Content Notice: This chapter contains depictions of trauma and abuse. Reader discretion is advised. If these themes are distressing, please skip this chapter.
Adrian Vale lingered in the doorway, one shoulder braced against the carved frame. His jacket was still buttoned, his tie knotted tight against his throat, though the rest of him looked anything but composed. His eyes tracked the figure standing in the middle of the master bedroom, her pale hands trailing over the edges of a velvet chair as though she needed to confirm it was real.
She still wore the wedding dress. Lace sleeves fell limp around too-thin arms, the train dragging across the floorboards like a shroud. Helena's dress should have been here, he thought savagely. Helena should have been in this room.
Not her.
Adrian exhaled sharply through his nose.
"This is your room," he said flatly, his voice carrying none of the warmth the word your implied. His hand flicked vaguely toward the closet. "Don't touch anything of hers," he said, each word clipped with precision.
He didn't care if she obeyed. What mattered was the opportunity. People revealed themselves under pressure, and mistakes were convenient. Mistakes justified endings.
And Adrian liked things that ended neatly.
She didn't glance at the wardrobe or the jewelry stand that still gleamed in the corner like a relic of another life. She simply inclined her head the way one might at a servant's order and stood silent.
The lack of reaction made his teeth clench.
He turned away, took two steps down the hall, then paused something bitter twisting inside him. He glanced back over his shoulder, his lips curling into something that wasn't quite a smile.
"…Though I suppose cruelty is nothing new for someone like you."
Elara lowered her gaze, the soft fall of golden hair catching the light. There was no protest. No spark of indignation. Just stillness.
Adrian hated it.
The room felt like a mausoleum. Its curtains drawn, the air faintly perfumed with lavender Helena once adored. And in the middle of it, Elara moved with the quiet resignation of someone walking back into a cage they had never really left.
She set the bouquet aside, sat on the edge of the bed, and with deliberate care began peeling herself out of the wedding dress. The satin puddled around her feet, leaving her in the plain underclothes her family had sent along with the trunk at the foot of the bed. She lifted out a folded sweater far too large, sleeves hanging limp past her wrists.
Adrian leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. He made no effort to leave. His eyes followed her movements with detached sharpness until the sweater slid over her frame and swallowed her whole.
Those clothes don't fit you," he said bluntly. It wasn't a question. Not even concern. Just an observation tossed like a stone into silence.
Elara's voice was melodic but quiet, soft enough to almost disappear. "It's what they packed for me."
Something in him soured. He pushed off the frame, strode forward, and plucked at the sweater's shoulder until the fabric bunched in his fist. He held it up between them, eyes narrowing.
"This looks ridiculous on you."
For the first time, her gaze met his. Calm. Unwavering. "It's still clothes."
His grip tightened on the fabric then released with a scoff. She was supposed to argue. To fight back. To show even an ounce of spirit so he could hate her properly. Instead, she was glass-smooth, unyielding, frustratingly clear.
She smoothed the sweater down and tilted her head. "Shall I make dinner?"
The question pierced him like an insult. Obedient. As if she were here in service to him. As if she had no other purpose.
"I already ate," Adrian lied. The words came out harsh. His throat tightened, and he added before he could stop himself, "But if you're starving yourself to look even more pitiful don't. There's food in the kitchen."
He regretted it instantly. Why the hell was he offering her anything?
Elara shook her head. "I don't eat after three p.m."
His eyes narrowed. "And why not?"
Her voice stayed steady, as if she were explaining something ordinary. "I only eat once a day. Bread and water. That's what's given to me."
The breath left him sharp, like he'd taken a blow to the ribs.
"That's" He bit the word off. Too much emotion cracked through. "Not in this house."
She lowered her lashes, unfazed. "It's alright. I'm not hungry." Then, after a pause, as though the thought had just occurred to her, she asked, "Do you need something from me?"
That question. Simple. Empty. It made his fists clench.
He looked her over again her thin frame, pale skin, brittle hair that still caught the light like spun gold. She looked like a strong wind would break her in half.
Adrian hated himself for noticing. He turned, scoffing. "Do whatever the hell you want."
But his steps faltered at the door. He glanced back, his voice colder than the storm in his chest.
"Actually, there is something you can do for me."
Her eyes lifted, clear and obedient.
"Come here."
She obeyed without hesitation, each step measured. He let himself watch her compliance for half a second then shoved the thought away.
She smoothed the sweater sleeves again. "Alright. I don't like messing with my half-sister's things. Even if she made my life hell... she doesn't deserve her things ruined. Can I have another room?"
Adrian's teeth pressed together. The thought of her in Helena's room twisted something in him but the thought of her in the servants' quarters twisted worse.
"I don't have another room," he muttered. Then, after a moment of war with himself: "...You could share with me."
Her eyes widened slightly, then lowered again. "I can live anywhere. Couch, garage, maid's quarters, storage room... even below the staircase will do. You don't need to worry."
His jaw flexed, anger and something else knotting inside him. "No," he said sharply then forced his tone softer when he caught the edge of it. He dragged a hand down his face, exhaling.
"You're not sleeping on the damn floor." He paused, the words bitter as they left him. "...We'll share my room."
My room?
The thought hit him a beat late, irritation flickering in his eyes. Of all the rooms in this mansion, he offered that one?
He had more than enough space to keep her far away from him so why had something in him moved faster than logic?
Whether it was interest or a twisted need to keep her under his thumb, he couldn't tell. And he hated that uncertainty the most.