Mia POV
The Harrington estate loomed against the fading evening sky, all ivory pillars and sprawling gardens that caught the last of the sun's glow. It was the kind of home whispered about in society circles, an empire dressed in marble, chandeliers, and perfection. Outsiders envied it. They saw the gilded gates, the fountains, the timeless art, and called it a palace.
Mia Harrington knew better.
To her, it was a cage — silent, cold, and heavy with expectations.
She sat in her grandfather's study, the scent of leather and aged oak pressing down on her as much as his gaze did. Victor Harrington was a man forged of iron and stubborn pride. His presence filled the room the way fire fills a hearth, commanding attention, giving light and heat, but just as capable of burning.
Mia perched on the velvet chair across from him, her hands folded neatly in her lap. Her posture was flawless, her expression carefully neutral. She had been trained to be this way since childhood. Harringtons did not slouch. Harringtons did not falter. Harringtons did not show weakness.
" YOU'LL INHERITE EVERYTHING ONE DAY" Victor said, his voice steady, not softened by age despite the lines carved deep into his face. His gray eyes, so like her own, narrowed with determination. "THE ESTATE,THE COMPANIES,THE NAME. ALL OF IT RESTS ON YOUR SHOULDERS, MIA. YOU ARE THE HARRINGTON LEGACY."
Mia nodded because that was what he expected. But inside, the words weighed her down like chains. Inheritance sounded glamorous in the gossip magazines — rich heiress, golden girl, the granddaughter chosen over her own mother — but the truth was less enchanting.
Her grandfather had stripped his only daughter, Mia's mother, of her birthright years ago. He called her unfit, weak, too self-indulgent to ever lead the Harrington empire. Instead, he placed the future in Mia's hands, a decision Mia had never been asked to agree to. She had been too young then to even understand. And when her parents left — not abandoned, he said, just… gone — the crown grew heavier.
Now she was twenty, and the weight had only grown.
" DO I HAVE A CHOICE?" she asked before she could stop herself. Her voice was quiet, the kind of question that carried more hope than conviction.
Victor's answer was as swift as it was predictable. " NO!"
The single syllable cut through her like glass.
"YOU WILL CARRY IT," he said firmly. "AND YOU WILL CARRY IT WELL. JUST AS I HAVE. JUST AS MY FATHER BEFORE ME. IT IS NOT A MATTER OF CHOICE, MIA. IT IS A DUTY."
Her lips curved into a polite, practiced smile, one she had perfected over the years. A smile that hid the storm underneath.
When he dismissed her, Mia rose gracefully, her every movement rehearsed to look effortless. She slipped out of the study, the echo of her grandfather's words clinging to her like smoke.
The halls of the estate were vast, lined with portraits of ancestors who seemed to watch her with cold, expectant eyes. The wealth was overwhelming — gold frames, priceless rugs, vases that belonged in museums. But to Mia, the grandeur was hollow. It all rang with silence, a silence that grew louder with every step she took.
By the time she reached her room, her chest was tight with the familiar ache. Her room was enormous, curated with perfection: silk sheets, chandeliers, a closet full of designer gowns. But she hated it. She hated that everything was perfect but never hers.
She curled into the window seat, pressing her knees to her chest, staring out over the manicured gardens below. Everything was flawless, just like her life was supposed to be. And yet, she felt cracked, incomplete.
Her parents had left her here when she was barely old enough to understand what goodbye meant. They had chosen freedom, travel, and ambition over raising their daughter. To this day, she received postcards in the mail — glossy rectangles of Paris, Rome, New York — but postcards weren't arms to hold her when she cried at night. Postcards didn't remind her she was loved.
They had left. Everyone did. Everyone she had ever allowed too close eventually walked away.
Everyone except two people: her grandfather and Lila.
Victor Harrington stayed, though his love was made of steel and expectation, not warmth. And Lila — her best friend, her lifeline — was the only person who had never once let her down.
As if summoned by her thoughts, her phone buzzed against the cushion beside her. One look at the screen told her who it was.
I'm outside. Don't make me climb the gates again.
Despite the heaviness in her chest, Mia's lips curved into a genuine smile. She slipped from the window seat, padding quietly down the long hallway until she reached the side entrance. Sneaking Lila into the house was a routine they had perfected over the years.
The door clicked open, and Lila slipped inside, her curls wild, her grin mischievous.
"Your guards are useless," Lila whispered with a laugh. "Seriously, I could have smuggled in an army."
"Don't let my grandfather hear you say that," Mia muttered, though amusement warmed her voice.
They climbed the grand staircase together, laughter echoing faintly in the cavernous halls. In Mia's room, Lila threw herself onto the bed without hesitation, sprawling like she owned the place. She filled the silence instantly, launching into a story about her day at the university — about professors, friends, and chaos Mia could only imagine.
Mia listened, letting Lila's voice wash over her. Lila was everything Mia wasn't — bold, carefree, unafraid to live loudly. She envied her sometimes, but more than that, she cherished her. With Lila, she could be Mia, not the Harrington heiress.
"You're too quiet tonight," Lila finally said, rolling onto her side to face her.
Mia shrugged, forcing a small smile. "Just another lecture about the inheritance. About… duty."
Lila groaned dramatically, flopping back against the pillows. "Your grandfather needs to get a hobby. You're twenty, not forty. You deserve to live a little."
"It's not that simple."
"It is." Lila pushed herself up, her eyes shining with determination. "You need someone, Mia. Something. A spark."
Mia stiffened at that. "You know I can't. People leave. They always do. I can't risk letting someone in just to watch them walk away."
Silence stretched between them for a moment. Then Lila reached for her hand, her grip warm and firm.
"Not everyone leaves," she said softly.
Mia wanted to believe her. She wanted to believe in the promise of permanence, in love that didn't break, in trust that didn't shatter. But the scars of her past whispered too loudly, warning her that hope was dangerous.
Still, the thought lingered. A quiet ache. A foolish dream she could never quite bury.
That night, long after Lila had gone, Mia returned to her window seat. The moonlight spilled across the gardens, casting shadows that danced like ghosts. She pressed her forehead against the glass, staring out at the world beyond the iron gates.
Somewhere out there, there had to be more than this — more than duty, more than empty wealth, more than the silence of marble halls. Somewhere out there was something that might make her heart feel alive again.
She just didn't know what it was. Or who.
And she certainly didn't know that her path was already entwining with someone else's — someone just as broken, just as guarded. Someone who had built walls of his own.
A man whose heart was as hard as hers.
A man named Ace Laurent.