Chapter 4 The Beautiful Pain

Days passed like molasses-slow, heavy, bitter, sad, depressing.

Scarlett Andrews spent them quietly, numb fingers folding clothes that barely held their seams together. Her small wooden box of belongings sat open on the edge of her bed, barely half full–All her clothes together couldn't fill them, just the way her heart couldn't get filled. A torn sweater. Two dresses with worn-out collars. A pair of flats with the soles separating like tired sighs. Nothing matched. Nothing mattered. She folded anyway because it gave her hands something to do-anything to distract her from the thundering silence of what was coming.

She didn't eat much. Didn't talk. Didn't relate.

Her father stayed in his room mostly. Shame clung to him like a second skin. He avoided her eyes and drowned in an ocean of guilt. Her mother tried to speak once or twice, offering a few broken words about sacrifice and survival, but the words dropped like stones and never reached Scarlett.

And then the car came.

Not just any car.

A Bentley. Glossy Jetblack. Tires so clean, ckeaner than the whole street of Neon Ridge, they looked untouched by the same earth that cracked beneath the Andrews' porch.

It rolled in slow and regal, its chrome details catching the sun like a knife. The neighbors heard it before they saw it-engine purring like a beast with power in its belly. Curtains lifted. Heads turned. Voices whispered.

Scarlett stood by the door already. Dressed in the plainest thing she owned, her hair tied back in a loose knot. Her face was bare-no powder, no gloss, no mask. Just raw truth and hollow eyes. But still revealing her beauty, albeit they were hidden in grief.

She didn't say goodbye.

Not to her mother, who lingered by the stove pretending to scrub a pot that had long gone dry.

Not to her father, who didn't come out to watch her go.

Not even to the neighbour lady who used to braid her hair as a child or the seamstress who made clo without taking much token from them.

But to her little brother-her sweet, wide-eyed brother-she gave a hug. Tight. Lasting. Wordless. She buried her face in his soft, curly hair and let herself feel one last warmth.

He didn't understand what was happening. But he hugged her back with all the strength in his little arms. She felt his tears before she felt her own.

And then she let go.

The driver stepped out, wearing a suit that probably cost more than her father's entire debt. He didn't say a word either-just opened the back door like it was a throne waiting.

Scarlett climbed in without looking back. She didn't have to

The car door shut with a quiet thunk, sealing her fate with it. Sealing her contract of being a parcel.

As the Bentley pulled away from the wreckage she had called home, the whispers began.

"She's going to the Miles estate."

"They say it's an arranged marriage-forced."

"She's paying off the old man's debt."

"But he's so rich..." Why her?"

"They say he's cold. Heartless. Gorgeous. Dangerous."

"They say he sees everything as a means of business transactions"

Scarlett didn't hear them. Or maybe she did, and she just didn't care anymore.

She stared ahead. Jaw clenched. Fingers gripping her box tightly on her lap. The world outside blurred as the slums faded behind her, and wealth rose like a mountain ahead.

The pain didn't show on her face.

But inside-it was a beautiful kind of pain.

The kind that changes you.

Not all at once.

But enough to make sure that the girl who left Neon Ridge would never be the same woman walking into the Miles empire.

The car rode in silence, the kind of silence that settles deep into your bones and makes your heartbeat sound louder than usual. The roads were quiet, almost unnaturally so, like even the wind held its breath for what was coming. Scarlett sat still, her body rigid, her palms resting on the box on her lap like it was the only thing anchoring her to earth.

Her reflection stared back at her from the tinted window-tired eyes, dry lips, a face that still looked too young to carry so much sorrow. But there it was. Grief had aged her overnight. Regret curled into her like a shadow she couldn't shake. Her eyes remained fixed, but her thoughts spun wildly, like a tornado ripping through memories and doubts. Her father's broken voice, her mother's silence, her brother's hug-they all swirled in her head like echoes in a storm.

The driver didn't say a word. Not even a polite "Miss." He didn't ask if she was okay, didn't cough, didn't flinch. His gaze stayed ahead, hands firm on the wheel, like he'd been given strict instructions not to speak unless spoken to.

Scarlett hadn't said a single word either.

And then-it appeared.

The first glimpse was the towering laser-cut gate, rising like something out of a futuristic fairytale. It was tall, black, and gleamed like a polished weapon. Symbols of wealth and power were embedded into the steel itself, subtle but unmistakable.

Beyond the gate...

A mansion?

No-a kingdom.

As the gates swung open with an eerie elegance, the Miles estate revealed itself like a beast stretching after slumber. Acres-no, hectares-of manicured land, paved walkways that twisted like rivers of stone, perfectly sculpted hedges that seemed too pristine to be real.

And there, in the very heart of it all, stood the mansion.

A structure so massive it made Scarlett's breath catch. Built with tall archways, cascading balconies, glinting windows that towered into the sky, it wasn't just a home-it was a statement. One that screamed power, dominance, and ruthlessness.

Right in the centre of the circular driveway, a fountain stood like a throne-white marble, water falling down into spiralling layers with such grace it looked choreographed. Sculptures danced around it, frozen in time, their expressions just as dramatic as the life Scarlett had just been thrown into.

The Bentley glided through the estate like it belonged there, like every stone in the road recognized it.

Men-guards, no doubt-lined the entryway.

Each one dressed immaculately in tailored suits that wrapped around their muscular frames like armour. Earpieces coiled into the back of their ears, wires slipping discreetly under their collars. Their eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses, their arms folded behind them in the kind of posture that didn't ask for respect-it demanded it.

Like statues trained to kill.

Scarlett swallowed.

The car came to a stop after the longest drive of her life. The engine went silent. For a second, all she could hear was the gentle trickle of the fountain and her own unsteady breath.

The driver stepped out without a word and walked to her side. The door opened smoothly, almost reverently, and sunlight poured in, bathing her in light she didn't feel worthy of.

Scarlett blinked up at the house-the empire-that he now owned her.

And as her foot touched the ground, the first thing she felt wasn't fear.

It was the weight of belonging to someone. Not in the romantic sense. But in the cold, signed-on-paper, sealed-by-a-handshake, you-are-now-his-property kind of way.

And that... that was the most beautiful pain of all.

From the topmost wing of the Miles estate, the glass stretched from floor to ceiling-clear as heaven, sharp as judgment. The view it offered wasn't just a display of the lush expanse below; it was a declaration. Anyone who stepped foot through the gates could feel it: they were being watched.

And indeed, they were.

Kyle Miles stood like a statue carved by precision. One hand buried deep in the pocket of his dark slacks, the other holding a sleek glass of aged tequila-the kind that smelled of wood, smoke, and old money. He swirled the amber liquid gently, eyes fixed on the black Bentley that had just come to a stop far below.

"She's arrived," his father said without turning.

The man's voice was gravel wrapped in silk. Rough, but refined. He stood beside his son with a similar glass in hand, years of built empires etched into the lines of his face. Hair silver at the temples, eyes a shade colder than Kyle's-he was the kind of man who taught you how to kill with silence.

"Your parcel has arrived," he added, lips curling faintly.

Kyle didn't move. But something in his jaw shifted.

Then came the chuckle.

Not of love.

Not of admiration.

But of satisfaction. Of ownership. Of power coiled tightly around his spine and thrumming like electricity in his veins.

A woman-another pawn in a long game.

Another seal on a decision he didn't fight because he didn't need to. Control was his air. The kind that suffocated anyone who wasn't born with it.

"She's prettier than I expected," his father said idly, lifting the glass to his lips. "Shame she's from the slums."

Kyle tilted his head, just enough to reveal a quiet, amused smirk. "It's not about where she's from," he replied. "It's about where she's staying now."

The silence between them settled like smoke.

He turned from the glass wall then, walking away from the sunlight that spilt like gold across the marble floors. His steps echoed, slow and deliberate.

No butterflies. No fairytales.

This wasn't a love story.

It was a transaction-and Kyle Miles always collected what was his.

Scarlett stepped out of the car slowly, the soft thud of her worn-out flats meeting the pristine ground of the estate. The wind brushed gently against her face, carrying with it the scent of trimmed roses and distant wealth. She gripped her small box tightly, arms locked like armour, but her head-oh, her head remained high.

Tall, graceful, proud-like a pineapple with a crown.

No tears. No trembling lips. Just a quiet defiance clinging to her bones, even though her heart trembled like glass.

A maid approached-young, dressed in muted elegance, eyes lowered with practised discipline. She offered a soft curtsy and reached for the box in Scarlett's hands.

"I'll take that, miss. Please, follow me."

Scarlett hesitated-just for a second-then nodded once and released the box. Her fingers felt strangely naked without it.

The doors to the mansion creaked open as though sensing her presence, as though royalty had arrived. The moment she stepped inside, the air changed. It grew colder, richer, and quieter. The Miles empire had swallowed her whole.

She walked slowly through the grand hallway, her eyes wide but not naïve. Portraits lined the walls, delicate brushstrokes capturing faces that looked like they'd never known hunger, never felt fear. Art that breathed arrogance. Pieces so rare, she could almost hear the weight of her father's debt in the paint-every canvas could've fed a village. Or paid their dues ten times over.

The marble floor beneath her feet gleamed like glass, smooth and cold, echoing the click of the maid's shoes ahead. Wooden columns stood like soldiers, polished to perfection. The grand staircase unfurled before her like something out of a castle-curved, detailed, dressed in gold-lined bannisters.

Scarlett had seen royalty once, on TV, during a parade for a foreign queen. But this? This was something else.

And then-the maid paused before a tall, pale door trimmed in cream and gold.

She turned the knob gently.

And the door swung open like a scene straight from a fairytale.

Scarlett's breath hitched.

The bedroom was the size of her father's entire house. A canopy bed stood proudly in the center-massive, elegant, swathed in sheer white curtains that floated with the breeze. The comforter looked like clouds had been hand-stitched into velvet. The ceiling above sparkled faintly with a chandelier, each crystal refracting rainbows that danced over the pale walls.

The closet doors, slightly ajar, revealed rows upon rows of neatly arranged garments-gowns, dresses, skirts, suits, shoes in every colour. The spectrum glimmered like a peacock's tail, vibrant and impossible. Brands she'd only ever heard whispered in songs and fashion magazines. Names that cost more than she'd ever owned.

She didn't move for a moment.

She simply stood in the doorway, taking it all in, letting the sweet, painful contrast sink into her skin.

From a cracked room with broken windows to this.

Scarlett Andrews had just stepped into another world.

But no matter how beautiful the cage looked-

she still felt like a prisoner.

The door closed with a hush behind the maid, leaving Scarlett in silence-just her and the room. She stood for a moment, box still clutched in her hand, as if letting go of it meant accepting this was real. The high ceilings stretched above her like sky she could never reach. The chandelier twinkled-not with joy, but judgment. She didn't belong here, and the walls knew it.

She walked slowly to the bed and sank into it. The mattress rose to hold her, soft enough to carry away the burden she wore like skin. But Scarlett didn't feel comfort. She felt tired. Her body rested, but her heart screamed. She lay still, letting the tears come-those quiet, hot tears she packed from Neon Ridge along with her tattered clothes. It was as if her heart had learned a new language: crying in silence, weeping without a sound.

After a while, she stood up, numb and hesitant. Her legs moved before her thoughts could catch up. She found herself in the bathroom-and for a second, she forgot where she was. It was larger than her entire bedroom back home. Marble gleamed under her bare feet. Mirrors lined the walls. A gold-plated showerhead glistened like it had never known a poor man's touch. The bathtub-round, deep, and surrounded by small lights-looked like it was made to hold a queen's sorrow.

She stared at herself in the mirror. Her eyes were puffy, rimmed with the evidence of a girl who didn't ask for this. Her cheeks, once soft with hope, now looked hollow. Her lips trembled.

She began to undress slowly. First her shoes, then the little sweater she had clutched like a lifeline. Her fingers trembled when she reached for the pins in her bun. Loosening them felt like loosening the version of Scarlett that used to exist-the one who still believed her life was hers.

Her soft hair fell across her shoulders. And then the water ran.

It was warm. It curled around her like arms should have. It kissed her spine gently, slid over her curves as if to remind her she was still alive. But even under all the warmth and softness, her tears didn't stop.

She leaned her forehead against the cold marble tile and wailed-a deep, aching wail that came from somewhere buried, somewhere only she knew existed. The sound echoed off the walls, bounced into the silence, but no one heard her.

How could they? The house was so big, so heartless, so used to people crying behind doors with no one to answer.

She screamed again, and then pressed her hand against her lips, as if trying to push the pain back in. Her knees slowly bent under her, and she sat in the middle of the grand tub, water rushing down her back like a waterfall on a broken mountain.

No one knocked. No one asked if she was okay.

And maybe that hurt more than anything.

Scarlett stepped out of the shower slowly, steam curling around her like a ghost she couldn't quite shake. The air outside was cooler, but her skin-now bare, freshly bathed-gleamed under the soft bathroom lights. For the first time in forever, her skin wasn't dull with dust or tiredness. It glowed-as if all the weight she had been carrying had melted, even if only for a moment, down the drain.

She paused in front of the mirror again. This time, she didn't look away.

Her hazel eyes-often hidden behind lowered lashes or downcast glances-now stared back at her with a quiet, startled strength. They shimmered like wet honey under the lights. Her cheeks were flushed, not from crying this time, but from warmth, from life returning. Her lips-soft, natural, a gentle plum shade-looked like fresh cherries, untouched by harsh words or bitter tears.

She had forgotten what she looked like without pain clinging to her.

Her chestnut hair, now unwrapped from its usual bun, fell in damp waves down her back. She lifted it with one hand, marveled at the color, the silkiness, the way it shone when clean. When did I stop seeing myself? she thought.

And her body...

She caught the reflection fully now. Not the girl buried in her father's shame or poverty, but a woman with gentle curves that told stories of softness and strength. Her waist curved inward like poetry; her hips spoke of womanhood. Covered for so long by oversized, tattered dresses, it was like she was seeing herself for the very first time.

She quickly reached for the fluffy white robe laid out neatly on a gold hook. It was thick, luxurious-so soft it could have been made from the fur of a polar bear. She wrapped it around her body and was swallowed by comfort. Her hair she tucked into a white towel with the same gentle grace, her hands finally steady.

As she stepped back into her room, her bare feet padded quietly over the cold marble. The silence was no longer haunting-it was observing. The walls didn't speak, but they watched.

She sat on the edge of the bed, robe tied at the waist, her hands resting in her lap. And for a moment... she just breathed.

No yelling.

No plates crashing.

No cold dinners.

No debt.

No begging.

No shame.

Just her-bathed, clean, glowing... afraid, but whole.

She didn't know what tomorrow would bring. She didn't even know what the night would hold.

But right now, for the first time in forever, Scarlett Andrews didn't feel dirty, or unwanted, or invisible.

She felt like a stranger to herself-yes.

But she also felt new.