Chapter 5

Lydia’s POV

The inside of the house was even worse than the outside.

Worse, because now I had to physically stand inside it and accept that this was where I was expected to live.

The space swallowed me the second I stepped in.

The entrance opened into a massive living area with floors so polished I could practically see my stress reflecting back at me. Floor to ceiling windows stretched across one side of the room, letting in soft afternoon light that spilled over cream walls, expensive art, glass tables, and furniture that looked too rich to be sat on carelessly.

Everything looked clean.

Like one of those houses in luxury magazines where nobody ever seems to actually live.

I turned slowly, taking it in.

A sound behind me made me turn.

A man in a perfectly pressed black suit approached with the calm expression of someone who had probably seen a lot more dramatic brides than me.

“Good afternoon, ma’am,” he said with a slight bow. “Welcome home.”

I almost laughed.

Home.

That was ambitious.

“I am Bernard,” he continued. “Mr. Ashton’s butler.”

Before I could even respond, more people began to appear.

And then I understood.

This was one of those houses.

The kind where staff emerged in shifts like a carefully managed production.

They lined up neatly in front of me, each introducing themselves one after the other.

Cook.

Housekeeper.

Laundry attendant.

Gardener.

Cleaner.

Driver.

Another cleaner.

Possibly another cook.

At some point, I stopped trying to remember who was who because my brain had officially reached its processing limit for the day.

I nodded politely through all of it.

Smiled once or twice.

Pretended to be less exhausted than I actually was.

By the time they were done, I was one more introduction away from evaporating.

Bernard must have noticed because he stepped forward again and said, “If you’d like, ma’am, I can give you a tour of the house.”

A tour?

I blinked at him.

Then at the giant staircase.

Then at the endless hallway visible from where I stood.

Then back at him.

Absolutely not.

“I’m fine,” I said quickly. “Just… where’s my room?”

Something flickered briefly in his expression, but it disappeared too fast for me to read.

“Of course, ma’am. This way.”

I followed him upstairs.

The upper floor was just as ridiculous as downstairs.

Long hallway.

Tall doors.

Everything in this house felt expensive enough to have its own security detail.

Bernard stopped in front of two rooms facing each other at the far end of the corridor.

One door was larger.

Darker.

More imposing.

The other was still huge but softer somehow.

He gestured to the larger one first.

“That is the master bedroom.”

Then he turned to the other.

“And this is yours.”

Yours.

Not yours and his.

Not your room for now.

Just yours.

That should have bothered me more than it did.

Instead, I found myself reaching for the handle.

The room opened into soft pink.

Subtle blush curtains.

Cream walls.

A bed so large.

A sitting area by the window.

A vanity.

A bookshelf.

Fresh flowers.

Everything was elegant and carefully arranged, like somebody had tried very hard to imagine what a woman might want and then thrown money at the answer.

I stepped inside slowly.

My eyes moved over the details.

The gold trimmed mirror.

The upholstered chair in the corner.

The framed abstract art.

The soft rug under my feet.

The room smelled faintly of vanilla and clean linen.

I stood there for a second too long, just looking.

Because this…

This was not what I was used to.

Back in my parents’ house, my room had always been “nice.”

Technically.

Big enough.

Comfortable enough.

But never thoughtful.

Never personal.

Never something that felt like it had been made for me.

This did.

Even if it had probably been arranged by an interior designer with a P*******t board titled Wealthy Woman Energy.

I walked further in.

“Your things have been arranged,” Bernard said from behind me.

I turned.

“My things?”

He gave a small nod toward the wardrobe.

I opened it.

And just stood there.

Clothes.

Rows and rows of clothes.

Shoes arranged below.

Bags.

Jewelry cases.

Everything sorted by color like I had accidentally married into a luxury department store.

I stared.

Then blinked.

Then stared again.

Okay.

Now this was getting ridiculous.

“Did he buy all this?” I asked before I could stop myself.

Bernard’s face remained respectfully unreadable.

“I’m not at liberty to say, ma’am.”

Which meant yes.

Or at least yes-adjacent.

I looked back into the wardrobe.

Of course.

Of course the emotionally unavailable billionaire who had given me a list of house rules like I was an HR violation would somehow also stock an entire wardrobe for me.

Men were so strange.

Or maybe rich men were their own species.

“Thank you,” I said finally.

Bernard gave a small bow. “If you need anything, I’ll be downstairs.”

The door shut softly behind him.

And then I was alone.

For real this time.

I dropped the wedding certificate onto the vanity and let out a breath I had not realized I’d been holding since morning.

Then I went straight into the bathroom.

And nearly laughed again.

Marble.

Of course.

A bathtub big enough to host a conference.

A shower that looked like it had settings I would need a manual to understand.

I took the longest bath of my life.

Partly because I needed it.

Partly because I did not know what else to do with myself.

The hot water loosened the tightness in my shoulders, but it did not untangle the weirdness in my chest.

I had gotten married today.

That sentence still sounded fake in my own head.

Married.

To a man who had spoken to me for less than ten minutes total.

Married.

And then dropped off in a mansion.

Married.

And somehow, weirdly, deeply alone.

When I finally changed into one of the soft robes hanging in the closet and climbed into bed, my body gave up immediately.

Sleep took me like a mercy killing.

The next time I opened my eyes, the room was darker.

For a second, I did not know where I was.

Then I saw the unfamiliar chandelier overhead and remembered.

Right.

Luxury captivity.

A knock came at the door.

I sat up, pushing hair out of my face.

“Come in.”