The morning sun filtered through the tall glass windows, casting golden beams across the Blackwood mansion. Lillian stirred awake slowly, the silky sheets soft beneath her skin. For a moment, she forgot where she was. Then her eyes fell on the elaborate canopy above the bed, the sprawling room too grand for comfort, and it all came rushing back.
This was her new reality. She was no longer the girl who hid in the corners of her stepmother's house. She was now Mrs. Blackwood, wife of Julian Blackwood—the man the world whispered about in fear and awe.
Clara's visit yesterday replayed in her mind. Her best friend had been the first familiar warmth in weeks, teasing her, urging her to see the possibilities instead of the chains. "He's handsome, Lillian. Rich too. Maybe not as bad as you think," Clara had said with a mischievous smile.
Lillian clutched the memory like a lifeline. Clara's encouragement had left a spark in her heart. For the first time since her father's betrayal, she didn't feel entirely abandoned. She stretched, slipped into a simple cream dress, and decided to explore the house again, this time not as a stranger, but as someone trying to belong.
The grand hallway smelled faintly of roses. A row of chandeliers glittered above her as she descended the wide staircase. She reached the bottom and nearly bumped into a woman carrying a basket of freshly laundered linens.
"Oh! Forgive me, madam," the woman said quickly, lowering her gaze.
Lillian blinked. "No, please—it's my fault. Are you… one of the housemaids?"
The woman nodded, a kind smile breaking across her face. She looked to be in her early forties, with soft brown eyes and a motherly air that immediately put Lillian at ease.
"Yes, madam. My name is Martha. I usually tend to the laundry and sometimes help in the kitchen."
"Martha…" Lillian repeated the name softly, like it was a comfort she hadn't expected. "You don't have to call me madam. Lillian is fine."
Martha's eyes widened. "Oh, I couldn't—"
"Please," Lillian insisted gently. "It feels… strange when everyone calls me that."
Martha hesitated, then gave a small nod. "Alright… Lillian."
For the first time in days, Lillian's lips curved into an unguarded smile.
---
They walked together toward the garden, conversation flowing easily. Lillian asked about the household—how many people worked here, what the daily routines were. Martha spoke warmly about the staff, though she admitted most kept to their duties quietly, never stepping out of line for fear of Mr. Blackwood's icy reputation.
"Don't mind the whispers, dear," Martha said, setting her basket aside as they paused by a bed of blooming lilies. "The master has his own ways. But I've worked here long enough to know… he isn't cruel. Just distant."
Lillian tilted her head, curiosity flickering. No one had spoken of Julian with such kindness before. To the world, he was cold and ruthless. To her, he was unreadable, impossible to grasp. Could there really be more to him than the mask he wore?
"I see," Lillian murmured. She knelt to touch one of the lilies, their white petals so pure against the morning light.
Martha studied her quietly. "You remind me of these flowers. Fragile at first glance, but stronger than people think."
Lillian blinked, warmth rushing to her cheeks. No one had spoken to her like that since her mother passed. It tugged at something deep within, a loneliness she rarely dared acknowledge.
Before she knew it, she was talking freely to Martha—about her love for simple meals, her fondness for books, even about Clara's visit yesterday. Martha listened without judgment, nodding and smiling, as though every word mattered.
By the time they circled back inside, Lillian felt lighter, as if a burden had been shared.
---
Meanwhile, across the city, Camilla seethed in her room.
She paced her lavishly decorated bedroom, tapping her manicured nails against her vanity. She hadn't heard a single rumor from the Blackwood estate. No stories of Lillian crying, no whispers of the cold CEO neglecting his new wife. Nothing.
"Mother," she hissed when Madame Celeste entered. "Why is it so quiet? I thought Lillian would be miserable by now!"
Celeste adjusted her pearl necklace with a knowing smirk. "Give it time, darling. Men like Julian Blackwood don't change overnight. He married her for convenience, not affection. Soon enough, she'll be nothing more than an ornament in his house."
But Camilla wasn't convinced. She hated not knowing. The thought of her stepsister living even one day in peace under Julian's roof clawed at her insides. She wanted Lillian to suffer, to regret being chosen. Yet a dangerous whisper lingered in her mind: What if she isn't suffering? What if she's… thriving?
The jealousy burned hotter, though she shoved it down. For now.
---
Back at the mansion, Lillian and Martha shared tea in a quiet corner of the conservatory. The older woman's gentle presence soothed her in ways she hadn't realized she needed.
"Do you like it here?" Martha asked softly, her eyes warm.
Lillian hesitated. She wanted to say no—that this house felt like a cage, that her heart longed for the freedom she once had with her mother. But she also thought of the kindness Julian had shown, subtle though it was. He hadn't forced himself on her. He hadn't humiliated her. For a man she was told to fear, he had treated her with surprising restraint.
"I don't know yet," Lillian admitted. "But… it's not as unbearable as I imagined."
Martha reached across the table, squeezing her hand. "Then maybe, in time, it could even feel like home."
Lillian's chest tightened. A home. It had been so long since she felt she belonged anywhere. She glanced at Martha, an idea forming timidly in her mind.
If only she could stay close. If only Julian would allow Martha to be her personal maid… then perhaps this mansion wouldn't feel so lonely.
But she bit back the words. She didn't dare ask—not yet. She would wait until she found the right moment, the right courage.
For now, she savored the comfort of companionship.
---
As the day faded, Lillian returned to her room. She stood at the window, watching the sun sink into the horizon, painting the sky in shades of orange and crimson. Somewhere out there, Julian Blackwood was still at work, buried in the empire that made him untouchable.
She wondered what he was doing, if he thought of her at all.
A soft smile played on her lips as she remembered Martha's words. Fragile at first glance, but stronger than people think.
Perhaps she wasn't as powerless as she believed. Perhaps, slowly, she could carve her own place here.
And when Julian returned tonight, maybe—just maybe—she would take the first step toward asking him about Martha.
For the first time since her world had been torn apart, hope stirred in her heart.