The first nights at Thorne Manor bled into one another like spilled ink, black and endless. There was no rhythm to the days, no sense of time beyond the chiming of the grandfather clock in the entrance hall. Elara and I drifted through the rooms like ghosts, two unwanted ornaments in a mansion too large for its own silence.
Despite myself, I began to lean on her presence. She was gentle where I was sharp, hopeful where I was skeptical. At breakfast, she filled the silence with stories of her childhood—gardens behind her parents' townhouse, the way she used to braid flowers into her hair. I listened, always half-wondering why someone so delicate had been placed in the hands of Anthony Thorne.
One morning, a maid brought us gowns—silks of emerald and sapphire, trimmed with lace and pearls. Elara twirled before the mirror, laughing shyly at the way the skirts flared. She pressed a dress of deep burgundy into my arms.
"Try it," she insisted.
I obeyed, though I knew how plain I looked beside her. Still, when I caught my reflection in the tall mirror, I almost startled. The gown clung to me differently than my modest dresses had—like a second skin, daring me to stand taller, to believe for one moment that I could be someone more than a pawn sent to a stranger's house.
The butler Halden appeared not long after, his silver hair gleaming under the light of the chandeliers. His sharp eyes took in our gowns, our laughter, and I thought I saw disapproval flicker in his gaze.
"Ladies," he intoned, bowing just enough to remind us he was not truly ours to command, "there are parts of this manor you must never enter. The west wing is strictly forbidden. The master's private quarters are not to be approached under any circumstance."
Elara's face paled, but she said nothing.
I tilted my chin. "And if we wander by accident?"
His expression tightened, though his tone remained smooth. "You will not. The house has ways of reminding you where you do not belong."
The words lingered long after he was gone.
That afternoon, Elara led me into the gardens—if they could even be called gardens. They stretched for acres, a maze of hedges and stone fountains whose water had long since gone dry. Statues of angels stood weather-worn and broken, their wings chipped, their eyes hollow.
"It's beautiful," Elara whispered, touching the moss that crept along a marble bench.
"Beautiful in the way a graveyard is beautiful," I murmured.
She gave me a reproachful glance, but she did not disagree.
We wandered deeper until we found a rosebush heavy with blooms, their petals dark as spilled wine. Elara plucked one carefully, cradling it in her palm.
"My mother told me roses are for brides," she said softly. "Red for passion, white for purity, pink for joy. I wonder what black roses mean."
"They mean we should be afraid," I said before I could stop myself.
Her smile faded, and she tucked the rose behind her ear as though to prove me wrong.
That evening, whispers moved like a current through the halls. Servants scurried faster than usual, polishing silver, arranging flowers, carrying trays heavy with crystal goblets and wine.
"What's happening?" I asked one of the maids. She only bowed her head and hurried past.
It was Elara who finally coaxed an answer from a kitchen girl.
"The ceremony," the girl breathed, her eyes wide. "Tonight. In honor of the master's return."
Elara and I exchanged a glance, the air between us sharp with unspoken dread.
The ballroom was transformed by nightfall. Chandeliers blazed with a hundred candles. Musicians tuned their instruments in the corner. Guests began to arrive—men in fine coats, women glittering with jewels, their voices echoing through the vaulted chamber. I recognized none of them, yet they all carried the same air of reverence, of expectation.
Elara stood beside me in a gown of pale silver, her golden hair gleaming like sunlight. I wore the burgundy dress again, though it felt heavier now, as if soaked in unseen weight.
We were placed at the front, where every eye could fall upon us. Brides displayed for a man who had not yet appeared.
And then the music ceased.
The air shifted, heavy and electric, as the great doors opened.
A figure entered, tall enough to eclipse the crowd, his presence swallowing the room whole. He wore black, every line of his suit sharp, tailored with precision. His hair was dark as midnight, his eyes a stormy gray that seemed to pierce the very air.
Anthony Thorne.
For one terrible, breathtaking moment, the sight of him stole the breath from my lungs. He was handsome in a way that hurt, in a way that carved through reason and left only silence. His beauty was a weapon, and everyone in the room seemed to feel the edge of it.
Elara trembled beside me, her lips parting as though to whisper a prayer.
I straightened, forcing my shoulders back. Surely now, he would look at me—at us—his chosen brides. Surely he would acknowledge the women forced into his service.
But his gaze swept past me as though I were air. He did not pause, did not linger. He did not even see me.
He walked past us, past the crowd, to the center of the hall. With a voice like steel, he began to speak. Words of command, of power, of loyalty owed. The guests leaned forward, drinking in every syllable.
I heard none of it. My ears burned with the silence of his dismissal. I might as well have been a shadow, and perhaps that was all I was to him.
Beside me, Elara clutched her hands so tightly her knuckles whitened. I wondered if she felt the same sting, or if she was simply too afraid to move.
The ceremony stretched on—music, wine, speeches—but I could not stay still. His presence suffocated me, the weight of his indifference crushing.
I slipped quietly into the corridor, the sounds of celebration fading behind me. The mansion's silence wrapped around me again, cool and endless.
That was when I heard it.
Two voices, hushed, drifting from a narrow passage nearby. I crept closer, the shadows thick around me.
"…It is that day," one voice murmured. "Prepare her for the master's first night."
My blood turned to ice.
Her. The word echoed, sinking claws into my chest. They meant me. They had to mean me.
Heart hammering, I stumbled back toward the ballroom, my breath ragged. The celebration still thundered on, laughter and music filling the air. But when I reached the place where Elara had been standing—her chair, her place at my side—
She was gone.