“Miss Isobel, your room has been prepared. Would you like to rest before dinner?”
“Oh, yes, thank you.” I smile at Elara.
Elara leads us up the stairs, her heels whispering against the marble while my boots land like gunshots. I try to walk quieter, but everything about me feels too loud here — the weight of my steps, the beat of my heart, even the breath I hold in my lungs. The staircase curves upward like something carved into a palace, wide and elegant, flanked by gold-dipped sconces and intricate railings that gleam beneath the chandelier’s light.
Every painting we pass feels older than the country — oil portraits of men in military coats and women in silk gowns, their gazes heavy and all-knowing, as if they can see straight through me. The hallways stretch on, lined with wainscoting and antique tables topped with flower arrangements and crystal bowls I’m afraid to even look at too hard.
We stop at the end of a hallway at a set of double doors.
“Welcome to your room,” Lucian says as Elara opens the doors.
The room is… breathtaking. No,unreal. I stepped through a mirror and landed in some princess’s daydream.
It’s massive, at least twice the size of the living room back home, with ceilings so high I could stack five of me and still not touch the molding. The walls are a soft stormy gray with faint silver detailing that catches the light. One entire side of the room is windows, draped in gauzy white curtains and heavier blackout panels, all tied back with braided cords. The late afternoon light spills in and sets the room aglow.
The bed sits in the center like a throne, canopied, four-posted, carved from deep wood with velvet hangings. The comforter is thick and pale silver, layered with plush pillows in shades of ash, ivory, and charcoal.
There’s a massive walk-in closet built into the far wall, doors wide open, revealing rows of hanging clothes. All new. All clearly chosen for me. I spot the clothes we bought with Maeve already unpacked and hanging with yet even more clothes. All my new shoes Lucian insisted on are lined up in neat rows.
A full wardrobe, multiple pairs of shoes. I’m speechless. Warmth spreads through my body and I want cry. I don’t feel deserving of any of this. But Lucian,mydad, cares about me.
I pull out one hanger, running my hand down a soft knit sweater, the color of oatmeal. Before Lucian, I never owned anything that didn’t belong to someone else first. Never chose what I wore based on comfort, just… what didn’t itch. What I could get that fit. What didn’t show the bruises. But now, I have endless options, all of it new.
A desk sits beneath the window with a sleek laptop already charging. A soft reading nook is tucked into the corner beneath built-in shelves, and the shelves… are full. Books I’ve only ever seen in libraries. Spines in leather and gold, others in soft pastels. Art books. Fiction. Poetry. A few graphic novels.
There’s a full-length mirror near the closet. No cracks, no missing pieces. The girl in it doesn’t look like she belongs. I look like I’m trespassing.
Lucian comes from behind me. “If there’s anything you need, we can have it here by morning.”
My eyes feel like they might pop out of my head. “This is all for me?”
“Yes,” Lucian says with a little chuckle.
“I—” My voice sticks. I clear my throat. “This is… too much.”
“No,” he says, his tone firm. “It’s not even close to enough.”
“My old bedroom is smaller than the closet.”
My hands shake a little as I run my fingers over the quilt. It’s absurdly soft.
The room smells like fresh linen and something faintly floral. No mildew. No cigarette smoke. No mold creeping in from the walls.
The kind of room you don’t have to lock.
For a long moment, I stand there. I don’t cry. But something shifts inside me. Like this is the first breath after drowning.
Lucian touches my shoulder lightly. “We’ll give you some time to settle in. Dinner is at seven if you feel up to it.”
I nod, still absorbing everything. He leaves, and Elara follows, giving me one last nod before pulling the doors closed with a gentleclick.
And then… Silence.
Not the kind I grew up with. Not the sharp, dangerous kind that came before yelling or slamming doors. This silence issoft. Safe. Wrapped in thick carpet and heavy curtains.
The first thing I do is walk back to the doors. Running my fingers over the cool antique brass handles… and find a keyhole. A tiny, polished key already sits in the lock.
Turning it slowly—click—I feel the lock slide into place. From theinside. I test the knob. It doesn’t budge.
