The private road seemed endless. Trees lined both sides, tall and perfectly spaced, like soldiers standing guard. At the end, golden gates rose, gleaming even in the gray morning light.
The car slowed. Stopped.
Elara's heart hammered against her ribs.
"We've arrived, miss."
The driver opened her door. She stepped out onto smooth pavement, nothing like the cracked concrete outside her house.
The mansion rose before her like something from a dream. Or a nightmare. She couldn't decide which.
White stone. Columns. Windows that stretched from floor to ceiling. In the center of the circular driveway, a fountain sprayed water in perfect arcs. Roses lined the walkways, red and white, blooming despite the season.
Elara walked to the fountain without thinking. The water was clear, cold when she touched it. For a moment, she felt real again. Connected to something.
"Welcome to the Dalton estate."
She turned. A woman in a gray dress stood on the steps, hands folded, posture perfect. Middle-aged, with sharp eyes that missed nothing.
"I'm Mrs. Linton, head of staff." Her voice was polite but distant, like she'd given this speech a hundred times.
"Please, come with me."
Elara picked up her bag and followed.
Inside, everything gleamed. Marble floors so polished that she could see her reflection. A chandelier hung overhead, crystals catching light and throwing rainbows across the walls. Paintings in gold frames. Furniture that looked too expensive to touch.
Her shoes squeaked against the marble. The sound felt too loud, too wrong.
"Your room is in the east wing," Mrs. Linton said as they climbed the staircase. "You'll have staff assigned to you. Anything you need, simply ask."
"When do I meet him?" Elara's voice came out quieter than she meant.
"Mr. Adrian is resting. He'll send for you when he's ready."
Resting. In the middle of the day. Elara filed that away.
They stopped at a set of double doors. Mrs. Linton pushed them open.
Elara's breath caught.
The room stretched before her, impossibly large. Bigger than her family's entire house. The bed alone could fit four people, draped in white sheets that looked like they'd never been touched. Posts carved from dark wood reached toward a ceiling painted with soft clouds. A chandelier hung above, smaller than the one downstairs but still dripping with crystals.
"This is… my room?"
"Yes, miss."
Elara stepped inside slowly, like the floor might disappear under her feet. Silk curtains framed windows that ran from floor to ceiling. A vanity sat against one wall, the mirror so large and clear it made her look like a stranger. Fresh flowers sat in a vase on the dresser. White roses.
She turned in a slow circle, trying to take it all in. The sitting area with velvet chairs. The wardrobe that could hold a hundred dresses. The thick carpet under her feet, so soft she could feel it through her worn shoes.
Her bag hung limp in her hand, suddenly pathetic. Everything she owned fit in there. One change of clothes. A wooden box of memories. The blue dress her mother packed.
It was nothing. Less than nothing in a room like this.
"Is something wrong, miss?"
Elara realized she was standing frozen. "No. I just…" She swallowed hard. "I didn't expect this."
Mrs. Linton's expression didn't change. "The Daltons believe in proper accommodations for family."
Family. The word sat wrong in Elara's mouth.
"The staff will bring fresh clothes shortly," Mrs. Linton continued. "You'll want to change before lunch."
"I have clothes."
"Yes." Mrs. Linton's eyes flicked to Elara's bag. "But you'll want something more appropriate for the house."
Heat crept up Elara's neck. Shame mixed with anger. Her clothes weren't good enough. She wasn't good enough. That's what the woman meant, even if she was too polite to say it.
"Of course," Elara said quietly.
"Freshen up. Lunch will be served at one." Mrs. Linton moved toward the door. "Mr. Adrian will see you this evening."
Then she was gone, the door closing with barely a whisper.
Elara stood alone in the enormous room. The silence pressed down on her, heavy and suffocating despite all the space.
She walked to the window, her footsteps muffled by the carpet. Outside, the gardens stretched in perfect lines. Every hedge trimmed. Every flower placed just so. A man worked near the roses, his movements careful and practiced.
Nothing wild. Nothing out of place.
She pressed her forehead against the glass. It was cool, smooth. Behind her, the room waited like a beautiful trap.
This was supposed to be better than home. That's what her mother said. Food. Comfort. Safety.
But standing here, surrounded by silk and crystal and things she'd never be allowed to truly own, Elara felt more alone than she ever had in her cramped, broken house.
At least there, she knew who she was.
Here, she was just a girl in a room too big for her. A debt payment dressed up as a bride.
She set her bag on the chair and pulled out the blue dress, holding it up. The embroidered flowers looked dull against the luxury surrounding her. But it was hers. Her mother's hands had stitched those flowers years ago, back when they still had hope.
She laid it carefully on the bed, smoothing the wrinkles.
A knock at the door made her jump.
"Come in," she said, her voice sounding small in the large space.
A young maid stepped inside, carrying a silver tray. She looked barely older than Elara, with her hair pulled back tight and her uniform crisp and spotless.
"Good morning, miss." She set the tray on the small table by the window. "Mrs. Dalton asked me to bring you refreshments."
Elara looked at the tray. A cup of tea, still steaming. Small pastries arranged on a plate. A folded piece of paper with her name written across it in elegant script.
"Thank you."
The maid hesitated, glancing at the blue dress on the bed, then at Elara's worn clothes. Her expression flickered with something. Pity, maybe. Or curiosity.
"Is there anything else you need, miss?"
"No. I'm fine."
The maid nodded and turned to leave.
"Wait." Elara's voice stopped her. "What's your name?"
The girl looked surprised, like no one had asked her that before. "Min-jee, miss."
"Min-jee." Elara tried to smile, though it felt shaky. "Thank you for bringing this."
Min-jee's face softened slightly. "You're welcome, miss." She paused at the door. "If you need anything at all, just ring the bell by your bed. Someone will come."
Then she was gone.
Elara stood alone again. She looked at the tray, at the note with her name on it. Part of her didn't want to open it. Didn't want to read whatever carefully chosen words were waiting inside.
But she picked it up anyway. Unfolded it.
The handwriting was precise, practiced.
Dear Elara,
Welcome to our home. I hope you will find comfort here and come to think of this place as your own. My son Adrian has been through much in his life, and I pray you will bring him the peace he needs. He may seem distant at first, but I assure you, he has a good heart.
Please do not hesitate to ask if you need anything.
Warmly, Mara Dalton
Elara read it twice. Then a third time.
"He has a good heart."
The words rang hollow. People with good hearts didn't buy other people. Didn't treat human beings like solutions to their problems.
She set the note down and picked up the tea. It was still hot, fragrant. Expensive, probably. The kind of tea her mother would've saved for special occasions, if they could've afforded it at all.
She took a sip. It tasted bitter.
Through the window, she could see more of the estate now. Gardens that went on forever. A path that curved toward what looked like a greenhouse. Staff moving between buildings, everyone with a purpose, everyone knowing their place.
And somewhere in this massive house, Adrian Dalton was waiting.
Her husband.
The man she'd meet tonight.
Her stomach twisted.
She set the tea down and walked to the mirror. The girl staring back looked pale. Tired. Her hair was tangled from the rain and the long drive. Her clothes hung loose, faded from too many washes.
She didn't belong here. Anyone could see that.
But she was here anyway. Trapped in silk and marble and false kindness.
Elara touched the mirror, her fingertips leaving small prints on the perfect glass.
"You'll survive this," she whispered to her reflection.
The same words her mother had said. "You have to."
The girl in the mirror didn't look convinced.