The Woman He Was Never Meant To Love

ELENA'S POV

The Brooks family starts their mornings in silence.

Not the gentle, serene type that gives you a sense of security. No. This quiet seems to... hold. It's as if the home itself is holding its breath, anticipating a break.

I get up early every day. before the yelling. Before the lies begin to trickle like oil down the marble stairway. Situated between the washing room and the attic, my room is the smallest in the house. The wallpaper peels no matter how many times I try to glue it down, and it's hot in the summer and chilly in the winter. However, I prefer it that way. I own it.

I gently blink as I sit up in bed. I pretend not to see the bruises from yesterday's "discipline" that still hurt my wrists. I do it every time.

I stand on a cold floor. My stepmother will find another excuse to call me "lazy" during breakfast if I don't fold my blanket neatly. I try to ignore the fact that my eyes seem a little emptier every day as I brush my hair in the mirror, long, black curls that fall past my waist. As if I'm gradually disappearing.

I've mastered the art of quiet movement, to take gentle breaths. to avoid being very noticeable. But none of that helps me today.

"Elena!" My dad's voice echoes like thunder in a glass home from downstairs.

I was tying a ribbon in my hair when my fingers froze.

Once more, here we go.

With my heart racing like a moth was stuck in my throat, I ascended the steps one at a time. His lips are narrow, and his jaw is pinched as he stands in the living room wearing a smart grey suit. She's beside him as usual. Clarisse, my stepmother. Stylish. Gorgeous. Disgusting.

Her smile is poisoned, horribly sweet, and put on like cheap perfume. She stares at me as if she's seeing a cockroach after leaning toward him and whispering something.

Clarisse exclaims, "There she is," in a sugary voice. "The little princess who can't even manage a simple task without making it everyone's problem."

I remain silent. Words just serve to fan the fires, I've discovered.

My dad takes the lead. His eyes are icy, glass-clear, and on the verge of breaking.

He yells, "Is it true?" "You refused to clean up the dining room last night? After everything we've done for you?"

All that you've done for me? I keep my mouth shut even if the thought screams in my chest.

Clarisse lets out a loud sigh. "I offered to help, of course, but she just stared at me. Ungrateful little thing. She thinks she's better than this family."

That was not the case.

I was ill. lightheaded. I was unable to stand at all. However, they are unconcerned. They have never done so.

My father snatches my arm with enough force to cause bruises. I don't recoil-no more.

"You think the world owes you something, don't you?" hisses the man. "You think you can sulk around this house like some tragic orphan? You're nothing, Elena. You're just a burden we keep out of pity."

Even when my lungs get smaller inside my chest, I remain silent. He detests it when I respond. He also detests it when I don't say anything. In this case, there is no correct response. It never is.

I look down and say in a low voice, "I'm sorry, Father."

He laughs. "You will be. You want to sleep in a bed under this roof? Then earn it."

With her aroma as harsh as thorns, Clarisse goes past me. Unkindly, she runs her fingertips over my shoulder.

"There's a dinner tonight," she murmurs. "Important guests. Try not to embarrass us."

Before leaving, Clarisse digs in her fingernails.

With one well-groomed brow raised and lips pursed in practiced disappointment, she moves around the room like a queen examining her servant. Her heels make a deliberate, attention-grabbing click against the floor.

"You know," she says, running a hand over her silk blouse, "you might try smiling when we speak to you. It's not as if we've locked you in a dungeon."

Not in a dungeon. Just a lovely-curtained cage.

My dad is standing aside, but I'm not protected by his quiet. He doesn't talk until it helps his reputation, not mine.

"She'll never learn," Clarisse continues, smirking smugly at him. "Not like Seraphina."

Well, there it is.

The golden name.

The sound of high heels coming down the stairs is like clockwork. Echoing off the walls like the coming of royalty, it was slow and deliberate. Then Seraphina Brooks walks in.

My sister-in-law.

I am not everything.

She moves as if the floor owed her something. Her long, honey-blond hair fell in flawless waves down her shoulders, and she exuded an aura of pricey perfume. She appears like she just stepped off a magazine cover, even in a silk robe and slippers. Given how frequently she is photographed, it's possible that she did. There's always a gala, brunch, or award ceremony for new entrepreneurs who are born wealthy but haven't done anything.

She pretends to yawn and wonders, "Why is everyone yelling this early?" She looks at me as if I were dirt on her shoe. "Oh. Her."

Clarisse smiles. "Good morning, darling."

Without even looking at me, Seraphina kisses her cheek and then Victor's.

Bored, she says, "What did she do now?" "Spill tea on the Persian rugs again?"

Clarisse harshly responds, "She neglected her chores," as if she's proud of it. "Just another reminder of how different she is from you."

At last, Victor Brooks speaks, but it's not a defense. It is an indictment.

He pauses, appalled, and says, "If it weren't for her mother, we wouldn't even know she existed. She should be grateful to be in this house at all."

The words are like stones to me.

It's always like that. There was a hint of humiliation in my name. Not one of us, really. The result of his liaison with the wife of his closest buddy, the daughter of some long-dead scandal. I wasn't meant to occur. I was not meant to remain. But when she passed away, and I had no one left... They took me in.

They make sure I never forget it.

The world is unaware of my existence.

And that's how they like it.

The heiress, however, is Seraphina. The Brooks empire's jewel. perfect grades. numerous interviews. The media refers to it as "the Brooks legacy."

Me? I'm not even a rumor.

By now, the stress ought to have subsided.

Rather, it bends more tightly.

With a languid, feline grace, Seraphina walks across the room, drinking from a glass of imported juice as if it were a precious concoction. She looks at me again, amused and lethargic.

She smirks and purrs, "You're still standing there?" "Shouldn't you be... scrubbing something?"

Clarisse chuckles. "Actually, yes. The back garden is a disaster. The gardener said the storm scattered petals everywhere, and the outdoor chairs are still dirty."

Seraphina's nose creases. "Ugh. It'll ruin my aesthetic if I have to look at that mess from my window."

Victor looks through me rather than at me.

"Well?" he asks sternly. "What are you waiting for? Do something useful for once."

I give a nod.

I only ever do that.

Without saying anything, I turn and walk into the hallway, my feet moving as if they are familiar with the pattern. I'm so tired that my fists shake at my sides, not because I'm angry or even upset. It's like pretending you're not suffocating while inhaling dense fog every day.

Their sounds are still behind me.

"She doesn't even try," Clarisse remarks. "At least when Seraphina walks into a room, she owns it."

"Well, she is a Brooks," Victor remarks.

"I still don't understand why she insists on keeping her hair so long," Seraphina adds, laughing cruelly. "It's so... outdated. Like she's trying to cosplay as tragic royalty."

Like flies swarming at my back, their laughing follows me down the corridor.

Even the morning light feels chilly here, but I force open the garden doors. The wind is gentle but fierce, and the sky is gray. The stone walkways are littered with pools and petals from the previous night's storm, and the wrought iron chairs are overturned with damp leaves clinging to them like lost murmurs.

I used to find refuge in this garden.

It was Seraphina's favorite place before they claimed it.

It's just another cage with nicer walls now.

I go down on my knees next to the rose bush, pick up the fallen petals, and start cleaning. My hands are covered with dirt, and my skirt is soaked with wet grass. I don't draw away even though the thorns sear my fingers.

I sometimes wonder if roses are aware of their sharpness.

I glance up at the mansion. Seraphina's chamber window has a gentle, golden glow. I see her curled up on her bed, most likely reading through her flawless little feed while posing for another photo that she'll fake-deeply caption. The world will applaud her for it.

Nobody gives me praise.

Nobody is even aware that I am here.

Victor Brooks appears to have just one daughter.

Someone who shines.

Someone deserving of his name.

However, the overlooked one? The bastard that his closest friend's wife gave birth to?

That girl is merely a shadow.

I wipe my hands on my skirt and get up, feeling an unidentified pain in my heart.

I'm not envious.

Simply put, I'm sick of being invisible.

Additionally, I'm experiencing an odd sensation that feels like something is approaching-a tug in my bones.

Something significant.

Something chilly.

Additionally, this house... This family...

They'll be sorry they made me invisible.

Sebastian's POV

They believe that silence equates to tranquility.

It doesn't.

Control is what it means.

And control is crucial in this home.

At five in the morning, I get up. sharp. Not because I'd like to, since I was taught to do so. This mansion watches instead of sleeping. The floorboards remember, and the walls have ears. Footsteps are important here. I make mine loud enough to remind them that Ezra Blake still has faith in me to take care of the city's dirt.

I use cold water for my shower. Comfort softens men, not out of any masochistic tendency. And in this family, soft guys pass away quickly.

I dress in black. Always. Not because it's trendy, but rather because it serves as a reminder that, despite the cage's golden exterior, its interior is still made of marble and decay.

The employees vanish like ghosts as I move through the hallways. I don't talk until I have to. Words are money. I also don't waste mine.

At 5:30 a.m., I arrive at the east wing.

The grandfather has already arrived. The Lion, Ezra Blake. He can control a room without speaking. I discovered that at a young age. You've already lost if you need to speak out. The first time I handled a gun, he taught me that. Twelve was my age.

When I reached the mark, he grinned.

When I didn't react after the recoil, his smile got bigger.

Since then, I have obeyed him.

even if it meant losing parts of who I am.

Even when doing so required me to wear velvet gloves and execute commands that made my hands crimson.

My dad is seated across the table, his mouth shut and his eyes lowered. Before Ezra cut his teeth, he was just like me. He is now only a silk-clad shadow.

The dinner table

My aunt and uncle sat like lovely snakes encased in silk and diamonds. They have a family-like smile. However, I am aware of what they would do if given the opportunity. If they believed it would give them power, they would eviscerate me and paint the floor gold.

However, I don't fear them.

The terror is me.

"Your schedule," Eloise says, shoving a folder in my direction as if it were her own. I accept it without looking.

My grandfather nods at me. The only kind of love I will ever receive. That nod is what keeps me alive. It's that twisted.

I have a gun with me. I'm not paranoid.

I've been saved more by it than by trust.

We are referred to as the ideal family. regal. esteemed. filthy wealthy.

We're not a family, though. We are a tooth-based empire.

They send me to bite, too.

This place is devoid of affection.

No coziness.

only obligation.

Just masks.

And there's a part of me that wonders somewhere-behind the marble, the rules, the heavy looks, and the empty dinners:

Is this all that exists?

Will I ever be anything more than this?

Just a lion kept in a cage and instructed to let out a roar?

Because occasionally I feel something I'm not familiar with in the quiet after the blood settles.

Something similar to...

yearning.

Or worse, perhaps.

I hope.

And compared to any weapons I've ever carried, that is significantly riskier.

When I walk into the VIP dining hall, they are already seated.

This isn't breakfast. It's a lunch disguised as a briefing.

Like a crowned shadow, Ezra Blake sits at the head of the table. The deep lines that age attempted to chisel into his face but was unable to complete are highlighted by the dawn light. Like a royal sceptre, his cane is by his side. He doesn't require it, though.

His very presence can paralyze.

I sit down to his right.

Always to his right.

It is comprehended. Without question.

The others glare: Eloise, sipping her bitter tea as if it were pleasant; Charles, my uncle, pretending to read reports while secretly calculating what Ezra would leave behind; and Vance, my father, hiding behind his calm humiliation.

However, Ezra is staring at me.

His voice is still piercing even after all these years. "How's the Blake Holdings acquisition coming along?" he asks.

"Closed it this morning," I respond. "Documents will be signed before noon. That gives us 52% of Vellaro Corp."

He gives his assent by tapping the table once with his fingers.

"And the construction contracts in the west district?"

"Ours," I respond. "They folded after I visited."

He laughs. Dry. Feeling proud.

Now, Charles doesn't even make an effort to conceal his contempt. "How convenient," he murmurs.

Ezra avoids eye contact with him.

"Convenient," he muffles, "is when you inherit things you never earned. Sebastian doesn't get convenience. He earns."

A silence descends upon the table. That one line has such strength that it envelops me like iron. I've been called many things-cold, ruthless, dangerous-but to Ezra, I'm one thing:

deserving.

Everyone is aware of it. That's what consumes them.

"Everything runs through you now," he continues, fully facing me. "You're the head of the main branch. The others report to you. I don't trust anyone else."

I give a single, unreadable nod. However, within?

I am aware that this goes beyond business.

It's a war.

Half of this city is owned by the Blake family. Nobody dares discuss real estate, fashion, foreign exports, or underground investments. We don't manage companies. Our systems are our own. And now they all report to me.

Charles wants to rip that from me.

Eloise attempts to poison with lovely words.

Vance will never be able to reclaim what he envies.

But I was Ezra's choice.

brought me up like a weapon made of blood and gold.

I bear his legacy like a crown and a curse because of this.

"You'll attend the shareholders' gala next week," says Ezra. "They'll want to see your face. Remind them who holds the reins."

"Understood."

"And your guard?"

"Always armed."

His eyes gleam faintly. "Good boy."

I always get that part.

Well done, boy. Like I'm still the kid he taught how to lead, shoot, and fight.

As if I didn't already bear the burden of an empire.

I continue to nod, since I'll accept it. I'll accept any form of love he offers.

even if it results in my death.

ELENA'S POV

The sound of silverware clinking was louder than it ought to have been.

Perhaps because the dining room was so enveloped in silence that if you breathed incorrectly, it felt like it could choke you.

Ten people were seated at the long mahogany table. Golden chandeliers and pricey smiles were reflected on every polished surface. Once again, my stepmother had surpassed herself. glasses made of crystal. imported napkins. Hours ago, the best wine was decanted.

Then there was I.

shifting between them while using shaky fingers to carefully balance a tray. wearing a white apron and a basic black dress. My hair was pulled back into a tidy, uninteresting bun. No jewelry. Not a voice.

Just being there.

similar to the furnishings.

Unaware-or perhaps indifferent-that the girl replenishing their glasses was the daughter of the guy seated at the head of the table, the guests spoke and laughed.

Brooks, Victor.

My dad.

According to biology, that is.

Wearing a navy suit so crisp it might cut skin, he sat straight and calm. My stepmother, Clarrise, was standing next to him, dressed in false grace and red satin. The darling of the Brooks empire, her daughter, was standing opposite them.

Seraphina.

The heir. The ideal one.

The media was only aware of one.

Every item... Each headline... "Victor Brooks's dazzling daughter stuns at gala." Never to me. Never once. He had another daughter, but no one was supposed to know about it. The actual one.

Me.

But tonight, I wasn't a daughter. I had callused hands and was a shadow.

As if on cue, Seraphina tossed her honey-blonde curls and giggled gently. She avoided even glancing at me. She didn't.

Because I was the maid at this house. The key. The error.

"Forgive me, Victor, but... who is she?" a man with gentle eyes and real curiosity said, tilting his head slightly as I walked to serve the guests at the far end of the table.

Quiet.

For a fraction of a breath too long, the globe tilted.

Victor didn't blink at all.

"The maid," he remarked bluntly as he cut his steak without pausing.

Not a name.

No identity.

There's no shame in lying.

Only two words. brutal. Lastly.

It burnt in my throat. Compared to a few seconds previously, the air felt denser. I did not, however, drop the tray. I didn't gasp or speak or cry. I only gave a single nod and turned away.

Because when you're taught that silence equals survival, that's what you do.

The visitors didn't press any further. They resumed their lunch as if nothing had happened. Behind her wine glass, Seraphina grinned. Reaching out, Clarrise tenderly stroked a lock of her daughter's hair.

Additionally, I

I took a position in the corner.

similar to wallpaper.

invisible.

However, my hands?

My hands were trembling.

Something darker than pain started to build inside.

Not anger. Not quite yet.

Just a query.

How much longer will I allow myself to be erased?

The first crack in the night crept into the quiet just as the visitors were leaving.

I was wiping down the last wine glass, the chilled crystal fogging beneath my fingers, when I heard his voice from the hallway.

"Elena," he murmured, just loud enough to reverberate.

"Come to my study. After you're done."

I froze.

I let go of the fabric.

That voice... icy, calm, emotionless. However, it wasn't the voice that made me uneasy. The words were the problem. I was never called by Victor Brooks. Not unless I'd broken some unspoken rule. Not unless another accusation from Clarisse poisoned his ears.

Nevertheless, tonight... He had held out.

I slowly raised my head.

With her arms casually crossed and a soft smile that seemed to have been cut there with a knife, Clarssie stood at the doorway.

"Oh, do be quick, dear," she pleaded. "He doesn't like to wait."

She had a sweet voice. acid with added sweetness.

With her phone in one hand and her eyes fixed on me, Seraphina sat on the edge of the stairs behind her, still wearing her scarlet evening gown. Without blinking. Similar to a predator that is too bored to pursue but too protective to let its prey flee.

I muttered, nodding, "Yes, M-mother."

What more could I possibly say?

After cleaning, my fingers went numb, and my thoughts raced. Each second was more burdensome than the last.

Why right now?

What did she tell him?

What did he want?

I had no idea.

However, I was aware of one thing.

Unless he was reminding me that I shouldn't have been born, he never called for me.

When I arrived at his study, the door was partially open.

The only sources of light were the lamp next to his desk and the fireplace's gentle glow, which cast flickering shadows on the walls covered in bourbon and books. With his fingers clenched and his eyes impenetrable, Victor Brooks sat behind his oak desk like a monument of authority.

The room was cold. You're not welcome. I had been able to swallow that bone-deep cold since I was twelve.

I intervened.

"You called for me, Father?" I said, sounding less confident than I would have liked.

He didn't raise his head. simply pointed to the chair across from him. I took a seat.

There was a long period of stillness.

With her legs crossed and her ruby nails tapping regularly on her wine glass, Clarssie was already seated in the corner like a queen at rest.

Pretending not to listen, Seraphina stood by the hearth, adjusting a hairpin. However, I was aware of this.

Even before they said anything, I could sense the trap closing.

At last, Victor raised his eyes to meet me. "There's been a decision made."

Not a conversation.

Not a discussion.

a choice.

I tightened my fingers in my lap.

"You'll be marrying Sebastian Blake."

Time. halted.

I could hear my heartbeat in my ears. "W-What?"

"Sebastian. Blake," he said again, as though I had misheard. "The engagement will be announced soon."

I gave a blink. Just once. twice. "I-I don't even know him-"

His voice sliced like ice as he said, "You don't need to." "It's not a matter of romance, Elena. It's business."

Clarssie grinned into her glass. "And family duty."

obligation to the family.

Yes.

I wasn't even permitted to leave these confines, so why was I suddenly valuable enough to be exchanged?

With my throat constricted, I muttered, "Why me?" "Why not Seraphina?"

At last, Seraphina turned, a mocking expression of sympathy lighting up her face. "Oh, sweetheart... Blakes aren't gentlemen. They're powerful, dangerous. Sebastian's known to carry a gun to board meetings. He doesn't do delicate."

Like silk, Clarssie's words trailed behind. "We couldn't possibly risk Seraphina with a man like that. She's the face of our family, after all."

My blood became icy.

That was it.

Because I was disposable, they were sending me-the undesired, the hidden, the backup-to marry into a family based on wealth and blood.

So no one would miss me.

Victor bent over. "This union strengthens both families. It gives us political and corporate protection. It places the Brooks name beside theirs-and ensures Seraphina's legacy remains untouched."

I choked, "And what about me?"

Unmoved, he blinked. "You will fulfill your role."

My part.

I'm quiet.

My submission.

My offering.

I got up too quickly. My chair scraped across the marble, loud and jarring.

I began, "I'm not-," but Clarssie stood up as well, cool and collected.

"You are," she remarked as she approached me. Her well-groomed hand lightly touched my shoulder as if I were a young child who didn't yet comprehend the world. "You'll thank us one day. You've been nothing but a shadow, darling. Now you'll belong to something... greater."

Greater?

Or simply another cage?

Victor raised his voice one final time. "The Blakes want the announcement within the month. You'll behave accordingly or suffer the consequences."

Tears filled my eyes, and my heart pounded.

The room blurred for a second.

I was having trouble breathing.

I didn't cry, though. I refrained from screaming. I already knew the answer, so I didn't ask "why" again.

I lowered my gaze to the ground. Despite the burning in my throat, I forced it down.

I also gave a nod.

That was all.

After that, nobody spoke, as they were not required to.

They thought it was finished.

SEBASTIAN'S POV

I liked silence.

The kind that wrapped around my office like armor. No buzzing phones, no whining board members, no small talk-just the weight of power in every ticking second.

From here, the city looked tame. Tiny. Like a toy I could break and rebuild at will.

HIS CABIN

My cabin-if you could even call it that- was less of an office and more of a throne room. Black marble floors. Floor-to-ceiling glass walls. A sleek obsidian desk that held more secrets than files. The scent of leather and quiet dominance in the air.

I didn't let people barge in. Ever.

So when the door opened without a knock, I didn't have to look up to know who it was.

The only man alive who didn't need permission to enter my world.

Ezra Blake.

Grandfather.

"Thought you hated this place," I said, not turning. "Too cold, too modern, too far above your empire of cigars and scotch."

His chuckle was dry. "I still hate it."

"So why are you here?" I asked, still watching the skyline.

The sound of his cane tapped across the marble once, twice, then silence. He didn't answer right away.

When I finally turned to face him, his eyes were already on me. That look-the one that always meant trouble.

"You're getting married."

Just like that.

No warning. No buildup.

I stared at him for a second. Let the words sink in.

He wasn't joking.

"To whom?" I asked, voice flat.

"Elena Brooks."

My brow twitched. The name meant nothing.

"Victor's daughter," he clarified. "The other one."

I remembered Seraphina. The showpiece. The brat is always in the media. But this wasn't her.

"She's quiet. Doesn't speak unless spoken to. Out of the spotlight. A ghost."

A strategic move then. Of course.

"And why her?"

"Because her father owes me. Because she's expendable. And because Seraphina's too soft for this family," he said, eyes sharp. "But most importantly, because I said so."

There it was.

The leash.

I could've refused. I had the power, the name. But I wasn't raised to rebel. I was raised to obey.

If Ezra Blake wanted me to marry a stranger with no voice, no face, and no choice... then I would.

Without flinching.

"Fine," I said simply.

He smiled. "Knew you'd be reasonable."

I didn't smile back.

This wasn't about love. It was business.

But for the first time in a long time, something itched beneath my skin. A whisper in the back of my mind I couldn't shake.

Who the hell is Elena Brooks?

And why the fuck did I feel like this was the beginning of something I wouldn't be able to control?

That Evening - Blake Estate, Private Lounge

"You don't like the wine?"

I leaned back on the velvet couch, legs crossed, one brow raised. The glass of vintage red was untouched in my hand. My stare locked on the man across from me, the new financial advisor Grandfather insisted I meet.

Young. Overconfident. Breathing too loudly.

He'd corrected me earlier. Said I "misread a percentage."

Me.

I hadn't said a word back then. Just smiled.

Now? Now it was my turn.

"I was told this vintage was your favorite," he said nervously, gesturing to the bottle he brought like a peace offering.

I swirled the wine slowly. "It is. Just not when it's served by amateurs."

His smile twitched.

He thought I was joking.

I wasn't.

"You know," I continued, tone smooth like poison in silk, "I always find it fascinating when people try to impress me with money... in my house... while working for me."

He blinked.

I sipped the wine, finally. Let the silence linger. Then I set the glass down as it offended me.

"Do you play chess?" I asked suddenly.

"Uh, yeah. A bit."

"Let's play."

A butler appeared without being called, trained that way. The board was set in under a minute. Marble and gold. Custom, of course.

He moved first.

I watched him struggle with strategy. Saw the way his fingers hesitated before every move. He thought it was about the game.

It wasn't.

Ten minutes in, I already had him cornered.

"I read your credentials," I said casually, as I took his knight. "Impressive on paper. Mediocre in presence."

He flushed. "I-"

"You wore a fake Rolex to a meeting with Blake. If you're going to lie, at least commit."

He stopped mid-move.

I gave him a cold smile. "Checkmate."

I hadn't even looked down at the board.

He stood abruptly, muttering something about getting back to work.

"Leave the bottle," I said, just as he turned. "It's the only good thing you brought tonight."

He left in silence.

I reclined in my chair, swirling the wine again. Didn't take another sip.

It wasn't about the drink. It was about the message.

I don't forgive slights. Not even small ones.

I file them away. One by one. Brick by brick.

Until I have enough to build your ruin.

I didn't move for a moment after he left.

Just listened to the faint sound of his footsteps fading down the hall... and then the front door clicking shut.

Then, slowly, I pulled out my phone.

One tap. One call.

"Kade," I said, voice smooth and deadly.

"Yes, sir?"

"The financial advisor. Freeze his accounts. All of them. I want him to be unable to buy a fucking candy bar without asking his mother for pocket change."

A pause on the other end. Then a chuckle. "Understood."

"And Kade?"

"Yes?"

"Find out where he parked."

Another beat of silence. "...You want the car?"

"No. Just the tires. Slashed, not too deep. I want him to drive a bit first. Let the betrayal sink in before the blowout."

A low whistle. "Anything else, boss?"

"Make sure he finds out it was me," I said, sipping the wine again. "But not through words. Through suffering."

Click.

I leaned back again, satisfied.

See, I don't raise my voice.

I don't throw tantrums.

I destroy you like a gentleman with silence, a smile, and paperwork that makes you choke on your next breath.

Petty?

No, sweetheart.

Strategic cruelty.

And I never waste it on the undeserving.

I stared into the glass in my hand. The wine had gone warm.

Elena.

Her name rolled through my mind like smoke-soft, almost fragile. Like the silk lining of a noose.

I hadn't thought about her again after Grandfather left the office. At least, I pretended not to.

But now?

I couldn't stop thinking.

A marriage. Arranged. Decided.

Like a deal. Like a merger.

Like, I didn't get a say, because I didn't.

And that should've pissed me off. Should've.

But instead... something coiled in my gut. Tight. Heavy. Familiar.

Instinct.

The same one I get before a storm hits.

The same one I felt the night I shot my first bullet and didn't blink.

Something's coming.

Something I can't control.

I've had women before. Beautiful. Dangerous. Clingy. Some are just there for a taste of the Blake name. None stayed. None were allowed to.

Because no one ever meant anything.

But now?

Now I'm being handed a girl whose name tastes like secrets, and whose face I haven't even seen.

And something in me whispers-she's not like the others.

This isn't just marriage.

This is war, dressed in lace.

And I don't know why...

...but I already know-I won't win this one clean.

ELENA'S POV

My hands shook as I picked up the shards of the broken vase I'd knocked over earlier. I hadn't even noticed it falling... not when Father said those words.

Marriage.

Like I was being traded. Like I was a problem he could finally be rid of.

I stared at the blood on my palm, thin lines from the porcelain cuts. But it didn't sting half as much as his voice had.

I'd never even seen the man I was supposed to marry.

And now I was being packaged up like a gift, a problem sent away in silk and silence.

I tried to blink the tears away when the door creaked open without a knock.

Of course.

"Cleaning up after another one of your dramatic meltdowns?" Seraphina's voice slid through the room like oil-smooth, venomous, and impossible to ignore.

I didn't answer. I didn't look at her.

She strutted in anyway, perfume trailing behind her like a warning. Hair curled to perfection. Lips painted in the same shade of red she wore when she wanted attention. She always wanted attention.

"Poor little Elena," she cooed mockingly. "You should be grateful, you know? Father could've sold you off to someone twice his age. But instead, you get a rich, powerful husband. You'll be somebody, finally. Not just the house ghost."

I pressed the glass into the dustbin, hands trembling.

"You're just jealous I'll still be here. The face of the Brookss. The one who actually matters."

She walked behind me, fingers trailing across the top of my dresser, knocking over my only bottle of perfume.

It shattered.

"Oops," she said sweetly.

My jaw clenched.

"You'll love being a wife, Elena. Quiet. Obedient. Pretty little thing locked in a golden cage. Oh wait-" she paused, leaning close to my ear, "you've already been practicing that your whole life."

I flinched. She laughed.

"You should wear something black to the engagement dinner," Seraphina whispered with a smirk. "Might as well mourn your freedom properly."

She walked out without another word.

The silence that followed was louder than her laughter.

I sat down on the floor, knees pulled to my chest, glass still in my hands, and whispered to myself-

"This is just the beginning, isn't it?"