Just like Stannis said, there are clothes neatly arranged inside the cabinet.
A bit of everything—women's clothes, men's clothes, bathrobes, towels.
It's a relief. I desperately want something clean to wear, something that doesn't smell like the detention cell I've been trapped in.
After wandering around the big room, which honestly feels like a hotel suite, I head to the bathroom.
There's a common bathroom back in the detention area, but calling it a bathroom is generous. It was basically a tiled nightmare with questionable stains, cold water, and zero privacy.
Now? Now I'm staring at a spacious bathroom with glowing marble tiles, a rainfall shower, and enough counter space to host a small gathering.
I smile to myself.
The warm water feels like a miracle. At the station, they didn't even have a heater. When I asked for one, the officers looked at me like I'd requested a spaceship.
Truly heartless people.
Wearing the pajamas I found in the cabinet, I flop onto the queen-sized bed right after my bath.
"Finally, a nice bed!"
I grin with my eyes closed. I've been homesick these past days, missing the comfort of my house. This room, this bed, this air that doesn't smell like the cell… it all feels like luxury carved out of heaven.
And with exhaustion dragging me down, sleep claims me within minutes.
* * *
I wake the next morning to a series of knocks that resemble my alarm clock. Annoying, persistent, and very unwelcome.
Who dares disturb sleeping beauty at this ungodly hour?
I hiss under my breath as I shuffle out of bed. I don't even fix my hair. It's puffed around my head like strawberry-blonde cotton candy when I open the door.
Stannis greets me with his warm, perfectly polite smile. Behind him stand two maids holding several paper bags each.
"Sorry to disturb your rest, Miss Elyn," he says, "but I figured you might want breakfast soon. Also, I had someone purchase clothes and necessities for you, including the items you requested."
"Oh."
The maids step inside and set the bags down. The way they sneak glances at me tells me they know exactly who I am.
Suddenly I'm self-conscious. What if someone takes a photo? What if it leaks? What if my messy appearance becomes a meme?
But… why should I care? My image is already shredded. My career has been scraped off the industry floor like gum. What's one more embarrassing photo?
"Thank you, Mr. Stannis."
"Please, just Stannis."
I nod, smiling politely. "Where's the president? Will I be joining him for breakfast?"
"He left early this morning," Stannis says. "But we've prepared breakfast for you. Would you prefer to have it here or in the dining room?"
"Oh, I don't want to cause trouble. I'll go down after I clean up."
He bows slightly and leaves with the maids.
The moment the door closes, I rush to the mirror. My strawberry-blonde hair is a disaster. My pale blue pajamas are so oversized they look like I borrowed them from a giant. And my face—God, I look paler than paper.
Almost two weeks locked indoors… yeah, vitamin D has definitely abandoned ship.
I turn to the bags. Inside, I find clothes, underwear, shoes, toiletries, makeup, skincare, everything someone needs to look human again. And tucked at the bottom is a brand-new phone.
It's already turned on, with only one contact saved.
Gregory.
There's a message from him, sent earlier this morning.
[I'll come to the house later tonight. I will be expecting your answer. Don't leave the residence. If you want anything, tell Stannis.]
I smile despite myself. Maybe he isn't as inconsiderate as I thought.
I send a short reply:
[Thanks! See you later :)]
With that, I leave my room in search of the dining room and immediately realize I have no idea where I'm going.
The halls are ridiculously spacious, the echoing kind you only see in museums or dramatic movie scenes where someone discovers a cursed portrait. Every door looks identical, like they're all hiding secret portals or possibly a wardrobe to Narnia.
I turn left. Then right. Then left again.
Then—wait.
How am I facing the grand staircase again? I'm pretty sure I already passed this architectural masterpiece twice.
Thankfully, a maid finds me wandering like a lost spirit. She bows politely before guiding me through yet another stretch of endless corridor.
She keeps fidgeting with her fingers, stealing shy glances at me every few seconds. And then it clicks.
She recognizes me, that's for sure.
I wonder if she used to be a fan, back when my life wasn't a flaming dumpster rolling downhill at full speed. Fans are unpredictable. Some stay loyal through scandals. Others turn into amateur detectives determined to prove you're evil.
When we finally reach the dining hall, the double doors swing open to reveal a long table.
And it's packed with food.
Fresh fruit, steaming soup, perfectly plated meats, and pastries, so many pastries. Croissants, danishes, muffins, tarts, cinnamon rolls… enough to spiritually lift me from the dead.
The buttery smell alone nearly makes me weep.
"Do you have other guests?" I ask the maid, because surely no sane person prepares this much food for one woman.
"No, Miss. You're the only one. The president doesn't usually take guests."
"Oh. I assumed the mansion hosted people often since there are clothes in the guestrooms."
"Ah, that." She smiles faintly. "In the past, the Brandt family hosted parties several times a year, so stocking clothes for guests became a tradition."
I glance around at the table as she continues.
"But since Mr. Brandt took over the residence, parties have been held only on rare occasions."
"I see. You can't blame him. He's busy, and hosting parties is a nightmare."
I would know. I hosted a few gatherings during my marriage with Logan, mostly because it was expected, not because I enjoyed playing social hostess. I also watched my mother do it countless times when she was alive.
My family used to be comfortable. My father was a director in Logan's company.
Life was… stable.
Then, within three years, I lost both my parents in a car accident, and then Logan.
Who would have thought grief would come in installments?
A bitter smile tugs at my lips as I stare at the pancake on my plate.
I eat alone, quietly. I don't open any social media. If they aren't already deactivated by my agency, they're surely overflowing with enough hate comments to crush what's left of my sanity. No, thank you.
As I sip juice, a question suddenly forms in my mind, one I want to ask the president.
So I send him a message:
[I have a question. If I accept your proposal, will it be a fake marriage or a real one?]