Chapter 5 The Silent Echoes

A gentle knock broke the stillness.

Scarlett blinked, the warmth of the room, and the cloud of her thoughts shattered like glass. She turned toward the door, her heart picking up pace.

"Knock Knock–Ms. Andrews, dinner is served," the maid's voice called-polite, delicate, humble, practised.

Scarlett stared at the golden door knob for a moment, unsure why it suddenly looked like it led to something far more terrifying than a dining hall.

"Dinner?" she echoed, barely above a whisper. The word tasted like vinegar, strange on her tongue-foreign, not because she hadn't eaten in fine dining halls before, but because this wasn't hers. Nothing in this house was.

"Okay... down in a moment," she finally replied, her voice as steady as she could manage.

As footsteps disappeared down the hallway, she rose from the bed and approached the closet-her closet now, technically. She hesitated before pulling the handle.

Rows of silk, velvet, and lace looked back at her. Every shade imaginable, every size tailored to fit her exactly. Dresses that clung, gowns that glided, even the nightwear whispered of quiet luxury.

She reached for a pale baby pink silk nightwear set with a matching robe-soft, weightless, delicate against her skin. It flowed as she slipped into it, wrapping her in elegance she never thought she'd wear. Her hair, still slightly damp from her shower, she pulled into a high, messy bun. A few strands fell loose, framing her soft diamond face.

Scarlett opened a drawer and found an array of beauty essentials-serums, creams, and glosses. She chose a simple lip moisturizer, then scanned the towering collection of perfumes. She picked a bottle with a soft rose-gold tint, spritzed once behind her ear. The scent was faint-clean, expensive, the kind that didn't beg for attention but held it anyway.

And still, her fingers trembled.

Her reflection in the mirror looked calm, even ethereal. But behind the softness, her thoughts screamed like sirens.

What if he's at dinner?

She swallowed.

Her father's voice echoed in her head, "This is a blessing, Scarlett. Don't ruin it. Embrace it. Challenge It."

But this didn't feel like a blessing.

It felt like a trap with golden bars and diamond cuffs like bracelets around her wrist.

She placed a hand on her chest, trying to quiet her pulse.

No one could know how terrified she was. No one could know that her mind was spinning like a hurricane, her stomach turning like waves against rocks.

So she adjusted her robe belt, lifted her chin, and stepped out of the room-leaving the warmth and solitude behind.

Down the long, marbled corridor she walked, guided by the gentle light of wall sconces and the silence of a home far too large.

Every footstep echoed.

And so did her fear.

The silent echoes were louder than any scream.

The dining hall was an orchestra of wealth-long mahogany table polished to a mirror shine–you could see your reflection, plates with silver edges, crystal glasses tall enough to carry the weight of judgment and command, and chandeliers that echoed with diamonds. The soft hum of classical music floated in the background, as if the house itself had rehearsed for this dinner, rehearsed for her arrival.

Scarlett stood at the entrance, her feet sinking slightly into the rich carpet, the silk robe tied neatly at her waist. Her eyes swept the room-gracefully, carefully. She was searching... not obviously, but deliberately.

Where is he?

Kyle's father-now her father-in-law by seal-wasn't seated. The table looked too large for just one man. But then again, maybe Kyle didn't need an audience to perform.

Kyle Miles sat at the head of the table, wine glass in hand, his suit black as his hair, tailored to sculpted perfection. The lighting above made his aqua-blue eyes darker-like a storm cloud had passed behind them. She could not read his eyes. No one could.

He didn't stand. He didn't offer a greeting. He just watched her, slowly, like a predator admiring the lamb that had walked straight into his den.

Scarlett's chin stayed up, but her stomach dropped.

She made to pull out the seat closest to the opposite end, when Kyle's voice sliced through the air-smooth and sharp like a knife wrapped in velvet.

"If your father had paid attention to finding what's not his...

Scarlett froze mid-motion.

"...like the way you're scanning this room for mine..."

He swirled his wine slowly, his gaze locked on her like a challenge. His Adam apple moved up and down like a conductor, conducting a mass choir.

"...maybe you wouldn't have ended up a purchased parcel." Hahaha–He chuckled softly.

The silence after was louder than thunder.

Her spine stiffened. But she didn't blink.

She sat down-gracefully, defiantly.

Not because she wasn't shattered inside, but because she refused to let him see her crack.

"I wasn't aware your family's menu now includes women," she said quietly, her voice almost too calm. "Or that your father needed help finishing his meals."

For the briefest second, something flickered in Kyle's eyes.

Annoyance? Amusement?

But it was gone before she could place it. He leaned back in his seat, never breaking eye contact.

"You're quick with words for someone sold in autograph," he replied smoothly.

She didn't respond. She picked up her fork instead, her hand steady.

The silence grew again-sharp, thick, tense.

Behind her face of calm, her heart slammed against her ribs.

The taste of shame, fear, and defiance mixed like bitter herbs in her mouth.

But Scarlett Andrews didn't drop her gaze.

Not tonight.

Not when the echoes in this house already tried to swallow her whole.

The food was exquisite-soft lamb cooked in aged wine, creamy mashed potatoes whipped like clouds, and greens so perfectly dressed they almost glistened.

But to Scarlett, it tasted like ashes.

There were no boiling pots clattering on a rusted stove. No steamy blur of hot, bland potatoes. No warm laughter from her brother, no oil-stained apron on her mother's tired figure. This wasn't home-this was theatre. One she hadn't auditioned for.

Kyle's father had left. No footsteps, no goodbye-just vanished like smoke into the night, leaving his son to keep the reins tight.

Scarlett sat at the far end of the long table, her plate still mostly full. Each bite was mechanical. She chewed like someone learning to eat all over again, every movement slow and unsure, as if the food might betray her with every swallow.

Across from her, Kyle sipped from his wine glass, his fingers relaxed around the delicate stem, the deep red of the drink catching the light like blood.

Each tilt of his head sent a ripple down his throat, the rise and fall of his Adam's apple exaggerated by the silence. It moved like the edge of a blade-sharp, cold, deliberate.

Scarlett couldn't help but watch it... not with fascination, but with unease.

That throat had barked commands. Had signed off on decisions that crushed men. Had demanded her name like a thing to be owned.

And now, it swallowed silence in mouthfuls.

The house was too still. Even the bannisters-arched and carved like pieces of art-stood like guards waiting to be told when to breathe. The tension wasn't in the air anymore. It was in her bones.

And her anxiety-

It was eating with her.

Kyle hadn't spoken again since his remark earlier. He didn't need to. His presence filled the room like the thick perfume of authority.

Scarlett stabbed a piece of lamb, barely tasting it. She chewed like worms crawling through rotting vegetables-slow, hesitant, unsure whether to stay or escape.

Not because she was a slow eater.

Not because the food lacked taste.

But because every nerve in her body was screaming.

The silence between them wasn't peaceful.

It was a war.

And Kyle Miles was winning, without lifting a finger.

Suddenly, he stood.

The chair moved backwards with a soft scrape-too polite for how much it startled her. He didn't push the plate away, didn't excuse himself.

He simply said,

"You'll find your schedule on your bedside table. Breakfast is at eight. I don't tolerate lateness."

Then he turned his back and walked away, leaving his half-eaten meal and a room filled with ghosts of unspoken words.

Scarlett sat frozen, fork still in her hand.

She stared at the door he walked through.

And for the first time since she arrived, she wanted to scream.

The moment Scarlett stepped back into her room, the door clicked shut behind her like a final gavel falling in court. She leaned against it, her back pressing against the soft wood, eyes staring into nothing but thoughts. The silence was heavier now, both around her-and within her as well.

The princess room looked the same. Still beautiful. Still grand. A sprinkle of pixie dust. But now, it looked like a royal cage.

She slowly walked across the marble floor, her robe brushing against her ankles like the silent wave of the ocean. Her feet carried her toward the mirror as if in a trance. She stared at her reflection, still soft and flushed from the bath, her hazel eyes slightly swollen from earlier tears. The girl looking back at her didn't feel like her anymore.

She sat at the edge of the bed and whispered, just above the hush of her own breath:

"Wow... and here I thought it was all a dream. The fancy room, the silver reflective plates, the silence, the clap of the diamonds on the chandeliers ..."

"But meeting him at dinner..." she paused, the words heavy, "...and the words he said-made me realise it wasn't."

She sighed.

The walls, though pristine and silk-papered, cracked silently in her mind. Cracks from pressure. From truths. From change. From reality.

And for the first time since she entered the mansion, Scarlett let the bed cradle her completely. She lay down, curling gently to her side.

The pillow smelled faintly of lavender and something unfamiliar-wealth, perhaps. Control.

She closed her eyes.

And slept with her heart still pounding.

~Kyle's POV~

The night hummed low and luxurious in Kyle Miles' wing of the estate.

He sat behind his chestnut desk, hands toying with the cap of a black Montblanc pen. The room smelled of aged leather and sandalwood, like power distilled into air. Like control, just like the sounds of the ocean water kissing the cheeks of the shores. The pages before him were not contracts, not deals. Just thoughts.

Observations.

He glanced at the crystal glass beside him-half-full with the same tequila from dinner. He hadn't finished it. Not because it wasn't good. But because his mind...

was elsewhere.

"She didn't flinch," he scribbled in dark ink.

"She didn't stutter."

"Her eyes scanned the room. Not for safety, but... understanding."

"There's something about her audacity-not one born of rebellion or confidence. But of curiosity."

He paused, tapping the pen against the corner of his lip.

"Scarlett Andrews. The girl with ripped dresses and red-rimmed eyes. Bought like a parcel. Signed with blood and business. Yet she walks like she owns the dignity we took from her."

He capped the pen.

Then, he stood, stepping over to the towering windows that gave him full view of the moonlit garden.

His jaw clenched slightly, but not from anger. From a thought he couldn't quite kill.

The birds outside weren't just chirping-they were harmonizing. Not the rowdy, screeching flocks from Neon Ridge that seemed to fight for their morning spot, but a soft, synchronized melody that almost sounded like a chorus from a luxury commercial.

Even the air seemed curated.

But none of that mattered to Scarlett Andrews, who lay tangled in the million-thread-count sheets, her hair sprawled like a chestnut storm over silk pillows. Her alarm had gone off-twice. But the sleep was too deep, the kind that only comes after days of crying into thin pillows and nights without peace.

She'd slipped under too easily, the body exhausted from carrying burdens her soul couldn't even name.

Suddenly-

Bzzzzzzt–Then the sound of the mower on the lawn of the Miles' estate.

Her eyes cracked open like the first ray of sun after a storm.

She blinked. "Oh my days..." she muttered under her breath, squinting at the bedside clock.

8:45 a.m.

Breakfast: 8:00 a.m. Sharp.

She was 45 minutes late.

Scarlett shot up like a fire had sparked under her, legs tangling in the sheets. "You've got to be kidding me," she whispered, pacing across the marble tiles barefoot.

That's when the knock came-gentle, but firm.

"Ms. Scarlett... Mr. Kyle is waiting downstairs," came the voice of the maid.

Scarlett froze, like someone had just dumped ice water on her back.

Mr. Kyle is waiting?

She didn't know what was worse-keeping him waiting or walking down, looking like she'd just fought a dream and lost.

She stared at the bathroom.

Then, at the closet.

Then, back at the bathroom.

Time was mocking her.

"Self-care or survival?" she muttered, chewing her bottom lip.

Her heart thudded as she grabbed the edge of the nearest vanity and breathed in deeply.

Five seconds in. Five seconds out.

No matter what she chose, Kyle Miles would already be judging her-and she hated that she cared.

She grabbed a pale blue dress-simple, elegant, thankfully wrinkle-free. She threw it on faster than she'd ever gotten dressed in her life. Her hair was twisted into a soft, low bun, fingers shaking as they pinned it. A brush of balm on her lips, a dash of powder under her eyes, and a light mist of whatever bottle looked like it cost more than she did.

She gave herself one final glance in the mirror. The girl in the reflection looked collected. Graceful even.

But inside?

She was anything but.

Scarlett stepped into her flats, heart thumping like the hallway would stretch into her grave.

Then, finally, she placed her hand on the golden handle, twisted it, and stepped into the next storm-because in the Miles Mansion, every silence held a sharp edge.

The dining hall was cavernous-too wide for comfort, too silent for peace. The long table stretched between Scarlett and her fate like a trial runway, and at the far end of it, he sat-Mr. Kyle Miles.

His eyes met hers like a target he didn't miss.

They were sunken, not from sleep or sadness, but from something far more chilling-disappointment laced with disdain. His aqua-blue gaze no longer shimmered like the surface of a beach resort; they churned, cold and calculated, like the sea before a storm.

Scarlett paused at the doorway.

Time didn't just stop-it curled up and held its breath.

For five full minutes, not a sound passed.

The clink of a fork? Absent.

A cough from the butler? Not even that.

The silence was so deep that she could hear the ice shifting in the untouched glass of water beside his plate.

And then-he spoke.

Low. Controlled. Deadly. Cold.

"Now I see why your father was indebted to me..." Kyle's voice could've sliced bone, "...leading to him selling you off like a piece of stolen washed gold."

"Are you all this clumsy... or is it a thing of choice?"

Scarlett swallowed hard, but her throat was dry. Her hands clenched the back of the nearest chair, knuckles pale. The humiliation wasn't loud-it was slow, sharp, and surgical.

She didn't flinch, though her lungs begged her to. Her cheeks burned-not from shame, but from holding back the fire that wanted to rise.

She opened her mouth, unsure what would come out.

The door clicked behind him. No goodbye. No nod. Not even the courtesy of eye contact.

Kyle Miles had vanished down the hall like a shadow that chose when and where to appear.

Scarlett sat there in silence, the bitter aftertaste of the morning lingering far more stubbornly than the food she barely touched. Her hands rested limply on her lap, her posture perfect, but her chest tightened like someone had wrapped rope around her ribs.

Somewhere outside, the sound of heels on marble announced the movement of a maid. A door opened. Closed. Then she heard it-

"Prepare the Chevrolet. I'm headed to the company," Kyle's voice.

Firm. Decisive. A command, not a conversation.

Moments later, the deep purr of the black Dodge Chevrolet roared from the estate's circular drive. Scarlett moved toward the window just enough to catch a glimpse. He stepped into the vehicle without a glance back, his tailored suit swallowing the morning light. The polished leather shoes, the watch, the posture-all screamed one word: Power.

Miles Oil and Gas.

Miles Microfinance Bank.

The empire that had made her family crumble.

The institution her father once walked into for help-and never recovered from.

A lump lodged in her throat.

Scarlett Andrews wasn't naïve. She knew her father had signed something without reading the fine print. She remembered the day her mother cried for hours in the small kitchen at Neon Ridge. Remembered the nights they went to bed with empty pots and colder hopes. Remembered the cracked walls of their home and how they seemed to echo the cracks forming in her life.

But what she hadn't known-what she couldn't have imagined-was that the same man who once greeted her father with a handshake, now owned her like property.

She leaned against the cold windowpane, her breath fogging it slightly.

She wondered if her father was okay if he had food. If her brother was still going to school or if the whispers in Neon Ridge had turned into rumors.

No matter how grand this mansion was, no matter how soft the robes or luxurious the tub-Scarlett still felt like she was in a cage.

And the man who held the key had just driven away.