The walk to the parlor felt like a march toward a scaffold. Annabelle's footsteps were heavy, her silk skirts whispering a mournful tune against the polished marble. When she pushed open the heavy oak doors, the air was already thick with the scent of her father's expensive tobacco and her mother's cloying rose perfume.
"Are you not happy to see us, dear?" her mother asked, perched on a chaise longue like a porcelain doll. She didn't look up from her tea, but her eyes, sharp and calculating, tracked Annabelle's every movement.
"Of course I am," Annabelle lied, the words tasting like ash. She forced a hollow smile as she sat on the edge of a velvet settee. She kept her spine as straight as a needle, her hands folded primly in her lap to hide the fact that they were shaking.
Across the room, her father paced the length of the Persian rug, his boots thudding rhythmically. He looked like a man who had just won a war. "You just caught me by surprise," Annabelle added softly. "I wasn't expecting you back from the capital for another three days."
"Business moves faster than the seasons, Anna," her father said, stopping his pacing to loom over her. "Your mother and I have been in the Beaumont Kingdom. It is a land of gold and steel, far more prosperous than this dusty village." He leaned in, his voice dropping into a low, terrifyingly smooth tone. "While there, we met with Lord Wilok. He has offered to provide the capital I need to expand our trade routes across the continent—a deal that would make us the wealthiest family in three kingdoms."
Annabelle felt a cold, prickling sensation crawl up the back of her neck. She knew that look in his eyes; it was the look of a man who had just made a sale. She prayed, silently and fervently, that the item being sold wasn't her.
"However," her mother added, her voice as cold as a winter stream, "such generosity comes with a condition. Lord Wilok seeks a daughter-in-law. A woman of grace, pedigree, and silence. His eldest son, Brent, is in need of a wife to solidify their family line. And since you have come of age..."
The world seemed to tilt on its axis. The numbness started in Annabelle's fingertips and raced toward her heart. They were speaking of her life as if it were a ledger entry, a tithe to be paid for her father's ambition.
"He is a man of immense influence," her father stated, his shadow swallowing her. "You will be in safe hands, Annabelle. You will want for nothing. He is currently on a diplomatic mission to the Valeria Kingdom, but upon his return, we shall begin the arrangements immediately. The contract is already being drafted."
"But Father..." Annabelle's voice was a fragile thread. She thought of the market, the heat of the forge, and the dark, honest eyes of the blacksmith. "I don't even know him. I don't love him. I..."
"Love?" Her father's laugh was a sharp, barking sound that lacked any warmth. He cut her short with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Stop playing in the garden like a child, Anna. Love is a luxury for those who don't have empires to build. It is time you thought of the family name. This is your purpose."
"Arrangements will be finalized by the end of the month," her mother concluded, finally meeting Annabelle's gaze. There was no pity there, only the expectation of obedience. "Go to your room. Reflect on your good fortune."
Annabelle didn't wait for another word. She stood, her movements mechanical, and fled the room. The grand hallway felt narrower than before, the portraits of her ancestors watching her with silent, judgmental eyes.
Once inside her bedroom, she threw the heavy iron bolt on the door. The click of the lock sounded like the closing of a tomb. She didn't ring for her nanny; she didn't call for a light. She simply collapsed onto her bed, the emerald silk of her dress bunching around her as she buried her face in the pillows.
The tears came then—hot, silent, and desperate. As the moon rose over the manor, casting long, barred shadows across her floor, Annabelle cried herself into an exhausted, hollow sleep.