Chapter 10: Walls Have Eyes

Elena’s POV

By eight o’clock in the evening, the grand dining hall is prepared for our final mandatory meal of the day. Harris comes to call me, his polite knock echoing through the West Wing before he escorts me down the corridor.

The twenty‑foot mahogany table glows under silver candelabras, their flames bending and stretching shadows across the polished black marble floors. The vast room feels colder than usual, as though the flickering light cannot reach the corners where silence gathers like dust.

I sit quietly at my end of the table, wrapped in a dark velvet gown, my white silk gloves secured tight against my wrists. My body hums with tension, every muscle taut. At the opposite end sits Alexander — a silent, imposing storm in his tailored evening suit and matte‑black mask. His presence fills the room more than the candlelight ever could.

The silence between us is suffocating. Only the faint click of silver forks against porcelain breaks the stillness, and even that sound feels too loud. Neither of us has spoken a single word since the tea in the parlor. I keep my eyes fixed on my plate, forcing myself to swallow small bites despite the knot of anxiety twisting tighter in my stomach.

Suddenly, Alexander sets his wine glass down. The sharp chime of crystal against wood slices through the quiet, and I freeze.

“Our formal grace period ends tomorrow morning, Alyssa,” he announces, his gravelly baritone cutting through the air like a blade. “The Vance accounts are temporarily stabilized. Your father has his breathing room, and my grandfather’s estate requirements are met.”

He leans back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest, his dark eyes drilling into me through the mask.

“From tomorrow onward,” he continues, voice dropping into cold business, “you are no longer a guest in the West Wing. You are legally my wife. You will carry yourself as a Sterling. Absolute obedience. No midnight wandering. No spying. No stepping outside your wing.”

I tighten my fingers beneath the table, heels anchoring against the floorboards. I lift my chin, letting a shallow sneer touch my lips. “I have already agreed to your ridiculous rules, Alexander. I spend my days in your neglected garden. Do not lecture me about boundaries as if I were one of your employees.”

Alexander studies me for a long, suffocating ten seconds. The candlelight flickers across the matte‑black surface of his mask, hiding whatever expression lies beneath.

“We shall see how well you adapt to isolation, girl,” he whispers, a dark, cynical smile curving his exposed lips. “Enjoy your quiet garden while it lasts. In my world, even the walls have eyes.”

He rises, towering, his broad‑shouldered frame blotting out the candlelight for a brief second before he turns on his heel and marches out of the dining hall. His long black coat billows behind him like a shadow come alive. The heavy double doors slam shut with a final, echoing thud that reverberates through the marble floor.

I slump back in my chair, careful not to break character. Harris still stands in the corner, watching with his usual unreadable expression. My trembling fingers adjust the gloves as if nothing is wrong. My mask holds. My identity is still hidden.

But the silence that follows is heavier than before. The candelabras flicker, their flames shrinking as though the air itself resists them. I glance up at the vast, arched ceiling, its shadows stretching like watchful eyes. A chill runs down my spine.

The grace period is over. Tomorrow, the true test begins. And if I falter even once, this house — with its endless corridors, its silent staff, and its walls that seem to breathe — will expose me.