The rain hammered the city in a relentless rhythm, blurring the edges of London into smudged strokes of gray and silver. Isabella stood beneath the awning of the courthouse, her coat damp, her pulse unsteady. The world behind her her old
life was collapsing one brick at a time. And somewhere ahead, waiting in a storm he didn't bother hiding from, stood the man she was about to gamble her future on.
Elanor Vance didn't carry an umbrella. He didn't flinch when the rain struck his shoulders, soaking the dark fabric of his suit. He watched her with a look she couldn't decipher part patience, part calculation, part something colder than the weather itself.
"You're late," he said, his voice cutting through the rain like a blade.
"I had things to settle," Isabella murmured, stepping toward him.
"Things?" His eyes narrowed slightly. "Or people?"
She stiffened. He noticed everything. And that terrified her more than anything else tonight.
A car pulled up beside them sleek, silent, and black as midnight. Elanor opened the door for her, his gesture precise, almost ceremonial. "Get in."
The way he said it wasn't a request.
Isabella took a steadying breath and slipped inside. The city lights flickered across the tinted windows, casting shifting shadows over her face. Elanor joined her a moment later, the scent of rain clinging to him like a second skin.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Only the low hum of the engine filled the silence.
Then Elanor broke it.
"You signed the contract." His tone held no surprise—only confirmation.
"Yes," she answered.
"Good. That means you understand what you're stepping into."
"I understand what I'm escaping from," Isabella whispered.
Elanor turned his face toward her, his gaze sharp in the dim light. "Running from something might get you through the door, Isabella. But staying… that requires strength."
Her hands tightened in her lap. "And what if I don't have enough?"
"You do," he said simply. "Otherwise,
I wouldn't have chosen you."
Chosen. The word slid through her chest like a strange mix of warmth and warning.
She turned away from him, watching rain race down the windows. "What happens now?"
"You'll come with me to the estate," he said. "Tonight we finalize the public announcement. By tomorrow morning, everyone in my family and yours will know."
Her heart struck hard against her ribs. "It's really happening."
"It has been happening from the moment you said yes."
The car moved through the beating rain, passing bridges that looked like echoes of an older London. The city felt ancient and indifferent, as if it had seen countless lives swallowed whole and wouldn't mind taking a few more.
Isabella's voice trembled. "Elanor… your family. They won't accept me."
He didn't even blink. "They will. Or they will be removed from the equation."
She inhaled sharply. "You can't remove your family."
Elanor's jaw tightened. "You'd be surprised."
The air grew heavier, thicker. She wanted to ask what he meant, what history hid behind his expressionless mask, but something told her she wasn't ready to hear the answer.
The car slowed as it approached a private bridge, leading into a district of old stone buildings and manicured hedges. The kind of neighborhood untouched by time and insulated by wealth.
"Elanor," she whispered, "why me?"
He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he studied her truly studied her the way a man evaluates a truth he's not sure he's allowed to speak.
Finally, he said, "Because you don't fold."
"I'm breaking," she confessed.
"Breaking," he replied softly, "is not the same as folding."
A silence settled between them. Not cold. Not comfortable. Something in between.
The car stopped in front of a marble entryway lit by warm lantern glow. As the door opened, Elanor stood and extended his hand toward her not as a command this time, but as an anchor.
She hesitated.
Then she took it.
His fingers closed around hers with unexpected warmth, firm and steady. The world outside was drenched in rain and uncertainty, but his grip… his grip was unshakeable.
The moment Isabella stepped out of the car, she felt the weight of the estate pressing down on her. The towering gates. The ancient stonework. The whisper of old money and older expectations.
This wasn't just a home.
It was a battlefield.
"Elanor," she said quietly as thunder rumbled overhead. "Tell me one truth before we walk inside."
His eyes locked onto hers, cutting through the storm.
"Are you saving me…"
A pause. A breath.
"…or claiming me?"
His voice dropped to a near-whisper, too soft to be anything but real.
"Isabella," he said, "I don't save people."
The rain fell harder, crashing against the stones.
"I claim what I don't want to lose."
Her breath caught. The storm roared around them, but she felt nothing except the pounding of her own heart.
Before she could respond, Elanor released her hand and stepped toward the entrance.
"Come," he said without looking back. "Your new life begins now."
And she followed.
Not because she trusted him.
But because, for the first time in her life, she wasn't running from a fate.
She was walking into one.
…She was walking into one.
But the moment Isabella crossed the threshold of Vance Manor, she felt the temperature shift. The air was warmer inside, scented faintly with old books and cedarwood, yet something colder coiled beneath it an invisible presence threading through the walls.
Elanor waited just a step ahead, watching her reaction. He didn't smile. He didn't speak. He observed, as though memorizing the exact second she realized she had stepped into a different world entirely.
"Don't be intimidated," he said at last, his voice low. "This house tests everyone."
"Even you?" she asked.
A flicker brief but unmistakable passed across his expression. "Especially me."
He walked deeper into the foyer, the soft echo of his footsteps bouncing against marble floors polished enough to mirror the chandeliers. Isabella followed, her breath catching when she saw the sweeping staircase curving toward the upper floors like a spine of carved ivory. Portraits lined the walls stern-faced ancestors with sharp eyes, as if waiting to judge her worth.
"Elanor," she whispered, "they're all staring at me."
"They stare at everyone," he murmured. "They watched me grow up in this place. They watched every heir before me. They'll watch you, too."
"And if they don't approve?"
"They don't get a vote." His tone was final, absolute.
Yet Isabella could sense tension beneath his calm exterior a man accustomed to controlling everything, except the ghosts left behind by bloodlines older than the country itself.
As they moved toward the west corridor, a figure emerged an older man in a tailored suit, posture rigid, eyes sharp. His presence sliced through the hallway like a blade.
"Master Elanor," the man said with a curt bow. "You've returned."
"Obviously," Elanor replied without slowing his pace. "This is Isabella Moreau. She will be residing here."
The man's gaze flicked to her, cool and measuring. "Welcome, Miss Moreau. I am Harrington. I oversee the household."
Isabella offered a polite smile, but something about him made her skin prickle. His expression wasn't unkind but it wasn't welcoming either. More like he was studying a detail that didn't belong in the composition.
"If you require anything," Harrington continued, "you will inform me. The staff will assist you. However."
Elanor cut him off. "There are no howevers."
Harrington bowed his head slightly. "Of course, sir."
The moment the butler disappeared, Isabella leaned closer. "He doesn't like me."
Elanor's jaw clenched. "Harrington doesn't like anyone. His loyalty is to the Vance name, not to me. You will learn the difference quickly."
His words wrapped around her like a warning disguised as information. She nodded silently.
They reached the end of the hall, where double doors of dark oak stood closed. Elanor pushed them open, revealing a private wing rich carpet, softer lighting, and a quieter atmosphere.
"This is your room," he said. "Across from mine."
Her pulse jumped. "Across? Not… down the hall?"
"This wing is sealed from the rest of the house. Only we have access."
A pause.
"It's for your protection."
Isabella entered the room, inhaling the soft scent of lavender. The space was elegant yet warm far more welcoming than the manor's cold grandeur. A fireplace flickered faintly. Heavy curtains framed tall windows overlooking the gardens.
"Elanor… this is beautiful," she whispered.
"It's functional."
He stood by the door, hands in his pockets.
"I had it prepared yesterday."
She turned, startled. "Yesterday? Before I agreed?"
He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he moved closer, stopping just an arm's length away. His presence dominated the room more than the fireplace, more than the carved molding or velvet drapes.
"I don't make decisions halfway," he said finally. "If I choose something or someone
I commit."
Her heart throbbed in her chest. "Is that what I am? A decision you've made?"
His eyes darkened, shadowed by something harder to name. "You are the one choice I cannot afford to make lightly."
Before she could ask what he meant, a loud bell echoed through the manor. It vibrated through the walls, deep and resonant.
"What was that?" she asked.
"Elanor straightened. "The family has been informed of your arrival."
Cold swept through her. "They're here?"
"They will be, shortly."
"Shouldn't we… prepare?"
"We will." He stepped even closer, his voice lowering. "But Isabella, you need to understand something."
She swallowed. "What?"
"No one in that room tomorrow cares about the truth. They care about perception, legacy, and weakness. If they sense any hesitation in you, they will tear you apart quietly and politely. That is their specialty."
Her breath grew shallow. "I'm not weak."
"I know," he said. "But they don't. Not yet."
A silence stretched between them thick, electric, interwoven with things neither dared say.
Then he reached out.
Not touching her just hovering close, as if deciding whether crossing that final inch would break the contract they'd only just formed.
"You should rest," he said.
"I doubt I can."
"You can," he murmured, "because you must."
He stepped back, retreating into the hallway. Isabella followed, stopping at the threshold as he turned toward his own door.
"Elanor."
He glanced over his shoulder.
"Earlier… you said you claim what you don't want to lose."
His eyes held hers with surprising intensity. "I did."
"Does that mean you're afraid of losing me?"
A single heartbeat passed.
Two.
Then.
"No," he said with a voice far too calm for the storm inside it.
"I'm afraid of what will happen if I do."
Her breath hitched.
And before she could respond, before she could unravel what fear hid behind his mask, he entered his room and shut the door softly behind him.
Leaving Isabella alone in the quiet corridor
with a heart she didn't know how to control,
and a future she could no longer predict.