Two hours later, a soft knock echoed through my room. I opened the door to find a woman standing there with a long garment bag draped over her arms. She didn't smile. She didn't introduce herself. She simply handed the dress to me and stepped back like she wasn't allowed to linger near me for too long.
"It's from Mr. Blackwell," she said quietly before walking away.
Mr. Blackwell.
Not "your husband."
Not "Adrian."
Just Mr. Blackwell.
I closed the door and stared at the garment bag for a long moment before unzipping it. The dress inside was stunning—deep emerald green with a fitted waist and a neckline that made my breath hitch. It was elegant, intimidating, and expensive enough to pay off my college loans twice.
It was also nothing like anything I would've chosen for myself.
I got dressed slowly, adjusting the fabric, fixing my hair, doing my makeup with trembling hands. When I finally looked in the mirror, I saw a stranger again. Not Evelyn. Not Lila. Someone in between — someone pretending, someone borrowed.
A soft chime rang through the room, and a voice from a speaker said, "Mrs. Blackwell, Mr. Blackwell is waiting."
I took one last breath, squared my shoulders, and stepped into the hallway.
Adrian was leaning against the wall, hands in his pockets, wearing a black suit that somehow made him look taller and more dangerous. When his eyes moved to me, they didn't soften, but they did pause—just long enough for something unreadable to flicker across his face.
"You're late," he said.
I wasn't. But correcting him didn't feel like a wise choice.
He offered his arm—not out of kindness, but because appearances mattered where we were going. I hesitated before slipping my hand into the crook of his elbow. His body was tense, his posture rigid, as if touching me was an obligation rather than a gesture.
We walked through the long hallways in complete silence. The mansion felt even larger, darker, and colder at night. Every step echoed. Every turn reminded me that I knew absolutely nothing about this place or the people who lived in it.
At the end of the hall was a pair of tall double doors. Adrian pushed them open, and the murmur of voices immediately filled my ears. The dining room was massive, the table long enough to seat twenty people, though tonight there were only six: three board members, their spouses, and—
My breath caught.
—Adrian's father.
Victor Blackwell.
The man was older, with silver hair slicked back, sharp features, and eyes that carried the same cold edge as his son's. But unlike Adrian, Victor didn't hide his reactions. His gaze swept over me like he was appraising merchandise.
"So," Victor said, leaning back in his chair, "this is Evelyn."
My pulse stumbled. My mouth went dry. But Adrian, without even looking at me, spoke before I could.
"This is my wife," he said simply.
The room went silent for a moment, and Victor's eyes narrowed slightly, as if he sensed something wasn't quite right. But he didn't press, at least not yet.
We took our seats. Adrian sat stiffly beside me, his hand occasionally brushing mine only when someone happened to look in our direction. Every touch was calculated. Every movement practiced. I was nothing more than a prop he needed to display.
Dinner began, and the conversation was filled with business updates, stock performance, and quiet whispers of upcoming mergers. I tried to stay invisible, but every now and then Victor's eyes slid toward me, studying me the way someone studies a page that doesn't belong in a book.
"How are you settling in?" he asked suddenly.
My fork froze an inch above my plate.
"I'm… adjusting," I said carefully.
Victor raised one brow, clearly unimpressed with the answer.
"Adjusting to what?"
My heart raced. I felt Adrian's gaze on me, sharp and warning.
"To the schedule," I replied quickly. "Everything here is very… organized."
Victor didn't smile.
"Yes. We prefer things that way. Stability is essential in a family like ours."
A family like ours.
The words sounded like a warning.
The room fell back into conversation, but my shoulders stayed tense, every muscle waiting for something to go wrong.
Halfway through dinner, a board member's wife leaned closer to me.
"You seem nervous, dear. First week jitters?"
I forced a small nod. "Something like that."
Adrian's hand slipped beneath the table and rested on my knee—not comforting, not gentle, but deliberate. A reminder. A warning. Stay in character.
I kept my voice steady.
"This family is much different from mine."
"Yes," she said with a tight smile. "You'll get used to it. Or you won't."
Her smile didn't reach her eyes.
I barely ate. I didn't dare drink. Every second felt like I was walking on a glass floor, afraid of falling through. And the worst part was knowing that at any moment, one wrong word could expose everything.
When dinner finally ended, we stood to leave. Victor approached us, his steps slow, his gaze calculating.
"Adrian," he said, "a word."
Adrian nodded, releasing my arm. I started to walk away, but Victor's hand landed gently—but firmly—on my shoulder.
"Not you," he said. "I'd like to speak to my daughter-in-law as well."
The air froze around me.
Adrian stiffened. "Father—"
Victor held up a hand.
"Five minutes."
Adrian didn't like it. I could see it in the way his jaw tightened, in the tension rolling off him. But after a moment, he nodded once and stepped aside.
Victor waited until the others had left the room before speaking.
"You're quieter than I expected," he said.
"I'm just trying to be respectful," I replied.
His eyes narrowed slightly. "Most people who marry into this family are… eager. Ambitious. Strategic. But you…" He studied my face like he was peeling back layers I didn't know I had. "You look afraid."
My heart hammered against my ribs.
"I'm not afraid," I lied.
He stepped closer, lowering his voice.
"My son is not an easy man. He has expectations. He has standards. And he does not appreciate surprises." His gaze sharpened. "Are you a surprise, Lila?"
My blood turned cold.
He knew my name.
He shouldn't have.
I didn't move. I didn't breathe.
Victor smiled slightly—cold, thin, knowing.
"Ah. So you are."
Before I could respond, Adrian appeared in the doorway, his expression stormy.
"Father," he said sharply, "we're done here."
Victor gave me one last lingering look, then stepped away.
"For now."
Adrian grabbed my arm, not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough to show urgency.
"What did he say to you?" he demanded once the door closed behind us.
"Nothing," I whispered. "He was just talking."
"About what?"
"You," I said softly. "And surprises."
Adrian's eyes darkened. A muscle in his jaw twitched.
"He knows something's off," he muttered. "He always knows."
My stomach dropped. "What do we do?"
Adrian looked at me, and for the first time since the wedding, there was no anger in his eyes—only tension, calculation, and something that felt dangerously close to fear.
"We find Evelyn," he said quietly. "Before my father does."