The Woman He Was Never Meant To Love

ELENA'S POV

The Brooks family starts their mornings in silence.

Not the gentle, serene type that gives you a sense of security. No. This quiet seems to... hold. It's as if the home itself is holding its breath, anticipating a break.

I get up early every day. before the yelling. Before the lies begin to trickle like oil down the marble stairway. Situated between the washing room and the attic, my room is the smallest in the house. The wallpaper peels no matter how many times I try to glue it down, and it's hot in the summer and chilly in the winter. However, I prefer it that way. I own it.

I gently blink as I sit up in bed. I pretend not to see the bruises from yesterday's "discipline" that still hurt my wrists. I do it every time.

I stand on a cold floor. My stepmother will find another excuse to call me "lazy" during breakfast if I don't fold my blanket neatly. I try to ignore the fact that my eyes seem a little emptier every day as I brush my hair in the mirror, long, black curls that fall past my waist. As if I'm gradually disappearing.

I've mastered the art of quiet movement, to take gentle breaths. to avoid being very noticeable. But none of that helps me today.

"Elena!" My dad's voice echoes like thunder in a glass home from downstairs.

I was tying a ribbon in my hair when my fingers froze.

Once more, here we go.

With my heart racing like a moth was stuck in my throat, I ascended the steps one at a time. His lips are narrow, and his jaw is pinched as he stands in the living room wearing a smart grey suit. She's beside him as usual. Clarisse, my stepmother. Stylish. Gorgeous. Disgusting.

Her smile is poisoned, horribly sweet, and put on like cheap perfume. She stares at me as if she's seeing a cockroach after leaning toward him and whispering something.

Clarisse exclaims, "There she is," in a sugary voice. "The little princess who can't even manage a simple task without making it everyone's problem."

I remain silent. Words just serve to fan the fires, I've discovered.

My dad takes the lead. His eyes are icy, glass-clear, and on the verge of breaking.

He yells, "Is it true?" "You refused to clean up the dining room last night? After everything we've done for you?"

All that you've done for me? I keep my mouth shut even if the thought screams in my chest.

Clarisse lets out a loud sigh. "I offered to help, of course, but she just stared at me. Ungrateful little thing. She thinks she's better than this family."

That was not the case.

I was ill. lightheaded. I was unable to stand at all. However, they are unconcerned. They have never done so.

My father snatches my arm with enough force to cause bruises. I don't recoil-no more.

"You think the world owes you something, don't you?" hisses the man. "You think you can sulk around this house like some tragic orphan? You're nothing, Elena. You're just a burden we keep out of pity."

Even when my lungs get smaller inside my chest, I remain silent. He detests it when I respond. He also detests it when I don't say anything. In this case, there is no correct response. It never is.

I look down and say in a low voice, "I'm sorry, Father."

He laughs. "You will be. You want to sleep in a bed under this roof? Then earn it."

With her aroma as harsh as thorns, Clarisse goes past me. Unkindly, she runs her fingertips over my shoulder.

"There's a dinner tonight," she murmurs. "Important guests. Try not to embarrass us."

Before leaving, Clarisse digs in her fingernails.

With one well-groomed brow raised and lips pursed in practiced disappointment, she moves around the room like a queen examining her servant. Her heels make a deliberate, attention-grabbing click against the floor.

"You know," she says, running a hand over her silk blouse, "you might try smiling when we speak to you. It's not as if we've locked you in a dungeon."

Not in a dungeon. Just a lovely-curtained cage.

My dad is standing aside, but I'm not protected by his quiet. He doesn't talk until it helps his reputation, not mine.

"She'll never learn," Clarisse continues, smirking smugly at him. "Not like Seraphina."

Well, there it is.

The golden name.

The sound of high heels coming down the stairs is like clockwork. Echoing off the walls like the coming of royalty, it was slow and deliberate. Then Seraphina Brooks walks in.

My sister-in-law.

I am not everything.

She moves as if the floor owed her something. Her long, honey-blond hair fell in flawless waves down her shoulders, and she exuded an aura of pricey perfume. She appears like she just stepped off a magazine cover, even in a silk robe and slippers. Given how frequently she is photographed, it's possible that she did. There's always a gala, brunch, or award ceremony for new entrepreneurs who are born wealthy but haven't done anything.

She pretends to yawn and wonders, "Why is everyone yelling this early?" She looks at me as if I were dirt on her shoe. "Oh. Her."

Clarisse smiles. "Good morning, darling."

Without even looking at me, Seraphina kisses her cheek and then Victor's.

Bored, she says, "What did she do now?" "Spill tea on the Persian rugs again?"

Clarisse harshly responds, "She neglected her chores," as if she's proud of it. "Just another reminder of how different she is from you."

At last, Victor Brooks speaks, but it's not a defense. It is an indictment.

He pauses, appalled, and says, "If it weren't for her mother, we wouldn't even know she existed. She should be grateful to be in this house at all."

The words are like stones to me.

It's always like that. There was a hint of humiliation in my name. Not one of us, really. The result of his liaison with the wife of his closest buddy, the daughter of some long-dead scandal. I wasn't meant to occur. I was not meant to remain. But when she passed away, and I had no one left... They took me in.

They make sure I never forget it.

The world is unaware of my existence.

And that's how they like it.

The heiress, however, is Seraphina. The Brooks empire's jewel. perfect grades. numerous interviews. The media refers to it as "the Brooks legacy."

Me? I'm not even a rumor.

By now, the stress ought to have subsided.

Rather, it bends more tightly.

With a languid, feline grace, Seraphina walks across the room, drinking from a glass of imported juice as if it were a precious concoction. She looks at me again, amused and lethargic.

She smirks and purrs, "You're still standing there?" "Shouldn't you be... scrubbing something?"

Clarisse chuckles. "Actually, yes. The back garden is a disaster. The gardener said the storm scattered petals everywhere, and the outdoor chairs are still dirty."

Seraphina's nose creases. "Ugh. It'll ruin my aesthetic if I have to look at that mess from my window."

Victor looks through me rather than at me.

"Well?" he asks sternly. "What are you waiting for? Do something useful for once."

I give a nod.

I only ever do that.

Without saying anything, I turn and walk into the hallway, my feet moving as if they are familiar with the pattern. I'm so tired that my fists shake at my sides, not because I'm angry or even upset. It's like pretending you're not suffocating while inhaling dense fog every day.

Their sounds are still behind me.

"She doesn't even try," Clarisse remarks. "At least when Seraphina walks into a room, she owns it."

"Well, she is a Brooks," Victor remarks.

"I still don't understand why she insists on keeping her hair so long," Seraphina adds, laughing cruelly. "It's so... outdated. Like she's trying to cosplay as tragic royalty."

Like flies swarming at my back, their laughing follows me down the corridor.

Even the morning light feels chilly here, but I force open the garden doors. The wind is gentle but fierce, and the sky is gray. The stone walkways are littered with pools and petals from the previous night's storm, and the wrought iron chairs are overturned with damp leaves clinging to them like lost murmurs.

I used to find refuge in this garden.

It was Seraphina's favorite place before they claimed it.

It's just another cage with nicer walls now.

I go down on my knees next to the rose bush, pick up the fallen petals, and start cleaning. My hands are covered with dirt, and my skirt is soaked with wet grass. I don't draw away even though the thorns sear my fingers.

I sometimes wonder if roses are aware of their sharpness.

I glance up at the mansion. Seraphina's chamber window has a gentle, golden glow. I see her curled up on her bed, most likely reading through her flawless little feed while posing for another photo that she'll fake-deeply caption. The world will applaud her for it.

Nobody gives me praise.

Nobody is even aware that I am here.

Victor Brooks appears to have just one daughter.

Someone who shines.

Someone deserving of his name.

However, the overlooked one? The bastard that his closest friend's wife gave birth to?

That girl is merely a shadow.

I wipe my hands on my skirt and get up, feeling an unidentified pain in my heart.

I'm not envious.

Simply put, I'm sick of being invisible.

Additionally, I'm experiencing an odd sensation that feels like something is approaching-a tug in my bones.

Something significant.

Something chilly.

Additionally, this house... This family...

They'll be sorry they made me invisible.

Sebastian's POV

They believe that silence equates to tranquility.

It doesn't.

Control is what it means.

And control is crucial in this home.

At five in the morning, I get up. sharp. Not because I'd like to, since I was taught to do so. This mansion watches instead of sleeping. The floorboards remember, and the walls have ears. Footsteps are important here. I make mine loud enough to remind them that Ezra Blake still has faith in me to take care of the city's dirt.

I use cold water for my shower. Comfort softens men, not out of any masochistic tendency. And in this family, soft guys pass away quickly.

I dress in black. Always. Not because it's trendy, but rather because it serves as a reminder that, despite the cage's golden exterior, its interior is still made of marble and decay.

The employees vanish like ghosts as I move through the hallways. I don't talk until I have to. Words are money. I also don't waste mine.

At 5:30 a.m., I arrive at the east wing.

The grandfather has already arrived. The Lion, Ezra Blake. He can control a room without speaking. I discovered that at a young age. You've already lost if you need to speak out. The first time I handled a gun, he taught me that. Twelve was my age.

When I reached the mark, he grinned.

When I didn't react after the recoil, his smile got bigger.

Since then, I have obeyed him.

even if it meant losing parts of who I am.

Even when doing so required me to wear velvet gloves and execute commands that made my hands crimson.

My dad is seated across the table, his mouth shut and his eyes lowered. Before Ezra cut his teeth, he was just like me. He is now only a silk-clad shadow.

The dinner table

My aunt and uncle sat like lovely snakes encased in silk and diamonds. They have a family-like smile. However, I am aware of what they would do if given the opportunity. If they believed it would give them power, they would eviscerate me and paint the floor gold.

However, I don't fear them.

The terror is me.

"Your schedule," Eloise says, shoving a folder in my direction as if it were her own. I accept it without looking.

My grandfather nods at me. The only kind of love I will ever receive. That nod is what keeps me alive. It's that twisted.

I have a gun with me. I'm not paranoid.

I've been saved more by it than by trust.

We are referred to as the ideal family. regal. esteemed. filthy wealthy.

We're not a family, though. We are a tooth-based empire.

They send me to bite, too.

This place is devoid of affection.

No coziness.

only obligation.

Just masks.

And there's a part of me that wonders somewhere-behind the marble, the rules, the heavy looks, and the empty dinners:

Is this all that exists?

Will I ever be anything more than this?

Just a lion kept in a cage and instructed to let out a roar?

Because occasionally I feel something I'm not familiar with in the quiet after the blood settles.

Something similar to...

yearning.

Or worse, perhaps.

I hope.

And compared to any weapons I've ever carried, that is significantly riskier.

When I walk into the VIP dining hall, they are already seated.

This isn't breakfast. It's a lunch disguised as a briefing.

Like a crowned shadow, Ezra Blake sits at the head of the table. The deep lines that age attempted to chisel into his face but was unable to complete are highlighted by the dawn light. Like a royal sceptre, his cane is by his side. He doesn't require it, though.

His very presence can paralyze.

I sit down to his right.

Always to his right.

It is comprehended. Without question.

The others glare: Eloise, sipping her bitter tea as if it were pleasant; Charles, my uncle, pretending to read reports while secretly calculating what Ezra would leave behind; and Vance, my father, hiding behind his calm humiliation.

However, Ezra is staring at me.

His voice is still piercing even after all these years. "How's the Blake Holdings acquisition coming along?" he asks.

"Closed it this morning," I respond. "Documents will be signed before noon. That gives us 52% of Vellaro Corp."

He gives his assent by tapping the table once with his fingers.

"And the construction contracts in the west district?"

"Ours," I respond. "They folded after I visited."

He laughs. Dry. Feeling proud.

Now, Charles doesn't even make an effort to conceal his contempt. "How convenient," he murmurs.

Ezra avoids eye contact with him.

"Convenient," he muffles, "is when you inherit things you never earned. Sebastian doesn't get convenience. He earns."

A silence descends upon the table. That one line has such strength that it envelops me like iron. I've been called many things-cold, ruthless, dangerous-but to Ezra, I'm one thing:

deserving.

Everyone is aware of it. That's what consumes them.

"Everything runs through you now," he continues, fully facing me. "You're the head of the main branch. The others report to you. I don't trust anyone else."

I give a single, unreadable nod. However, within?

I am aware that this goes beyond business.

It's a war.

Half of this city is owned by the Blake family. Nobody dares discuss real estate, fashion, foreign exports, or underground investments. We don't manage companies. Our systems are our own. And now they all report to me.

Charles wants to rip that from me.

Eloise attempts to poison with lovely words.

Vance will never be able to reclaim what he envies.

But I was Ezra's choice.

brought me up like a weapon made of blood and gold.

I bear his legacy like a crown and a curse because of this.

"You'll attend the shareholders' gala next week," says Ezra. "They'll want to see your face. Remind them who holds the reins."

"Understood."

"And your guard?"

"Always armed."

His eyes gleam faintly. "Good boy."

I always get that part.

Well done, boy. Like I'm still the kid he taught how to lead, shoot, and fight.

As if I didn't already bear the burden of an empire.

I continue to nod, since I'll accept it. I'll accept any form of love he offers.

even if it results in my death.