The rain softened sometime past midnight, but the silence it left behind was worse. The kind of quiet that pressed against the walls and slipped beneath closed doors, carrying tension instead of peace. Isabella lay awake in the room Elanor had assigned her, staring at the faint glow of the chandelier reflecting off the ceiling.
Sleep refused to come.
Her mind replayed everything
the wedding,
the contract,
the coldness in Elanor's voice when he reminded her what her father had taken,
and the haunting portrait of Amelia Vance staring down from the hallway like she knew truths Isabella wasn't ready for.
The clock ticked, slow and deliberate.
Finally, she pushed the blanket aside and rose from the bed. The air was chilly against her skin, making the silk nightgown cling to her like a second thought she wasn't supposed to have.
She walked to the window and drew the curtain aside.
London still glimmered through the mist, but tonight the city felt smaller like a rumor whispered through fog.
She pressed her forehead against the cold glass.
"What am I doing here…" she murmured.
A soft click sounded behind her.
Isabella spun around.
Elanor stood at the doorway, his presence heavy even though he hadn't said a word. He wore no suit jacket just a black shirt with the sleeves rolled slightly, exposing veins that stood tense beneath his skin.
His hair was still damp from the rain.
His gaze unreadable.
His breathing steady, too steady.
For a moment, neither spoke.
"You're awake," he said quietly, though his tone made it sound less like an observation and more like he'd already known she wouldn't be able to sleep.
"So are you," she replied.
"Sleep isn't something I've succeeded at in years."
He stepped deeper into the room. Isabella fought the urge to step back. His presence filled spaces effortlessly, as if silence itself bent around him.
"Is your room not comfortable?" he asked.
"It's comfortable," she said. "Just unfamiliar."
A faint flicker crossed his eyes. "Everything feels unfamiliar at first."
"You mean like marrying your enemy?"
His jaw tightened. "You're not my enemy, Isabella."
She raised an eyebrow. "No? You say my name like a sentence."
He didn't look away.
"Because I don't say things lightly."
The room thickened again—tension pulling tight between them like a thread stretched too thin. Isabella swallowed, her pulse betraying her even though her voice stayed steady.
"If I'm not your enemy, then what am I?"
Elanor's gaze dropped for a moment not to her lips, not to her hands, but to her heartbeat beneath the lace neckline of her gown. Then he looked away as if punishing himself for the flicker of humanity.
"You're the price of a past I can't change," he said. "And the reminder of the justice I intend to finish."
"Justice," she repeated bitterly. "You use that word like a shield."
"And you use guilt like armor."
She stared at him, breath caught somewhere between anger and something far more dangerous.
Elanor moved closer to the window, standing just inches from her. She could feel the warmth radiating from him, conflicting with the coldness of his voice.
"You shouldn't wander the house alone," he said.
"Why? Afraid I'll get lost?"
"A Vance estate has more corners than truths," he murmured. "You never know which one listens back."
The way he said it made her skin prickle.
"Elanor," she whispered, "what happened in this house?"
His jaw tightened. "Too much."
A beat.
"Too much for you to understand tonight."
He turned away then, as though ending the conversation with his body instead of words. Isabella didn't know why, but something inside her cracked at the sight of his retreating form.
"Do you hate me?" she asked softly.
He froze.
But he didn't turn.
"Every answer I give to that question," he said slowly, "will hurt you."
"Then tell me the truth."
He turned his head just enough for her to see the shadow beneath his eyes.
"The truth," he whispered, "is that I don't know what I feel when I look at you. And that… is the most dangerous part."
A shiver chased down her spine.
Elanor opened the door halfway then paused, his profile sharp against the hallway light.
"Tomorrow," he said, "we go to the estate. Meet my family. Hear their expectations. Endure what needs to be endured."
She nodded.
"And Isabella…"
She met his eyes fully.
"Do not show them fear."
She swallowed. "Why?"
"Because they will weaponize it."
The door closed with a soft click, but the echo lingered long after he disappeared.
The next morning arrived with darker clouds, though the rain had paused as if giving London time to breathe before the next storm. Isabella stood at the vanity, fastening the last button on her blouse. Her hands trembled only once but enough that she had to pause.
A knock came.
"Enter," she said.
Elanor walked in, dressed in a charcoal suit that sharpened the angles of his shoulders and jaw. His tie was slightly undone, a rare imperfection she didn't know she should stare at or ignore.
"You're ready," he said.
"Trying to be."
He handed her a folded document a slim stack of pages bound with a black ribbon.
"What's this?" she asked.
"A copy of the announcement," he said. "Our engagement, the deal, the merging of our names."
She flipped through it. Words like "union," "strategic partnership," and "Vance legacy" jumped out.
"This doesn't mention… feelings," she said dryly.
Elanor's voice was flat. "It isn't that kind of contract."
She looked up. "You really planned everything."
"I plan everything I intend to keep."
Their eyes met—there, again, the flicker.
Something wounded.
Something chained.
Something that refused to die.
"Elanor," she began softly, "what are your family really like?"
He exhaled through his nose.
"They're powerful," he said. "Proud. Calculated. They don't forgive or forget."
"And they'll judge me."
"They'll evaluate you," he corrected. "Judgment comes after."
"That's… comforting."
"If you want comfort," he murmured, moving closer, "you shouldn't have married me."
The tension snapped between them again—silent, magnetic, undeniable.
He stepped back and opened the door. "Let's go."
The drive to the estate was long, cutting through narrow roads framed by ancient brick walls and iron gates draped in ivy. The kind of neighborhood that whispered wealth through its silence.
Isabella glanced at Elanor, who sat stiffly beside her, staring forward with a look carved from stone.
"You're nervous," she said quietly.
"I don't get nervous."
"You're lying."
He didn't deny it.
They reached a stone bridge, leading to the gates of the Vance estate tall, wrought iron, twisting like black vines. The car slowed as the gates began to open automatically.
"Elanor," Isabella whispered.
"Yes?"
"You said the family was informed of my arrival."
"They were."
"Are they… expecting me?"
Elanor's jaw tensed. "They expect everything."
"And accept nothing?"
He looked at her finally. "You're learning."
The car rolled into a long driveway lined with lanterns flickering gold in the dull daylight. At the end waited the sprawling manor Vance Manor dark, towering, and alive with history that refused to die.
Isabella felt her breath thin.
"Elanor…"
"Yes?"
"Before I walk in… tell me one thing."
He turned fully this time, eyes burning into hers.
"Why me?" she asked. "Out of all the choices you could make. Why choose the daughter of the man who ruined you?"
He inhaled slowly, the faintest tremor betraying the calm façade.
"Because," he said, "the only way to destroy a legacy is to rewrite it from the inside."
Her heart froze.
"And you think I'm your rewrite?" she whispered.
"I think," he said, voice low, "you're the only variable I can't predict. And that makes you valuable."
Before she could respond, the car stopped.
A figure stood at the entrance, waiting.
Still.
Tall.
Silent.
Isabella frowned. "Who is that?"
Elanor's expression hardened.
"Our first problem."
The door opened.
And Isabella stepped out into a future she hadn't chosen
but one that had been waiting for her.
Waiting with teeth.