A knock came through. The knock on my door was feather-light, hesitant, as though the person on the other side feared disturbing me. When I opened it, a young woman stood there, dark hair tied neatly, eyes gentle. She smiled faintly, a kindness I hadn't seen since stepping inside.there with her hands clasped politely in front of her apron.
"Good evening, Mrs. Veyron," she said politely.
"Elena," I corrected quickly, almost pleading. "Please. Just call me Elena."
Her lips twitched, almost a smile. "If you prefer. I'm Clara. I'll be helping you settle in."
There was something in her voice — soft, careful, kind. She stepped inside, moving with a kind of lightness that kept her from disturbing the air around her. Unlike Mrs. Davenport's rigid edges, Clara radiated quiet warmth. She didn't feel like a servant. She felt like someone who had learned to survive here by being soft where others were sharp.
Then she crossed to the wardrobe, pulling the doors open to reveal dresses already hung inside. She brushed her hand over the fabric before choosing a deep green dress and laying it carefully on the bed.
"This one would suit you nicely," she said, her tone conversational, like a friend offering advice before a party. "Mr. Veyron prefers subtle colors at dinner. Nothing too flashy, but always refined."
I blinked at her. "He… has preferences for colors?"
She laughed lightly, not unkindly. "He has preferences for everything. But don't let it worry you too much — as long as you're on time and presentable, that's what matters."
As she helped me into the dress, she chatted easily, her voice warm and unhurried. "Dinner is usually quiet. He doesn't like interruptions when he eats. Keep your phone away from the table — not that you'd need it anyway, there's barely any signal here." She gave me a quick grin, as if trying to lighten the rules with humor. "And he notices details. Always. If you move your fork to the wrong side, he won't say anything, but he'll notice. Best to follow his lead."
I frowned slightly in the mirror. "Sounds like there's a long list of rules."
Clara adjusted the dress at my shoulder, smoothing the fabric with careful fingers. "Not rules. More like… habits. This house runs on routine. Once you know it, it won't feel so strange."
Her tone was so calm, so practical, that the words settled like advice from an older sister. I found myself leaning into her guidance, even if I didn't want to admit it.
She went on, her hands now braiding my hair loosely. "Breakfast is usually early. He's up before the sun. He spends mornings in the study, afternoons at the office, evenings here if he's not traveling. He doesn't like noise in the halls late at night. And…" Her smile softened. "He actually likes when people read. If you want to spend time in the library, you'll find he doesn't mind."
I met her eyes in the mirror. "How do you know all this?"
She shrugged lightly, a playful glimmer in her gaze. "I've been here long enough. Think of me as your guidebook. If you're ever unsure, just ask me. That's what I'm here for."
For the first time since stepping into this house, I felt a sliver of relief. Clara wasn't just a maid. She was someone I could trust — someone who understood how to live in Alexander Veyron's world without losing hers
----
In the dinning hall, Alexander was already seated at the head. Not at the far end, but close enough that the distance between us felt deliberate yet not impassable.
I sat across from him, my movements stiff, every sense heightened.
Dinner was served in simple courses — soup, roast chicken with vegetables, fresh bread. Comfort food, plated beautifully. I realized with a jolt that this meal could have belonged in my parents' home if not for the faintly expensive touches.
But Alexander's presence made the air thick. He ate in silence, his movements calm, precise.
I forced myself to pick up my fork. The food was delicious, but it tasted of nerves.
Finally, I spoke. My voice was soft but steady. "Why me?"
His knife stilled. He looked up, meeting my eyes with that storm-gray intensity. "Why you what?"
"Why me as your wife? You could have chosen someone who belongs here. Someone who knows this world."
He leaned back slightly, studying me like I was another course on the table. "I didn't choose you because you fit. I chose you because you mattered."
"Mattered how?" I pushed.
His gaze sharpened, but his voice stayed even. "Because this arrangement benefits us both. Don't mistake comfort for choice."
I gripped my fork tighter. "I'm not sure comfort is what I feel."
A flicker crossed his face, gone too fast to catch. "In time, you will learn."
The way he said it sent a chill through me, even as the warmth of the room pressed close...
---
After Dinner
When the plates were cleared and the silence of the house settled heavy again, I rose from the table with my chest tight. He had left already, his presence lingering like the faint trace of cedar in the air.
Clara appeared quietly to guide me back, her steps soundless on the soft rugs. She offered to help me change, but I shook my head, needing space. She bowed slightly, her gaze flicking with unspoken sympathy, before leaving me at my door.
Inside, the guest room glowed softly under lamplight. The bed looked untouched, perfect. Too perfect. I sat on its edge, fingers knotting the quilt. The dress clung to me uncomfortably now, like a costume I hadn't asked to wear.
I crossed to the window, pushing the curtain aside. The garden stretched in neat lines, lanterns glowing like fireflies over trimmed hedges and stone paths. It was beautiful. Serene. And yet, behind the gates I couldn't see from here, the world I knew was locked away.
My reflection stared back at me in the glass — pale, uncertain, a stranger wearing my skin.
I whispered my own name, just to remind myself. "Elena."
But the walls didn't echo it back.
I thought of Alexander's words — necessary. As though I was a piece on his chessboard, not a woman with her own pulse, her own heart. I wondered what he truly wanted, what role I was meant to play beyond the paper I'd signed.
The cozy warmth of the house pressed around me, but it wasn't comfort. It was a cage padded with silk.
When I finally lay down, the quiet pressed too close. Every creak in the floorboards, every sigh of the night wind outside, felt like the house reminding me I didn't belong.
And as sleep pulled me under, the last thought that clung to me was a truth I couldn't escape.
I was not Elena Marcellus anymore.
I was the wife in his house.
And that house, no matter how warm it looked, would never be mine.....