Chapter One
Shoot.
Pain ripped through me, sharp and sudden, stealing the breath from my lungs.
"Fuck...."
The sound barely escaped as a whisper.
My fingers trembled when I pulled them back, eyes locking on the thin cut I had just made by accident. A careless slip. Blood welled faintly against my skin, bright and unforgiving.
I clenched my jaw, forcing the sound down.
Pain was nothing new in this house. It was only another reminder that my body, like everything else—had never truly belonged to me.
Outside, the rain fell without mercy.
It battered the estate with relentless force, drumming against stone and iron as though the night itself wanted inside. I shifted closer to the window, my breath fogging the glass, my gaze drifting toward the gates.
Tall. Black. Final.
That gate didn't just keep people out.
It swallowed them whole—and returned them changed.
That was when headlights cut through the darkness.
A black car rolled slowly through the gates, deliberate, controlled. The iron bars groaned shut behind it, the sound settling deep in my chest like a warning.
The door opened.
Marcus stepped out first.
Late forties. Broad shoulders. Built like a man who enforced rules rather than obeyed them. Among my mother's staff, his name was never spoken lightly. Marcus was not quite family, not quite staff—he existed somewhere in between. My mother's shadow. Her enforcer. The man who understood her silences better than most understood words.
Even Marcus feared her.
The second door was yanked open.
A boy stumbled out.
Roman-looking. Sharp jaw. Strong nose. Dark lashes soaked and clinging to his face from the rain. He couldn't have been much older than me.
My stomach tightened as Marcus's hand closed around the boy's collar, hauling him upright without patience or care. The boy slipped on the wet gravel.
Marcus didn't slow.
He dragged him forward, rain soaking them both, the boy's clothes plastered to his lean frame. Even from my window, I could see it—the tension, the resistance he tried to hide, the fear he couldn't.
They stopped as the front door opened.
My mother emerged.
Isobel.
She stood beneath the lights as though the rain dared not touch her. Elegant. Poised. Untouchable. Her dark coat fell perfectly against her frame, heels clicking softly against the marble steps—as if she were greeting guests, not claiming a prisoner.
Marcus murmured something, head bowed.
My mother's gaze slid to the boy.
She smiled.
Not kindly.
She stepped forward, her hand closing around the boy's arm just above the elbow, nails pressing with deliberate possession. Marcus released him instantly.
The boy flinched.
She leaned in, whispering something I couldn't hear. Whatever it was, his throat bobbed as he swallowed hard.
Then she turned and led him inside.
I watched as they crossed the threshold, water dripping from his hair, his clothes, his skin. Each step left dark stains on the marble floor—marks that would be scrubbed away by morning, as though he had never been there.
But I knew better.
I followed their movement through the halls until they disappeared into the master bedroom—the room my parents once shared.
The door remained open.
I didn't look away fast enough.
What I saw burned itself into me: my mother's cold authority, the boy's obedience, his body responding even as his eyes pleaded for something—mercy, escape, anything.
She gave him none.
I turned away when my stomach finally rebelled.
Since my father vanished—ran, was taken, or erased, I never knew—the house had rotted from the inside out.
No one spoke of him.
When I was four, he disappeared without goodbye or explanation. Some said he fled. Others whispered my mother made him vanish. Sometimes, I wondered if he was still alive somewhere—locked away, punished for loving the wrong woman.
All I knew was this:
The day he left was the day this house learned how to breathe cruelty.
—
Morning arrived dressed in false warmth.
"Good morning, Miss Isla," the maids chimed as I was wheeled toward the dining table, their smiles careful, rehearsed.
My mother was already seated.
Radiant. Soft. Almost human.
"Good morning, Mama," I said.
"How was your night, my dear?"
"It was fine."
A lie.
Porcelain clinked softly as we ate in silence, everything unsaid screaming between us.
After breakfast, my mother summoned the staff. I was wheeled to her side like proof of her generosity—her care.
"This is Euan," she announced, gesturing to a familiar face. Clean now. Controlled. "He will be working here as the gardener."
Euan nodded once.
My stomach twisted.
That was him.
The boy from the night before.
Not one of the powerful men she usually entertained—but she had chosen him.
Why?
Back in my room, the door locked behind me.
Isolation. Exactly how my mother preferred me—out of sight, under control.
Sleep dragged me under, heavy and forced.
Until screaming tore me awake.
"Move them!"
"Whip them until I say stop!"
Routine.
Punishment.
My mother's music.
I forced myself to the window.
Eight of them were lined up—her staff. The same people who smiled at me every morning. Guards surrounded them.
"Please, Madam Isobel," one begged. "It won't happen again."
My mother laughed softly.
"Do you know who I am?" she asked.
Silence.
"I made you. I feed you. I can erase you."
A whip cracked through the air.
"My illness betrayed me again."
Multiple sclerosis.
Some days I walked.
Some days I fell.
Today, I fell.
Pain blurred my vision.
Then—
BANG.
My door burst open.
"Oh no—Miss, I'm sorry, I heard—"
Euan.
He rushed toward me.
"You should have called for help."
"I can manage," I snapped.
He didn't stop.
Exhaustion won. I nodded stiffly.
He helped me onto the bed.
"I should call someone," he said.
"It's Isla."
"…Miss Isla."
"Just Isla."
Then I smirked.
"And you're Euan. The new gardener."
A pause.
"Oh—sorry. The new favourite."
Silence swallowed the room whole.