Chapter 5 A Prison Without Bars

Chapter 5

The silence of her room pressed in like a second skin. Aurora sat on the edge of her bed, hands folded tightly in her lap, as if gripping herself was the only way to keep from breaking apart.

That dinner had been... strange.

Not warm. Not kind. But not cold either.

Lucien had barely looked at her, but he hadn't insulted her either. His voice had been low and unreadable as he asked her to sit, and they ate with silver clinking softly between them. For one second, she'd thought... maybe he was finally seeing her.

But that hope was a foolish thing. A child's wish in a grown woman's nightmare.

The next morning, it became clear just how wrong she was.

"Clean this up."

The voice of one of the maids snapped her out of her thoughts. Aurora turned slowly, only to see a tray shoved into her hands - one piled high with crumbs, half-eaten food, and spilled wine.

"I'm not done with the floor," Aurora said quietly, gesturing to the bucket by her side.

The maid rolled her eyes. "Then move faster. This isn't your father's company anymore, princess."

The others laughed. Aurora didn't.

She bent down again, her back aching from hours of scrubbing, her hands wrinkled from water that had long gone cold.

Lucien didn't stop it.

In fact, he had ordered it.

Later that evening, as she was carrying laundry up the stairs, a sharp voice made her freeze.

"Still pretending to be the lady of the house?"

Aurora turned to see Inés, one of the older maids, glaring at her from the hallway. "You're just another servant now. Except no one here respects you."

Aurora opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. What could she say? That she was his wife? That the pain in her chest every time Lucien passed her like a ghost was starting to feel normal?

Instead, she just nodded and turned away. Her eyes burned, but she wouldn't cry. Not where they could see.

That night, she lay curled up on the edge of her bed - not because it was small, but because the other half still carried his scent from that one night they'd shared. A memory that refused to fade.

Her stomach growled quietly. She hadn't eaten since the bread crusts they gave her for lunch.

"You're not his equal," Inés had hissed. "You're just a pretty doll his grandfather forced into the box."

And Lucien? He didn't argue.