The house was waking, the subtle creaks of polished wood, the faint hum of air-conditioning, the soft clink of silverware being polished in the kitchen. Even in silence, the weight of wealth pressed against me like a second skin. Every corner carried its own authority, and I had grown accustomed to moving carefully within it, never fully free.
I paused, lifting my eyes to my reflection. My curves, accentuated by the deep emerald silk nightdress, caught the morning light. Beauty had always been a tool in my world,a shield, a weapon, a burden. I had never wielded it for myself. Not yet. But a whisper of hope lingered somewhere deep, daring me to believe that maybe, soon, I could.
Abi's soft laughter came from the doorway, and I startled slightly. She leaned casually against the frame, arms crossed, eyes sharp and mischievous. "You always look like you're preparing for war rather than a morning at home," she teased.
I smiled faintly, continuing to comb. "Every day feels like a battle here."
"That's because it is," she said, stepping closer. "And today isn't just any day. The anniversary of... everything."
I nodded, lowering the comb for a moment. Today marked twenty-five years since my father married my mother, and twenty-five years since tragedy had rewritten our lives. My mother had died delivering a cake for my father's forty-Second birthday. A moment meant to be joyous had become a wound that never healed. The house itself carried the memory in every polished surface and silent corridor.
Abi didn't speak immediately. She let the tension settle. "You look... different today," she said softly. "Like you feel the absence, the weight."
I ran the comb through my hair again, trying to smooth more than just the strands,trying to smooth the knot of emotions in my chest. "It never leaves," I murmured. "No matter how perfect everything looks."
Abi leaned closer, voice low. "Someone's here."
My pulse jumped even in the open morning light.The guy from last night . Standing tall, composed, hands in his pockets, watching silently. Our eyes met for a fleeting second, electric, and my heartbeat spiked.
Abi's grin widened knowingly. "Still thinking about last night?"
I exhaled slowly, lowering the comb to my lap. "It's impossible not to notice him."
"He notices you too," Abi said. "A man like that... he doesn't forget."
A knock came at my door, soft, careful. My father's voice followed. "Meelan. Breakfast."
I set the comb down, standing and smoothing my dress, letting my fingers brush the curves of my waist automatically. In this house, even small movements were observed. Appearance was authority.
Downstairs, the breakfast table was immaculate: crystal glasses, fine china, silver cutlery polished to a mirror shine. My father sat at the head, posture rigid, eyes distant but haunted. Today, the anniversary, weighed on him visibly. I watched his hands tighten around the edge of the table. Memories of my mother flickered across his gaze-the day she died, delivering that cake, her absence wrapped around every polished surface.
"Father," I said softly, taking my seat.
He looked at me for a brief moment, the harsh lines of his authority softened. "You have your mother's eyes, Meelan," he said quietly, voice weighted with memory. "The same brown warmth... the same strength hidden behind them. She would have been proud of you today."
My chest tightened. A mixture of grief and pride knotted in my throat. I had never felt such a compliment land so heavily yet so delicately. In that moment, I felt closer to her, to the mother I had never truly known.
Breakfast passed in tense silence. My father occasionally murmured about schedules, legacy, and responsibilities, but his mind was elsewhere, tangled in the memories of my mother. I watched him, understanding that grief had shaped the walls of my life more than wealth ever could.
And then....later that night.
A sleek black Cybertruck roared into the driveway, cutting through the morning stillness like a predator. My pulse jumped to my throat. He stepped out, tall and unflinching, the truck gleaming under the early sun. He had broken the cardinal rule of our home: no outsider, no visitor, no bold intrusion without invitation....I still didn't know his name .
Abi gasped. "He... he's here. Meelan-he's really here."
I didn't move, frozen, heart hammering. The rule was clear: any man not sanctioned by my father was forbidden from the property, especially after dark. Yet here he was, unbothered, violating every precaution, and worse... staring directly at me.
From the balcony, I caught my father's sharp, calculating gaze. His eyes narrowed, a silent warning. My stomach twisted. What had I done to deserve this madness, this audacious intrusion?
He's lips curved in a smirk. A voice, low but carrying across the hall, reached me.
"I want the world to know," he said, calm, dangerous, certain. "Meelan is forever mine.By the way I'm Alaiz Robbison"He said while he brushed his hair backwards with his left hands .
The words sank like fire. I felt heat, fear, longing, and something far too dangerous collided in my chest. My body trembled,partly from fear, partly from desire. My father's authority, my carefully contained life, the unspoken rules ,they all screamed that I should step back. Yet my pulse betrayed me. I wanted him. I wanted him so badly, I could taste the recklessness of it.
Abi's whisper was frantic. "Meelan... look at him! He's... he's serious."
I nodded numbly, trapped between terror and a growing ache I couldn't name. Alaiz's audacity had cut through every invisible wall in my life, and he stood at the edge of my control, daring me to fall.
The tension was almost unbearable when my father finally spoke, voice low, sharp: "Staff. Every servant. Escort him off the property. Now!!."
Time seemed to freeze. My heart pounded so loud I feared it might echo across the marble floors. Alaiz didn't flinch, not even a muscle,not an eyelid. He simply looked at me, his eyes full of challenge and promise, as if he would bend the world around him to make me his.
Abi's hand found mine, squeezing tightly. "Meelan... what do we do?"
I didn't answer. I couldn't even answer. My father's authority, the rule-breaking, the undeniable attraction.It all collided, leaving me breathless, terrified, and... wanting him more than I'd ever wanted anything.
Outside, the servants moved, their footsteps precise, echoing the command. Alaiz's smirk widened, almost triumphant, like a hunter who knew the prey was fully aware yet utterly powerless.
I took a step back, pressed my hands to my chest. "This... this isn't safe," I whispered to myself.
And yet, even as the staff approached him, my mind screamed another truth I couldn't deny: I had never been more alive than at this terrifying, exhilarating moment.
The air trembled, heavy with unspoken rules and audacious desire. Every glance, every movement, every heartbeat was a wire stretched taut between danger and need. Alaiz was not leaving, not really. And I... I was helpless to resist.
And then the house seemed to hold its breath. My father's authority, my mother's absence, Alaiz's defiance, and my own racing pulse.The perfect storm colliding in the grand hall.
The servants reached him. My father's voice commanded, sharp and unyielding: "Leave. Now."
Alaiz's gaze met mine one last time, electric, smoldering, certain. He didn't move yet. He didn't budge. And in that moment, a promise was sealed not with words, but with the fire of his intent.
.
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Trapped with the heart that loved him 
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