The following morning descended upon the Rodriguez estate with a deceptive, porcelain stillness. From the outside, the mansion was the picture of aristocratic serenity, its limestone walls cradled by ancient oaks and manicured gardens that whispered of old money and untroubled lives.
But within those walls, a young heart was fracturing in the dark.
Elva sought refuge in the only place that still felt like home: the sunflower garden. The vibrant yellow blooms stretched around her like a miniature sea of molten gold, their heavy heads turning in unison to drink the morning light. Sunflowers had always been her anchor. They were sturdy, honest, and unpretentious—reminders of the warmth she had known as a child before the world had turned cold and complicated.
She sat on a weathered wooden bench, her small frame nearly swallowed by the towering stalks. Her fingertip traced the velvet edge of a petal, but her vision was blurred.
She wasn't sobbing. There was no theatrical display of grief—only the silent, rhythmic fall of tears that marks a soul reaching the end of its hope. It was the crying of the helpless, the kind that leaves the throat dry and the chest aching with an invisible weight.
I still want to be a doctor, she whispered to the flowers. The words were a ghost of her former self, thin and fragile. She closed her eyes, and for a moment, she could almost hear the hum of a hospital corridor and feel the weight of a stethoscope around her neck.
The sound of crisp footsteps on the gravel path snapped her back to reality.
Elva wiped her cheeks with a frantic sleeve, straightening her spine and fixing a brittle, hollow smile on her face. She knew that stride.
Victoria approached with the confidence of a general who had already won the war. She looked radiant, unaffected by the moral decay of their plan. To Victoria, this was simply a tactical maneuver—a necessary sacrifice for the greater good of her own ambition.
"Elva," Victoria said, stopping before her and crossing her arms.
"Yes?" Elva's voice was steady, though her eyes remained downcast.
Victoria leaned in, her voice dropping to a sharp, commanding low. "Listen to me carefully. Once the ceremony is over and you are moved to the Salvatore estate... you are not to let him touch you."
Elva blinked, a flush of heat creeping up her neck. The clinical coldness of the instruction made the reality of the marriage feel suddenly, terrifyingly physical.
"You only need to survive seven months," Victoria continued, shrugging as if she were discussing a temporary business internship. "Keep your distance. Lock your door if you have to. Just endure it until my training is complete, and then you leave. I'll step in and handle him from there."
Elva remained silent. A thousand questions clawed at her throat, begging for release. Do you even see me? Do you realize you are asking me to live a lie in a house of wolves? What happens to my life after I 'disappear'?
But the questions died in her lungs. She knew Victoria's iron will; to Victoria, Elva was a sister to be protected, yes, but also a resource to be managed. And Elva, ever the quiet shadow, had spent years learning how to swallow her own pain to keep the peace.
"Okay," Elva whispered.
Victoria smiled, a flash of genuine satisfaction. She patted Elva's shoulder with a condescending fondness. "Good girl. Don't look so tragic. Seven months will pass in the blink of an eye."
She turned and walked away, leaving Elva alone in the gold-drenched garden. Victoria didn't see the shadow that remained in Elva's eyes—the look of someone who knew they were being led to an altar, not a future.
The Fortress of Glass
Across the sprawling city, the Salvatore mansion loomed like a modern fortress. It was a place of high walls, silent guards, and an atmosphere that demanded absolute submission.
Behind the main house, a private Olympic-sized pool mirrored the harsh clarity of the morning sky. Matthew Salvatore sliced through the water with the grim efficiency of a predator. He swam not for leisure, but for discipline, his powerful strokes barely making a ripple.
As he hauled himself out of the water, his tall, large frame glistened in the sun—a landscape of corded muscle and scars that spoke of a life spent in command. A steward stepped forward immediately, offering a heavy black silk robe.
Matthew donned it in one fluid motion, his expression a mask of granite. "Report," he grunted.
His manager, a man who had mastered the art of being invisible, adjusted his glasses. "The investigation you requested on the Rodriguez girl, sir. It's complete."
Matthew paused, his blue eyes—cold and piercing as glacial ice—leveling on the man. "And?"
"Victoria Rodriguez is exactly who they say she is," the manager reported carefully. "The pedigree is flawless. Royal bloodlines on the maternal side, immense wealth on the paternal. She has been raised in total seclusion within the estate since she was a child. Her records are spotless."
Matthew looked out toward the horizon, his gaze tracking the sway of the distant trees. The nagging instinct that had prickled at him during the tea—the sense that the girl's trembling hands didn't match the Rodriguez reputation—began to settle.
If the paper trail was clean, then perhaps he had simply misinterpreted her nerves. After all, few people could look him in the eye without shaking. Why should a sheltered heiress be any different?
"Good," Matthew said, his voice flat. "That is enough."
He didn't care for the details of her personality. For a man like Matthew, marriage was a strategic alliance, a pillar of stability for the Salvatore legacy. He didn't need a soulmate; he needed a wife who wouldn't tarnish the name. As long as her blood was blue and her family was powerful, the rest was irrelevant.
He turned toward the house, his mind already shifting to the day's board meetings and military contracts. The girl's face—those wide, haunting eyes that seemed to hold a world of unspoken sorrow—flickered briefly in his mind before he ruthlessly suppressed it.
In one month, she would be his. She would move into his house, wear his name, and live by his decree. In the world of the Salvatores, there were no exceptions to the rules, and there was no room for secrets.
Back in the sunflower garden, Elva watched a single petal detach from a flower and drift to the dirt. She felt like that petal—torn from the stem, at the mercy of a wind she couldn't control.
The storm was coming, and the gilded gates of the Salvatore estate were waiting to swallow her whole.