Chapter 2 The Weight of Gold and Expectations

The grand staircase of Ashford Manor felt less like a focal point of a home and more like gallows.

As I descended, the heavy silk of my skirts hissed against the stone stairs, a sound like a thousand angry whispers. Each step was a battle. My new body was lighter than I was used to, my center of gravity shifted by the absence of broad shoulders and the presence of a corset that felt like a cage of whalebone and spite. It forced me into a posture of forced elegance, my spine a rigid line, my breathing shallow.

But as I reached the landing, the internal monologue of the man who had died in the rain did not waver. Adapt, I told myself. In the warehouse, you learned the rhythm of the machines to keep from losing a finger. Here, the machines are made of flesh and titles. Learn the rhythm, or get crushed.

I caught a glimpse of myself in a floor to ceiling mirror at the base of the stairs. My black hair was striking, almost unnatural in its depth and the honey brown eyes looked back with a sharpness that Lady Elowen had never possessed. She had been a ghost in her own home. I was a trespasser in her skin.

"There she is," a voice drawled.

Standing in the center of the foyer was Count Ashford. He was a man who wore his desperation as poorly as he wore his velvet doublet. His face was etched with the fine lines of a gambler who had seen too many 'final' hands. To his left stood my 'mother,' a woman whose face was a mask of powder so thick it threatened to crack if she showed a glimmer of genuine emotion.

"Keep your eyes down, Elowen," my mother hissed, adjusting a stray lock of my hair with a sharp tug. "And for heaven's sake, try to look grateful. Do you have any idea what the Duke's deposit has already done for our creditors?"

"I have an inkling," I said, my voice smooth and cooler than they expected.

My father's head snapped toward me. He did not like the tone. He liked the Elowen who looked at the floor and apologized for existing. "Watch yourself, girl. You are the bridge that keeps this family from the workhouse. If you collapse, we all go under."

"Then perhaps you should have built a stronger bridge," I replied.

I saw the impulse flare in his eyes and before he could strike, the massive oak doors of the manor were thrown open.

The air that rushed in was cold, smelling of pine and horseflesh. Framed against the morning light was a silhouette that seemed to swallow the room.

Duke Alaric Ravenshollow did not walk into a room; he claimed it. He was tall, broader in the shoulders than the foppish lords I would glimpse in Elowen's fragmented memories. His hair was a dark, messy chestnut, and his eyes were a piercing, stormy grey that seemed to be weighing the very soul of everyone in the room. He wore a traveling cloak of heavy black wool pinned with a silver raven, the sigil of his house. Had I not been a woman now, I would have died of mortification for looking at a man like that.

The Count bowed so low I thought his spine might finally snap. My mother curtsied, her knees trembling. I stood my ground. I did not bow immediately. I watched him.

Alaric's gaze moved past my father, ignored my mother, and settled directly on me. There was no lust in his eyes, nor was there the dismissive boredom I had expected. There was a calculation. He was looking at me the way a general looks at a map of contested territory.

"Lady Elowen," he said. His voice was a deep baritone that vibrated in my chest.

"Your Grace," I replied. I dipped into a curtsy, not the deep, submissive plunge my mother had practiced with me, but a controlled, respectful nod of the body.

He stepped closer. The scent of him hit me: leather, cedarwood, and the metallic tang of rain. Up close, I could see a thin, jagged scar running along his jawline, a mark of someone who had seen more than just court ballrooms.

"You look different than the portrait your father sent," Alaric remarked, his eyes searching mine. "In the painting, you looked... fragile."

"Paintings are often commissioned to show what the buyer wants to see, Your Grace," I said, meeting his stormy gaze head-on. "The reality is rarely so delicate."

A flicker of something, amusement? surprise? passed over his face. Behind me, I heard my father let out a strangled wheeze of terror at my boldness.

"Is that so?" Alaric asked, his voice dropping an octave. He reached out, his gloved hand tilting my chin upward. His touch was not cruel, but it was possessive. "And what does the reality show, I wonder?"

"A survivor," I whispered, the word meant only for him.

He held my gaze for a long moment, long enough for the silence in the foyer to become deafening. Then, he turned to my father.

"The girl will do," Alaric said, his tone turning clinical, like a man confirming the delivery of a shipment. "My men will load her trunks. We depart for Ravenshollow in an hour. I have no desire to spend another night in this... decaying house."

My father did not care about the insult; he only cared about the "The girl will do." He began babbling about tea and refreshments, but the Duke ignored him, turning back to me.

"Go," Alaric commanded. "Say your goodbyes, Lady Elowen. You won't be seeing this place again."

I turned to leave, but as I reached the stairs, I heard Alaric's voice one more time, speaking to my father in a low, dangerous snarl.

"If I find out you have lied to me about her temperament, Ashford, the debt will be the least of your concerns."

I hurried up the stairs, my heart hammering against my ribs. I had survived the first encounter, but the Duke was not a fool. He knew something was off. He had bought a lamb, and he was starting to realize he might have brought home a wolf in silk clothing.

As I entered my room to pack the few things that were truly mine, I saw a small, crumpled note hidden under my jewellery box. It was in Elowen's shaky handwriting, likely written days before I arrived.

Help me. He is going to kill me. He is not a man; he is a monster.

I stared at the note, the ink blurred by what looked like old teardrops. The 'monster' the original Elowen feared was now my husband-to-be.

I crumpled the paper and threw it into the dying embers of the fireplace.

"Sorry, Elowen," I muttered, watching the paper curl and blacken. "But monsters do not scare me. I've worked for worse."

I walked toward the window and watched the Duke's men-at-arms preparing the carriage. I was leaving the only 'safety' I knew for a fortress in the north, tied to a man who looked like he could break me with one hand.

But as I looked at the silver raven on the carriage door, a thought occurred to me. Ravens were scavengers. They thrived on the leftovers of the dead. And I was very good at making something out of nothing.

As Elowen steps into the carriage, she notices a hidden compartment beneath the seat containing a bloodstained ledger and the names inside are all members of the Ashford family. What was the Duke's true reason for buying her?