The first week in the Crew mansion passed in a strange, quiet blur.
I learned the rhythm of the house fast. Rosa waking me at seven, breakfast alone in the smaller dining room since Mr. Crew apparently ate before dawn or not at all, long empty hours where I wandered the garden or read in the library because I genuinely had nothing else to do.
Nobody yelled at me. Nobody slapped me. Nobody called me ugly or worthless or a burden. It should have felt like heaven. Instead, it felt like floating in water so still I sometimes forgot which way was up.
I hadn't seen Damien since the day I signed the contract. Rosa said that wasn't unusual, he traveled often for business, sometimes not returning to the estate for days.
On the fourth day, my things finally arrived from the Hitler house. Not much, a few worn dresses, my old sketchbooks full of half-finished designs, a small box of fabric swatches I'd been collecting since I was sixteen. Mom had probably thrown out anything she considered too "cheap" to be seen in a Crew household, which meant most of my wardrobe.
I sat on the floor of my empty side of the closet that evening, sketchbook open on my lap, pencil moving without much thought. Designing had always been the one thing that was fully mine. Nobody in the Hitler house cared about fashion the way I did. Lilibeth wanted things bought, not made, and Mom thought sewing was beneath a "proper lady," despite forcing me to hem her dresses more times than I could count.
There was a knock at my door. I assumed it was Rosa, so I called out, "Come in," without looking up.
It wasn't Rosa.
Damien Crew stood in the doorway, still in a dark travel coat, like he'd just walked in from somewhere far. I scrambled to my feet, sketchbook slipping from my lap onto the floor.
"Mr. Crew," I said, straightening my clothes. "I didn't realize you were back."
His eyes flicked briefly to the sketchbook on the ground before returning to me. "Benson said you haven't left the estate all week."
"I... I didn't know I was allowed to."
Something crossed his face, not quite surprise, but close to it. "You're not a prisoner here."
"The contract said not to embarrass the Crew name in public," I said carefully. "I thought it was safer to stay in."
He was quiet for a long moment. "That's not what I meant." He glanced at the sketchbook again. "What is that?"
I hesitated before bending down to pick it up. "Just... designs. Sketches. It's a hobby."
"Show me."
It wasn't a request any more than anything else he said was a request, but there was something different in his tone this time. Less command, more curiosity, though his face gave nothing away. I handed the book over, my heart hammering as he flipped through the pages slowly. Dresses, coats, evening gowns, some finished, some just half-formed ideas scribbled in the margins.
"You made these?"
"Yes."
"All of them?"
"Since I was sixteen," I admitted. "I used to sell a few designs online, freelance, under a fake name. My family didn't know. They wouldn't have approved."
He closed the book and handed it back to me without comment on the designs themselves, which somehow disappointed me more than if he'd criticized them outright.
"There's a gala next month," he said instead. "Crew Enterprises' annual charity event. As my wife, you're expected to attend."
My stomach dropped. "In public? With people who—"
"With people who will assume whatever the papers assumed about the wedding," he finished for me, tone flat. "Which is why I need you prepared. Etiquette lessons, a stylist, whatever's necessary. Benson will arrange it."
"Why does it matter what I look like if this marriage isn't real?" The words slipped out before I could stop them.
His jaw tightened slightly. "Because my grandfather will be there. And whatever this marriage is on paper, it needs to look real enough that he doesn't start asking questions I don't have patience to answer."
There it was. Not about me at all. Just about keeping the illusion intact for the people who mattered to him.
"Understood," I said, echoing the same word I'd used in the study.
He studied me a second longer than necessary, like he was going to say something else, but then simply turned and left, the door clicking shut behind him.
I stood there in the quiet, staring at the door, my sketchbook clutched to my chest, feeling more confused than I had all week. He wasn't cruel. He wasn't even cold, not really, not in the way the rumors painted him. He was just... guarded. Like a house with every window boarded shut.
I sat back down on the closet floor and opened my sketchbook to a blank page. Almost without meaning to, I began drawing again this time, a gown. Deep navy, sharp lines, sleeves that fell like water. I didn't know why, but somewhere in my mind, I was designing it for the gala.
For him to see me in something that wasn't Lilibeth's hand-me-downs. Something that was entirely mine.