The woman sitting at the head of the dining table looked like a bird of prey preserved in silver and silk. Dame Eleanor Blackwood was at least eighty, but time hadn't softened her—it had sharpened her into something lethal. Her white hair was swept into a severe chignon that seemed to pull her skin tight, highlighting cheekbones that could draw blood. She wore a dove-gray suit with a jade brooch at the throat, and her hands, resting on the table, were a roadmap of veins and several million dollars' worth of antique rings.
Her eyes were the same winter-gray as Adrian's, but where his were cold, hers were calculating. They swept over Elara as she entered the dining room, missing nothing—the slight wobble in her step from the unfamiliar heels, the way her fingers worried at the too-large wedding band, and the pulse beating visibly at the base of her throat.
"Ah," Dame Eleanor said, her voice like dry pages turning. "The merchandise."
Elara froze in the doorway, the word merchandise stinging more than any slap. She wasn't a guest; she wasn't a bride. She was a line item on a balance sheet. Adrian was already seated to his grandmother's right. He didn't rise or offer a chair. He simply watched, a faint, unpleasant smile playing at the corners of his mouth as he enjoyed the spectacle of her discomfort.
"Eleanor," Adrian said smoothly, "this is Elara. Elara, my grandmother."
"We don't need introductions," Dame Eleanor dismissed him with a bony hand. "Sit. You're blocking the light."
The dining room was a cathedral of cold luxury. The table was long enough to seat twenty, but only three places were set with bone china so thin it was nearly transparent. A silent server appeared, pouring ice water. The first course arrived: a chilled asparagus soup with a swirl of crème fraîche and caviar. The tiny black pearls looked like insect eyes floating in pale green.
"So," Dame Eleanor began after a sip of Burgundy that likely cost more than Elara's annual rent. "Tell me about your family. I knew your grandfather, Charles Vance. A decent enough man, if a bit sentimental for business. He cried at his own daughter's wedding. Can you imagine?"
Elara gripped her spoon. "My grandfather died when I was six. I remember his laugh, not his tears."
"Yes, Michael," Dame Eleanor cut her off, mentioning Elara's father with a flick of her wrist. "A tragic end. Though not entirely unexpected, given the… circumstances. Adrian tells me your mother is ill."
"She has cancer," Elara replied, her voice low.
"How inconvenient." The words were delivered without malice—just cold, hard fact. "And the treatment is expensive. Now my grandson is paying for it. How… charitable."
"It's part of the arrangement," Adrian interjected, his expression unreadable.
"Ah, the arrangement." The old woman leaned back. "Tell me, child. How much did he pay for you? Your youth has value. Your relative prettiness. Your breeding—what's left of it. And your desperation. Desperation is always the most expensive commodity. So. How much?"
Elara's face burned. She looked at Adrian, hoping for a shred of defense, but he merely raised an eyebrow, curious to hear her answer.
"The treatment costs four hundred thousand dollars," Elara said, her voice shaking. "He's covering that."
"Four hundred thousand. A fair price for thirty-six months of… whatever this is." Dame Eleanor turned her predatory gaze back. "Do you love him?"
"No," Elara said instantly.
"Good. Honesty. Do you hate him?"
Elara hesitated, feeling Adrian's attention sharpen. "I don't know him well enough to hate him."
"A diplomatic answer," Dame Eleanor sighed. "You'll learn that diplomacy is a weakness in this family. We prefer bluntness." She gestured for the plates to be cleared. "Adrian, what are your plans for her?"
"She'll live here. Accompany me to functions. Fulfill the contract."
"And in private?" The question hung in the air, ugly and intimate. When Adrian didn't answer, Eleanor leaned in. "Understand this. Should you become pregnant during this arrangement, the consequences will be severe. An heir born of this… transaction… would complicate the Blackwood fortune. If a pregnancy occurs, it will be terminated. Immediately. You've sold your time, child. Not your womb."
Elara felt the room tilt. The filet mignon on her plate suddenly looked like raw, bloody flesh. She wasn't just a wife or a servant; she was an asset whose very biology was now under the control of the Blackwood empire.
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