The mirror didn't lie, but Elara wished it would.
She leaned in close, pulling back her thick, wavy brown hair to reveal the purplish-yellow shadow blooming across her collarbone. It was a map of Julian's temper—a souvenir from last night's "argument" over why she hadn't answered his third call within ten seconds.
"Elara! Downstairs. Now."
Her father's voice vibrated through the heavy oak door of her bedroom. It wasn't a request; it was a summons.
She quickly pulled a high-necked sweater over her head, the soft wool scratching against her sensitive skin. She grabbed a concealer stick, frantically dabbing at the corner of her eye where a faint burst of broken capillaries hinted at her "clumsiness."
She looked at the photo of her mother on the nightstand. Her mother had the same deep, honey-brown eyes Elara saw in the mirror every day. But in the photo, those eyes were full of light. In Elara's reflection, they were just tired.
The Lion's Den
Downstairs, the air was thick with the scent of expensive cigars and cold ambition. Her father sat behind his mahogany desk, and across from him sat Julian.
Julian looked perfect. His suit was tailored, his smile was bright, and his reputation was spotless. To the world, he was the Golden Boy of the city. To Elara, he was a monster who smelled like expensive cologne and terror.
"There she is," Julian said, standing up. He stepped toward her, his hand reaching out to grip her waist—just a little too tight. "You look pale, darling. Are you still feeling 'under the weather'?"
"I'm fine," Elara whispered, looking at the floor.
"Julian has been very patient, Elara," her father said, his voice cold. "He's agreed to move the wedding date up. We need the merger finalized by the end of the quarter. Your mother would have wanted this for the family name."
Don't bring her into this, Elara thought, her chest tightening. She died trying to get away from men like you.
"I can't... I need air," Elara stammered, backing away from Julian's suffocating grip.
"Elara, sit down," her father commanded.
"Let her go, Viktor," Julian smirked, his eyes flashing with a silent threat that said I'll deal with you later. "She just needs to clear her head before we sign the papers."
The Library of Lost Souls
Elara didn't stop running until her lungs burned. She found herself in the Old Town district, standing in front of a 24-hour library that looked like it hadn't been dusted since 1920. It was the only place Julian would never look for her.
She tucked herself into the furthest corner, behind a shelf of dusty geography books. She sat on the floor, hidden by her long hair, and finally let out the sob she'd been holding since dinner.
"You know, the history section is better for crying," a low, gentle voice said. "The books there have seen much worse tragedies."
Elara gasped, wiping her eyes and looking up.
A boy was sitting three feet away on a rolling ladder. He had a sketchbook in his lap and a charcoal pencil behind his ear. But it was his face that stopped her heart.
He had her hair—thick, messy, chestnut-brown waves that fell over his forehead. And when he looked at her, she saw them. His eyes. They weren't blue or green or some exotic color; they were the exact same deep, earthy, warm brown as hers. It was like looking into a mirror of a life she hadn't been allowed to live.
"I'm not crying," she lied, her voice trembling.
"And I'm not an artist," he replied, holding up his sketchbook filled with beautiful, haunting drawings. He climbed down the ladder and sat on the floor, keeping a respectful distance. "I'm Silas. And you look like you've been carrying the weight of the whole world on those shoulders."
For the first time in years, Elara didn't feel the urge to hide her face. "How did you know?"
Silas smiled, and for a second, the darkness of the library faded. "Because I have the same eyes as you, Elara. And I know what that look means."
Elara froze. "How do you know my name?"
Silas pointed to the library card she had dropped on the floor. But as he reached to pick it up, Elara's sleeve slipped.
The light hit the bruise on her wrist—the shape of Julian's fingers.
Silas's expression shifted from curious to a fierce, protective stillness. He didn't look away. He didn't pity her. He just looked at the mark, then back at her eyes.
"Episode one," he whispered softly. "This is the part where the story changes."