale for six.” She tapped her tablet and then looked at Lena with the kind of directness that read as both instruction and consolation. “Everything will be discrete.”

“Discrete,” Lena repeated. The word sounded like a promise and a threat.

A young woman in a slate uniform appeared with a trolley of steaming towels and small silver bowls. She said nothing, only offered a towel and a forced smile.Her fingers were quick and calm as she smoothed Lena’s coat from her shoulders with the efficient tenderness of someone who had ironed away other people’s lives for years.

They led Lena down a corridor where portraits watched from gilt frames. Men and women with exorbitant names and stock tickers looked down at her and she found herself tracing the air with her palm as if that might make the walls stop telling stories she hadn’t asked to hear.

In the preparation room the lights were hot and arranged in a circle so every angle of her face could be examined. It felt like a small stage. Racks of clothing bowed under the weight of silk and cashmere.Two stylists — a middle-aged woman with a braid like a rope and a younger man with nail polish on one thumbnail hovered with combs and palettes.

“Sit,” the middle-aged stylist said, and when Lena obeyed, she began to run a brush through her hair.“We’ll start with a wash.” Her touch was brisk but not unkind“You must tell us if you have any allergies. We cannot have a reaction on that day.”

“No allergies,” Lena said. The stylist hummed and rinsed,the water was warm and smelled faintly of bergamot. The younger stylist who’d been waiting with a folder cleared his throat. “There are notes about Miss Amara’s posture and gaze.The PR director will coach you after makeup.” He looked at Lena with a professional curiosity. “You paint, yes?” His accent sounded Italian the more she heard him talk.

Lena blinked.“I do”

“Good.” He smiled like someone pleased to have discovered a reliable tool. “Let us give you a face that photographs right. You both look similar, it wouldn't be a problem.”

At one point a woman with a soft voice, the PR director stepped forward holding a small recorder. She spoke into it: “Greetings for public appearances—‘Good evening, thank you for being here.’

“Repeat that,” she said to Lena.

“Good evening, thank you for being here”. The PR director nodded and then tried something warmer. “You should be comfortable acknowledging your presence. It shouldn't be about affection. Understand?”

“Yes,” Lena said. “I understand.”

They pinched and tucked, clipped and smoothed. When they handed her the dressing gown and the first silk, it felt like a costume constructed for a play about someone else’s grief. She watched the stylist slip the gown over her shoulders,as the fabric fell like water down her back and even though it was a new dress, it was almost like she could smell Amara’s perfume.

A housekeeper entered the room, setting a small box on the dressing table and opening it to reveal a photograph. It was Amara in sunlight — a candid; laughter at the corner of her mouth, hair catching light. The housekeeper tapped the photo with one finger. “He likes this look. Keep the laugh small.”

“I thought all of this was for the public? Why do I have to put on an act for him?”

The housekeeper’s mouth tightened. “Everyone remembers how she looked. You are not acting Miss Wren.”

When the stylists finished, the seamstress who’d been quiet until now with gray at her temples took Lena’s measurement.Her hands moved deftly, pinning, pressing, smoothing. “We want you to be comfortable in motion,”she said.“Miss Wren never looked out of breath.Ever.You will walk without haste.”

They sent her to walk the parquet. Her calves felt strained as she walked in the unfitted heels.The mechanic of it was unforgiving and so was the house. At the end of the corridor they stopped before a small antechamber where a tea service sat on a tray untouched. A soft fire lived in the hearth, its light breathing warmth into the stone. There was a scent of citrus and something like cedar. The room held some sort of quiet intimacy as opposed to the preparation room. Either way, she was just glad to be away from all the momentary ruckus. She exhaled slowly.

“You may have a moment to center,” Clara said. “Mr. Hale will join you shortly.”

She sat and tried to breathe, counting the small noises: the kettle’s tiny hiss, the clock’s patient tick. Her reflection in the teapot’s curve looked distorted and unnatural even when carrying Amara’s perfect face

An older butler entered the room and set the tray in front of her. “Miss Wren,” he said once, the name sliding out as if it had waited behind his teeth. She lifted the cup to her lips but didn't sip from it. A shadow passed beyond the doorway and paused as if deliberating whether to enter. Lena felt it like a held breath. Then the door opened wider and Damon stepped in.

He did not look at the tea, did not glance at the seamstress or the stylists. His gaze went straight to her, and the hush of the room contracted to the point where it felt like they had been placed under a bell jar and the air had been turned thin. He closed the door behind him with the exact sound of finality as he did in the ward.

“Miss Rowan,” he said, and even though he was the least person she had wanted to see. The fact that he retained her name made her feel a bit better. He was near, but not too near, just close enough that she could see the tiny fleck of green in one eye. She rose.

“Mr. Hale.”

He acknowledged the room with a nod and sat opposite her in a chair with polished arms. He steepled his fingers, a deliberate, contained gesture. “I hope you found the preparations satisfactory?”

“It's not like I had a choice,” Lena answered. Her voice was steadier than she felt.

He watched her for a beat, as if weighing the sound of her words on a scale. “You seem tired.”

She let herself be honest in the smallest way she could. “I am.”

He inclined his head, and for a second, a glint, maybe, something like something softer hummed across his face. It vanished as quickly as it came “Good.Fatigue makes people do reckless things. We can’t have that.”

There was a small sound when one of the stylists, likely anxious, stepped forward to smooth an errant curl at the nape of Lena’s neck. Damon’s eyes tracked the movement with a precision that made the stylist freeze mid-gesture as if she’d been scolded. She stepped back, hands folded.

“Tomorrow,” he said, standing, “we’ll begin with an official appearance at the hospital for the signing. That will satisfy the lawyers and the board for a week.” He let that sit. “For now, we need to focus on making you invisible.”

“No social media. All calls would be regulated from here on.”Clara inserted, meeting Damon’s eyes as if she were waiting for approval then continued. “We can't have further attention drawn to you before the big wedding.”

He turned his head toward Lena once more. “Do you understand what you are taking on?”

Lena felt the room tilt. “Yes. But can I speak to my brother at least?”

“Your brother would be the only exception.”

She nodded.

“Good.” He folded his hands before him again,as if folding the moment into order. “If there is any discomfort, inform the house staff. Everything here is arranged to your ease.” His tone relaxed an almost imperceptible hair. “Rest now.” He said making his exit. “Dinner will be at eight. Do not wander the grounds alone! Hollis will show you to your room.”

When the hush settled, a maid hurried forward to take the tea she hadn't touched and clear the tray. Hollis stood steady and ever,and inclined his head.“This way, Miss Wren.”

He led her down another corridor which appeared more quiet and lined with rows of books. At the end, a door opened onto a bedroom that smelled faintly of lavender and was laid out with an almost painful order: clothes pressed,an unpacked suitcase and the unmistakable vase of flowers at the table in the corner. The room felt bigger than her entire apartment and for once the thought of jealousy crossed her mind. Amara had a decent life going for her before all of this happened.

Hollis set the case down and placed a small card on the pillow. It read in fine script:

For your comfort--H.