Finally, I let myself sit.
The bed dipped under me—gently, quietly. The kind of softness that didn't crush you beneath weight but tricked you into relaxing.
Dangerous comfort.
The kind that convinces you it's okay to let go.
And that was exactly the problem.
I leaned back slowly, then exhaled, body sinking deeper into the mattress. For the first time all day… I wasn't being looked at. I wasn't being handled. I wasn't being told.
I stood after a moment. My skin prickled lightly as I peeled myself away from the sheets.
Time to take off the performance.
The veil came first.
It slid over my fingers too easily, dropping to the floor like a fragment of someone else. Then the corseted layers, the pearl-buttoned jacket, lace cuffs, polished shoes. Piece by piece, I shrugged it all off until I was left in thin shorts and bare skin, facing my reflection in the mirror.
I held my own gaze for a while—not defiant.
Just… exhausted.
There was a door tucked into the far wall, clean and silent.
Bathroom?
I pulled it open without expecting much—just somewhere to rinse off a long day of pretending.
I took exactly one step in… and stilled.
Soft light kissed the inside walls in golden ripples. The kind of light you don't notice until it's already calmed something in your chest.
The space smelled faintly of sandalwood and something floral. Clean, warm, timeless.
The floor was smooth marble stone, pale beige with veins of sandy gold. A sunken bath waited at the center beneath a textured sculpture wall—like sand molded by wind. Soft lines carved in like waves that danced in firelight from lit candles placed neatly in woven holders beside bundled white towels.
No chrome. No harsh white lights grilling your soul.
Just calm.
Just… quiet.
One that let you feel secluded. That let your breath in still water.
A smooth marble bench sat along one wall, with oils and creams arranged carefully. They weren't flashy brands. Just simple, high quality.
I hated it.
I hated how much I wanted to sink into the water and forget where I was.
How easy it would be—just for a few minutes—to stop holding everything so tightly and let the heat undo a few knots.
But trust like that doesn't come with rose petals.
I stood in the doorway for what felt like minutes.
Still barefoot. Still stripped down to nothing but the shape of my own shadow.
I didn't move forward. I just stood there taking everything in.
After a while, I walked in and locked the bathroom door. I sat at the edge of the spacious tub, my fingers grazing the water gently. It was warm; every ripple echoed softly through the room.
Pulling off my fitted shorts, I slipped in.
A breath of relaxation escaped my lips as I soaked into the water, letting it soothe my tense muscles. I wished I could stay here forever. Lock myself in this peaceful silence—not forced silence, but one that cradled.
After what felt like an hour, I stepped out.
Refreshed.
Clean.
Calm.
I'm starting to think this place might not be as bad as I thought. But something in me knew—this might just be the calm before the storm.
I wrapped myself in a towel. It felt slick and comforting against my skin. My hair, which they'd styled so neatly earlier, now clung in faint curls across my temple. My neutral makeup had been washed away, finally making me look like myself again.
Still… beautiful.
I stood in front of the mirror.
My hair looked like sunlight left too long in cold water—soft, pale, and faintly untouchable.
My eyes?
Gold, but never bright.
The kind of gold that glowed like a flickering lantern during late nights. Quiet, but steady.
I stared deeply.
"What will be the future of this marriage?"
"What's going to happen in the weeks or months to come?"
Will this place turn out to be worse than home?
I don't know.
But with the little I've seen, it might be… better. Not by much. But maybe enough.
I sighed softly as I dried my hair and stepped into the walk-in closet.
And then I saw a familiar black luggage bag sat neatly on the built-in bench inside.
Of course.
My parents must have handed it off outside—just another formality Lucian's staff handled without bothering to mention.
Somehow, just the sight of it released a flicker of relief across my chest.
At least I had something of mine. At least I knew what to wear.
I opened it…
And I almost dropped the lid shut again.
What the fuck did my mother pack?
Lingerie. Nightgowns. Open-backed silks. Thin strapless house dresses.
Most of it was pastel—soft pinks, ivory lace, faint floral embroidery.
Not one neutral. Not one item meant for comfort.
No basics. No breath of modesty.
Not even sleepwear.
These weren't clothes.
These were costumes.
Was she expecting me to wear these?
For Lucian? Just like that? So soon?
My stomach twisted.
Anger flared quietly, curling under my ribs like smoke.
I dug a little deeper.
Found a letter, tucked softly into a velvet pouch.
"For your first night. Wear what feels appropriate. He's your husband now."
Of course.
Straight from her pen. All fake softness with sharp intentions wrapped in satin ribbon.
I dropped the letter back in and zipped the bag shut with slightly trembling fingers.
No.
I wouldn't wear any of this. Not because it was revealing. But because it didn't belong to me. Not really.
These weren't my clothes.
These were her expectations.
And I've had enough of those for one lifetime.