I walk like a man walking toward something he's already lost.
Steps lazy. Dragging. My expression soured enough to be obvious. Each step an argument with the floor.
I don't want to be here. I don't want to do this. I don't want—
Silas follows one step behind me. Close enough that I feel the space he occupies. Far enough to pretend he isn't there.
After dinner, I thought I could escape.
The plan was simple: stand up, excuse myself, and slip out to the club. Drink until the edges blur—until none of this feels real. Let Sum's laughter remind me who I am when I'm not being sold.
But no.
Mom caught my arm before I could rise. Her fingers light but immovable. Her smile bright and terrible.
Ellis, dear. Since you're not tired, why don't you show Silas around the mansion? He needs to know his new home.
Her words wrapped in silk. Her intention wrapped in steel.
And Dad—Dad didn't even look at me. Just lifted his glass. Took a slow, deliberate sip. Let the silence do his speaking.
Say no. I dare you.
So now I'm here. Walking through hallways I've known since I learned to walk. Showing my childhood home to a stranger my parents chose over me.
Why did I agree to this?
I could have slipped away. I'm fast. I'm clever. I've done it before—through back doors, through open windows, through the kind of silence that says I'm not here.
But Dad's threat hangs over me like a blade. Silent. Sharp. Ready to fall.
Disown.
The word echoes every time I breathe. Every time I think about running. Every time I imagine opening my mouth and telling this silent Beta what I really think of him.
I remember the taste of it. Bitter. Permanent. The kind of word that rewrites history.
My fists clench at my sides. Knuckles white. My jaw tightens until something creaks in my ear.
We're alone now.
The hallway stretches ahead—empty, silent, the servants dismissed back to their quarters, my parents safely returned to the dining room where they're probably still discussing his beautiful eyes, his rare coloring, his impeccable breeding.
No one to witness what I say. No one to report back.
I could tell him now. The words line up in my throat, ready to be released:
If you value your life, run back to your country. Take your silence and your jewel eyes and your soft smiles and go. I don't want you. I don't want this. Leave—before I make you.
But Dad's voice crawls out of my memory. Quiet. Intimate. The voice he uses for things that matter.
Ellis.
He caught me at the door after dinner—Mom fussing over Silas, servants clearing plates. His hand on my arm. His grip just tight enough to bruise.
If you say anything to Silas while you're alone—anything about refusing this marriage—I will strip you of everything. Every coin. Every connection. Every door that opens because your name is Roselle.
A pause. His eyes holding mine.
You will spend the rest of your life in poverty. Working as a waiter. Watching your family name belong to someone else.
A helpless sigh slips from my lips. Soft. Defeated. The sound of a man who has run out of walls to climb.
How could they threaten me like this? How could my own parents—
I glance back.
Silas's eyes are down. Fixed on the ground. His steps follow mine like a shadow learning to walk.
My eyebrow rises.
What is he doing?
His gaze tracks my feet. Each step. He watches the way I move—the heel striking marble, the roll of my weight, the space I leave behind. Memorizing. Cataloging. Like he's learning a dance he wasn't taught.
Suddenly, I stop.
Turn.
He doesn't notice.
His head bumps into my chest—soft, almost tentative, like he's testing whether I'm real. His palms flatten against me. Warm through my thin shirt. Small against the breadth of my chest. I feel the press of his fingers like a brand.
He looks up quickly. Eyes wide. Startled. The expression of someone caught stealing—caught doing something he wasn't supposed to want.
His cheeks flush. Just a little—a dusting of pink across pale skin, like sunrise.
I stare at him.
Eyes cold. Unimpressed. Let him feel the weight of my gaze. Let him squirm under it.
My eyes drop to his hands. Still pressed against my chest. He follows my gaze, sees what I see, and drops them like my skin burned him. Steps back. Quick. Too quick. The space between us suddenly vast.
His hands twist in the fabric of his shirt. Fingers curling, uncurling—searching for something to hold, something to anchor him. His eyes drop to the floor. He won't look at me. Won't look anywhere near me.
I can feel his nervousness. It clings to him—quiet, suffocating. Like he's waiting. For me to speak. To react. For something to fall.
I stay still.
What am I waiting for?
An apology. That's what. A word. A sound. A single scrap of acknowledgment that he exists outside this suffocating silence. Something.
But I know it won't come. His silence is a wall. And I'm the one who keeps walking into it.
I turn. Gesture to a door. My voice comes out cold. Flat. Empty of everything I feel.
"This is my room."
I walk. Open the door. Step inside.
Silas follows.
I can't believe I'm doing this. Showing my private space to a stranger. To someone I don't want touching anything that belongs to me.
"I don't live here anymore." My voice echoes in the empty room.
"I barely come back."
Silas looks around.
His brown eyes scan the room—dark furniture, tall windows facing the gardens, shelves lined with things that mean nothing. Nothing that says who I am.
My room. My prison.
Then his gaze shifts.
To the wall.
The pictures.
My childhood. Frozen in frames. Hung up by a mother who still sees me as the boy in those photographs—who still arranges my life like I'm a doll on her shelf.
He stares at them. Walks closer. His eyes move from one to the next—me at five, holding a trophy too big for my hands, smiling too wide, hair a mess. Me at eight, grinning beside a horse I was too small to ride, my father's hand caught at the edge of the frame, steadying me.
Me at ten. Pretending I wasn't crying after I fell.
He stops there.
The photograph shows me on the grass—sprawled, undignified, my mouth open, tears fresh on my cheeks. All over a bruise on my knee. A tiny scrape. Nothing. But I was crying like the world had ended. Like it was the worst thing that could ever happen to me.
I was ten. I didn't know yet how far I could fall.
My eyes widen.
I can't believe Mom still keeps that. I can't believe she hung it up. I can't believe he's seeing this.
Silas's fingers lift—hesitate—then brush the glass. Just barely. His touch light, uncertain, like he's not sure he's allowed.
A soft smile spreads across his lips.
Not mocking. Not cruel. Just... soft.
Is he laughing at me?
My phone buzzes.
I pull it from my pocket. Sum's name lights up the screen.
Sum: Mr. Charming. Let's drink together. I'm on my way to the club. You coming?
My thumbs move before my brain catches up.
Me: Yep. I'm coming.
I turn off the screen. Slip the phone back into my pocket. Look up.
Silas is still looking at the pictures. Still studying them. Still smiling at my smallest humiliations—at the evidence of a self I've buried so deep I almost forgot it existed.
I should tell him I have something urgent. Something that requires me to leave. Now.
I'm fed up with this silence. It feels like I'm alone—talking to myself, performing for an audience that doesn't respond. Like he's a ghost I'm supposed to entertain.
I step forward. Open my mouth—
The door knocks.
Opens.
Silas's secretary steps in, holding a small fine leather bag. He sees me, freezes for just a fraction of a second, then bows lightly.
Respectful. Deferential.
"I apologize for the disturbance."
Silas turns. Looks at him. His expression doesn't change—still soft, still calm—but something shifts in the air between them.
The secretary holds out the bag. "I'm sorry, boss, for the lateness. I didn't know you were here. The servant told me where to find you."
Silas takes the bag. His fingers close around it.
Then—just a flick. A tiny movement of his eyes toward the door. Almost invisible.
The secretary bows again. Already stepping back. Already retreating.
"Please excuse me."
The door closes behind him. Soft. Final.
I stand there, staring at the space where he was.
Just a glance—and his secretary understood.
No words. No gestures.
Just… presence.