The rain had stopped, but the city streets were still slick, reflecting the glow of passing headlights. Elena sat stiffly in the back seat of the sleek car that Adrian had sent, her gaze fixed on the blur of neon lights beyond the window.
Her thoughts churned. She had spent the morning at the museum, hands steady as she worked on a cracked Renaissance portrait, but her mind had been far from steady. Every careful brushstroke had only reminded her of her father's thin smile, of the bills that no longer haunted her but chained her to Adrian Blackwood.
Now, as the car wound its way out of the city, she hugged her bag closer and tried not to imagine what awaited her at the end of the road.
The driver said nothing. The silence pressed down on her, heavy as the clouds overhead.
By the time the car turned onto a long gravel drive, Elena's stomach was a knot.
The Blackwood Manor rose from the darkness like something from a gothic painting — vast, cold, intimidating. Stone walls towered above, ivy creeping up like grasping fingers. The iron gates creaked shut behind them, and Elena shivered.
The car stopped at the grand entrance. Grace was waiting beneath the portico, her umbrella neat and precise.
"Miss Rivera," she greeted, her tone soft but firm. "Welcome."
Elena stepped out, her heels crunching on the gravel. She tilted her head back, staring at the looming mansion. "This looks more like a mausoleum than a home."
Grace's lips curved faintly. "The Blackwoods don't decorate for warmth."
Inside, the manor was worse — high ceilings, dark wood, chandeliers that glittered but didn't quite light the endless halls. Portraits of stern ancestors stared down from the walls, their painted eyes following her every step.
The staff lined up along the grand staircase, their heads bowed. Elena felt their stares even though no one dared meet her gaze.
And then came the voice she already despised.
"Well, well," Marcus drawled from the banister above. "The pauper bride arrives."
Elena's head snapped up. Marcus leaned lazily against the railing, grinning like the devil himself. "You must feel like Cinderella, dear. Except in this version, the prince kills his princess."
A ripple of uneasy laughter passed among the staff. Elena's cheeks burned, but she lifted her chin. "Better a pauper than a parasite."
The staff gasped softly.
Marcus's grin widened. "Oh, you've got fire. I like that."
"Enough."
The single word silenced the hall. Adrian appeared at the top of the staircase, his presence commanding without effort. He descended slowly, his gaze locked on Elena, though his words were for Marcus.
"Leave."
Marcus spread his hands innocently. "Just welcoming the bride."
"Now," Adrian snapped.
Marcus smirked and strolled away, but not before whispering loudly enough for everyone to hear: "Careful, sweetheart. Chains are heavier than they look."
Elena clenched her fists, resisting the urge to throw her shoe at him.
Adrian reached the bottom step, his expression unreadable. "Follow me."
---
He led her into a study lined with bookshelves and lit by the crackle of a fireplace. The scent of leather and smoke hung in the air. He poured himself a drink, his movements unhurried, controlled.
Elena stood with her arms crossed, refusing to sit. "Why me, Adrian? Out of all the women in this city, why drag me into this?"
His gray eyes lifted to hers, cold as winter steel. "Because I decided it."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one you'll get."
Her stomach twisted. "So I'm just convenient for you? A name on a paper?"
"Convenience," he said, swirling the whiskey in his glass, "is underrated."
Elena's jaw dropped. "You're unbelievable."
He sipped his drink, unbothered. "And yet here you are."
Her chest ached with rage and helplessness. "You could have anyone — heiresses, celebrities, women who'd kill for your attention. But you…" She shook her head. "You chose me. Why?"
Adrian's gaze lingered on her for a heartbeat, but whatever thought crossed his mind, he buried it quickly. He set the glass down.
"Go upstairs," he said curtly. "Grace will show you your room."
Her hands trembled with frustration. "You're a coward."
His eyes sharpened, but his voice remained calm. "I'm a realist. Learn the difference."
---
Hours later, Elena wandered the manor's halls, unable to sleep. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the creak of old wood beneath her steps.
She paused before a massive portrait in the corridor — a woman in a dark gown, her face pale, eyes piercing. Cracks marred the canvas, as if time had tried to erase her.
Elena's fingers itched to restore it, to trace the faded lines, to bring life back to the painted ghost.
The lights flickered.
Her breath caught.
A shadow swept across the hall behind her.
She spun, heart racing. The corridor was empty.
Her pulse thundered in her ears as she backed away from the portrait. The woman's painted eye
s seemed to watch her, almost alive.
Elena whispered to herself, "What have I walked into?"
The storm outside answered with a crack of thunder.