⚠️ Content Notice:
This chapter contains depictions of trauma, and abuse. Reader discretion is advised. If these themes are distressing, please skip this chapter.
The morning sun slanted across the dining room, spilling warm light over polished oak, silver cutlery, and porcelain plates that gleamed like they belonged in a catalog. The table was too long for two people, and Elara sat at one end of it, wrapped in her oversized sweater like a ghost dressed in someone else's skin.
Adrian Vale leaned back in his chair at the opposite end, his coffee untouched, blue eyes fixed on her with the kind of scrutiny that should have made her squirm. But she didn't. She never did. She simply stared at the bread in front of her like it was enough.
"Eat," he said. His tone was firm, clipped. The word was less suggestion, more order.
Her hand moved, slow and steady, to pick up a single piece of plain bread. She tore off a small bite, chewed, and swallowed, her expression unchanged. It was mechanical, not indulgence. Not comfort. Just function.
Adrian's jaw tightened. "That's not food."
Her eyes flicked up to him briefly, then lowered again. "It is."
"No. Bread and water is prison rations, not breakfast." He gestured sharply to the plate the staff had set before her—eggs, toast, fruit, the glass of orange juice he'd demanded earlier. "That is breakfast."
Elara didn't reach for it.
For a long moment the only sound was the faint ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall. Adrian's patience frayed with each second. He wasn't a man used to being ignored, and yet here she sat, composed and detached, as if his orders were nothing more than the wind rustling through the curtains.
Finally, she spoke, her voice quiet but steady. "I can't eat that."
Adrian's gaze sharpened. "Why the hell not?"
Her fingers curled slightly around the crust of bread in her hand. She didn't meet his eyes. "If I eat more than this, my body rejects it."
Adrian stilled.
She said it so simply, so matter-of-fact, like she was talking about the weather. His scowl deepened, though he wasn't sure who it was aimed at—her, for speaking with that infuriating calm, or the ghosts of everyone who had starved her into this reality.
"You're telling me—" He leaned forward, his tone low, dangerous. "You've gone hungry for so long that a normal meal makes you sick?"
She finally looked at him then, and her eyes were empty. No shame, no anger. Just resignation. "It's normal."
Adrian's chair scraped back loudly against the floor as he stood abruptly, hands braced on the edge of the table. "No," he snapped. "It's not normal. Don't you dare call it normal."
Elara blinked at him, unflinching. "Hurting isn't the end of the world."
For a heartbeat, Adrian couldn't breathe.
She had said it so softly, so simply, that it felt like someone had taken a knife and carved it across his chest. Hurting isn't the end of the world. For her, it was life.
He swallowed hard and forced his expression back into the armor he wore so well. "Finish the eggs," he said flatly, sitting down again.
"I'll throw up," she repeated calmly.
"Then throw up." His voice was iron, even though his insides twisted with something he didn't want to name. "And then try again tomorrow. And the day after. Until your body remembers what it means to be fed."
Elara lowered her gaze again, lips parting faintly as though she might argue. But she didn't. She cut off a tiny piece of scrambled egg with her fork and brought it slowly to her mouth.
Adrian watched, unblinking, as she forced herself to chew, to swallow. The food went down with visible effort, her throat working against it like she was swallowing glass.
He hated it. Hated watching her struggle over something so simple. Hated that she had been conditioned into believing survival meant eating scraps.
By the fourth bite her hand trembled faintly. She set the fork down with quiet finality.
Adrian leaned forward. "More."
"I can't."
"Yes, you can." His eyes narrowed. "You're not leaving this table until—"
Her body jerked suddenly. She pressed a hand to her mouth and pushed back from the table, rising with shaky movements. Adrian's eyes widened as she bolted from the room.
He was on his feet instantly.
The sound of retching came from down the hall, muffled but unmistakable.
Adrian strode after her, his chest tight, his steps heavy against the polished floor. He found her in the bathroom, hunched over the sink, one hand braced against porcelain as she coughed and gagged. Tears slid down her cheeks—not from emotion, but from the force of her body rejecting the food.
"Elara," he said, his voice unsteady despite himself.
She rinsed her mouth with water, spat, then wiped her lips with the back of her hand before turning to him. Her eyes were hollow, her expression eerily calm. "I told you."
The words weren't sharp. They weren't meant to wound. They were simply the truth.
Adrian's fists clenched at his sides.
He wanted to rage. To scream. To break something, anything, because how could she stand there so detached, so accepting, after emptying her stomach like that?
But the fury wasn't for her. It was for the world that had done this to her. For the family that had starved her into believing this was survival.
He drew in a slow breath, forcing steel into his voice. "You're still eating again."
Her brows furrowed faintly for the first time, confusion flickering across her features. "Why?"
"Because I said so." His tone was sharp, but not cruel. He stepped closer, close enough to see the pale shadows beneath her eyes, the fragile tremor in her thin wrists. "Because you're not going to keep wasting away under my roof."
Something in her gaze shifted then—not defiance, not rebellion, but something quieter. A flicker of disbelief, maybe. Or the barest spark of... relief?
Adrian didn't press it. He turned sharply on his heel, muttering under his breath as he left the bathroom, "You're seeing a doctor. Today."
By the time Elara settled back into the chair in the dining room, her face pale and her lips tinged red from the water she had rinsed with, Adrian was already pulling out his phone. His voice was clipped, efficient, the kind of tone that brokered no argument.
"Be ready in fifteen," he barked at the driver. "We're going out."
He didn't wait for a response before hanging up.
Elara lowered herself back into the chair, still calm, still quiet, still maddeningly compliant. She folded her hands neatly in her lap. "I don't need a doctor."
Adrian's head snapped toward her, eyes like sharpened steel. "You do."
"I've lived this way for years. Bread and water is enough. I can work like this. I can exist like this."
"Exist?" His voice was low, laced with scorn. "You call this existing?"
Elara didn't answer.
The silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating. Adrian's hands flexed against the back of his chair, his jaw working as if he were grinding words he couldn't say.
Finally, he spoke, his tone like iron: "We're going. End of discussion."
Elara didn't argue further. She only adjusted the sleeves of her oversized sweater, tugging them down over her thin wrists, and nodded faintly.
Adrian studied her for another long moment before turning away, his coat already in his hands.
He jerked his chin toward the door where his car was waiting outside—time for that damn doctor visit he promised earlier.
"Let's go."
By noon, the wardrobe had arrived—bags upon bags, delivered in a flurry of staff too nervous to meet Adrian's eyes. Shirts, pants, underwear, everything in Rae's size.
He didn't wait for her thanks. He just pointed at the bags. "Change."
Rae disappeared into the bathroom. Minutes later, the sound of rustling fabric carried faintly through the door. When she stepped out again, Adrian nearly choked on his coffee.
The shirt she wore was soft cotton, cut to her actual size for the first time. And because of that, there was no hiding. The fabric clung to her chest, the shape of her nipples showing clearly through the thin material.
Adrian cursed under his breath, dragging his gaze away, jaw tight. "For fuck's sake... don't tell me you don't have a bra."
Rae shifted awkwardly, folding her arms across her chest as if that could erase what he'd already seen. "I do... but none fit. I'm still a C. The butler thought I'd be an A because of—" she hesitated, "—because of my weight."
His eye twitched. "They what?" He was already grabbing his phone. "Every size. Deliver them all. Now."
The staff obeyed without question. Within the hour, the bras arrived. Rae vanished into the bathroom again to try them.
When she emerged, adjusting the straps of one that finally fit, Adrian's gaze dragged over her before he forced it away. Proper curves, no longer lost in oversized rags. A body that looked fragile and real all at once.
"At least now," he muttered roughly, "you don't look like a scarecrow."
Rae tugged down her sleeves, quiet, unreadable.
Adrian stood, snatching up his coat, voice clipped. "We're leaving."
Her brows furrowed faintly. "Doctor?"
"Doctor," he confirmed, tone iron. He gestured toward the door, his patience worn thin. "And don't argue. You're not wasting away another day under my roof."
Rae followed, silent as ever, as she trailed after him.