The satin gown shimmered under the soft golden light as Lucia zipped it up slowly, careful not to snag Amelia's skin. The emerald fabric clung to her body like it had been made just for her tight at the waist, soft over the hips, dipping just low enough at the back to draw eyes.
"You look like a queen," Lucia whispered, stepping back with pride.
Amelia studied herself in the mirror, unsure if she was admiring a reflection or staring at a stranger. The woman looking back wore elegance like armor. But beneath the smooth skin, her pulse throbbed with dread.
"I feel like a prized possession," she murmured, adjusting the neckline slightly.
Lucia grinned. "That's the point. You're about to meet the family. This isn't just dinner, it's your coronation."
Amelia arched a brow. "Coronation for a throne I didn't ask for."
"You didn't ask," Lucia said softly, "but you walked into it. So own it. No one in that dining room gets to see you small."
Amelia hesitated. Then nodded.
Lucia gently applied a dab of rose lip tint to her mouth, brushed a few curls back into place, then stood back with a proud sigh.
"I'll go fetch the necklace Mrs. Whitmore set aside the one with the emerald drops. It'll match your dress perfectly," she said, already halfway to the door. "Do not move."
"Do you think I'm going to run away in heels?" Amelia called out, but Lucia was gone.
The room fell silent again. Too silent.
Amelia walked over to the vanity, slipping off the heels for a moment to give her aching feet a break. The gown was heavy and luxurious, but stifling. She unzipped the back and stepped out of it carefully, draping it across the chaise lounge. The robe she had discarded earlier still sat beside the mirror.
She slipped into it quickly and tied it around her waist, but before she could fully adjust it, the bedroom door creaked open behind her.
She turned, startled.
Richard Blackwell stood in the doorway, framed by warm light from the hallway. He paused. His breath visibly caught.
Amelia froze.
They both stood still, two statues made of heat and tension.
The robe she wore was thin, barely shielding her body. The mirror behind her betrayed every curve, her collarbones, her back, the slope of her thighs.
His eyes dropped for only a second. Then returned to her face.
"I didn't knock," he said finally, voice low and husky. "I should have."
"You should leave," she said, but her voice wavered.
He stepped in, slowly, gently closing the door behind him. It clicked softly.
"I wanted to speak to you before the dinner," he said, voice calm, but tight. "I wasn't expecting…"
He stopped. His gaze drifted again.
Amelia wrapped her arms around her body. "You're making this worse."
His footsteps carried him closer.
"I've seen a lot of beauty, Amelia," he said. "But this… this is different."
"Don't," she whispered.
He stopped just a breath away from her.
There was no cruelty in his eyes. No arrogance. Only longing. Controlled. Burning.
He reached up slowly and brushed her hair back from her shoulder.
"You don't have to fear me," he said softly. "No one in this house wants to hurt you."
She wanted to believe him.
But her skin burned beneath his fingertips.
His hand lingered at her jawline, his thumb brushing over the corner of her mouth like he was memorizing it. And for a moment, she felt herself sway toward him, not away.
A sharp knock broke the moment like glass.
"Amelia?" Lucia's voice called from behind the door. "I've got the necklace!"
Richard exhaled quietly and stepped back. "You look stunning," he murmured before slipping out through the opposite door.
Lucia entered a second later, her eyes darting suspiciously.
Amelia quickly busied herself with putting the dress back on.
Lucia narrowed her eyes. "He was here, wasn't he?"
Amelia didn't answer. She didn't have to.
The dining hall gleamed like something out of a royal film. Candlelight flickered across crystal glasses and silver cutlery. The long table sat beneath a massive chandelier, casting a soft glow over polished wood and soft linen.
There were only seven seats.
At the head sat Richard, flanked by his parents, Christopher and Eleanor Blackwell. The remaining seats were taken by his older sister Camilla, his younger brother Daniel, and an empty chair beside Richard… for her.
When Amelia entered with Lucia trailing behind, every conversation died.
She walked with slow, careful grace, her face calm but her stomach in knots.
Richard rose as she approached and extended a hand.
She placed hers in his.
"Welcome, Miss Fernado," Eleanor said, offering a smile that was elegant but unreadable.
"Thank you, Mrs. Blackwell," Amelia said.
"Please," Christopher added, gesturing to the table. "Sit. You're family now."
The word family tasted strange on her tongue. But she obeyed, settling beside Richard, who didn't speak but quietly poured her a glass of wine.
For a few moments, dinner passed in awkward silence. Silver clinking. Polite glances.
Then Eleanor leaned forward, her voice warm but poised. "We'd love to know more about you, Amelia. What brought you to this path?"
Amelia blinked. She wasn't sure if they wanted the polite version or the truth.
But she gave them the truth.
"My parents died when I was sixteen. A car crash. After that, I lived with my aunt and uncle. I helped raise my cousin. I worked two jobs through college. We struggled. A lot."
She took a slow sip of wine.
"I didn't grow up with wealth. Or power. I never thought I'd step into a family like this. But I'm not ungrateful."
Camilla's expression softened slightly. Daniel nodded in respect.
Eleanor tilted her head. "That strength… it's admirable. You've faced hardship, and you didn't break."
"No," Amelia said quietly. "I bent. But I didn't break."
Richard looked at her for the first time during the meal. And in his eyes, there was no judgment, just something deeper. Respect, maybe. Or awe.
"Do you miss them?" Camilla asked gently.
"My parents?" Amelia nodded. "Every day."
The room went still for a moment. Even the candlelight seemed to hold its breath.
"Well," Christopher said, clearing his throat, "they'd be proud of the woman you've become."
Amelia offered a small smile, but her hands trembled under the table.
She didn't belong here. Not really. But she was here. And she would endure it.
Not for the money.
Not for the title.
For herself.
To prove she could survive anything, even this family.
Even Richard Blackwell.