The luxury mansion in the elite district of Santerra Heights isn't a home — it's a territory where money speaks louder than people.
Granite, glass, metal. Even the air here feels priced.
I, Isabella Delacour, am not from this world.
Not yet.
In a massive bedroom that looks like it was produced by a designer with a minimalism obsession, I lie beside André Cortland.
Twenty-two, a golden boy, abs sculpted like they come stamped into men at birth now.
We're sweaty, breathless, like we ran a marathon — though the only running we did was across the bed.
He runs his hand down my thigh, lazy, proprietary, as if petting a thing he owns.
"Time to go. My parents don't like waiting."
Ah yes. "My parents."
The kind of people for whom "waiting" is like a tax: unpleasant and, apparently, optional.
I jump up — still naked, adrenaline buzzing in my blood, muscles twitching like after an electric shock — and rush to the shower.
I glance at him over my shoulder with the energy of a goddess perfectly aware she's a goddess.
"Join me. I'll wash you, my filthy hero."
He smiles — too self-satisfied for someone who begged "more" an hour ago.
But in his eyes there is hunger.
For me.
For control.
For victory.
Okay, sweetheart. We'll evaluate your odds later.
The water is hot, almost scalding. His hands — even hotter.
We melt together again, as if trying to prove to the universe that chemistry counts even when brain cells take a day off.
But beneath my skin, another thought flickers:
A preview of dinner with his parents — pomp, x-ray stares, and the silent test: Who am I? A guest? Or a temporary accessory?
After the shower, we're dressed, relaxed on the surface — but inside me, survival mode is already clicking on.
André pulls out a dress.
Long, expensive, and morally depressing — the aesthetic of "farewell legs, hello boredom."
"Put this on. My mother will approve."
I lift a brow.
"It covers everything good about me."
He rolls his eyes as if I'm a dramatic kitten he can't help but adore.
"Why would I show you off in front of my parents?"
Translation: Don't steal the spotlight from Mother.
I smile sweetly, while mentally unsheathing sarcasm.
"And why do you want to turn me into a different kind of girl?"
He steps closer.
Close enough that the air becomes a shared territory.
"Just pretend you're modest," he whispers. "And later we'll have some fun."
His hand slips lower.
My body reacts before my brain. I hate that. And I hate even more that I like it.
Pretend.
Convenient formula.
But masks never stay on long. Especially mine.
I look him straight in the eyes and smile — so sweetly an angel would suspect a trap.
"Fine. I'll be perfect."
Inside:
Just not necessarily by your definition.
And then something clicks — sharp, bright.
This dinner isn't a family gathering.
It's a game.
Who wins?
We'll see.
Who loses?
Hopefully not me.
And yes — he better pray his mother isn't a serial collector of ex-girlfriends.
**
We step into the dining hall, and I freeze for a heartbeat — as if I have walked onto an audition stage where the role is already taken, and I am allowed only to pretend.
The marble table stretches out, long as a boardroom for gods.
A bouquet of white lilies — beautiful yet unsettling, like a funeral gift from a mafia boss.
The scent of expensive wine, temperament, and wildly inflated expectations.
I am not a guest.
I am a candidate.
And candidates are easy to replace.
Edward and Evelyn Cortland are already seated. They do not stand.
"We have been waiting."
Subtext: "And you already lost."
Edward looks at us as if we have not just arrived late, but crashed the stock market.
"Why can you not come on time?" His voice is level, metallic. "Punctuality is respect."
The word "respect" flies like a throwing knife.
Not toward Andre.
Toward me.
"Sex is for fun — responsibility is hers?"
Andre smiles too easily, as if he knows a secret exit in this particular hell.
"Hello, Father. Mother. Forgive the delay."
He is not apologizing. He is teasing.
And God, I am glad I chose the wrong guy.
Evelyn's gaze slides over me slowly. Not assessing — dissecting.
I feel less like a girl and more like a luxury item displayed behind glass.
For a second she blushes, bizarrely, as if imagining what we were doing five minutes ago.
God, please let that be only in her head.
She clears her throat, voice turning soft, almost purring.
"Kids will be kids. I forgive you. Sit down."
But she does not say it to Andre.
She says it to her husband.
And her look says, "Your rules work only at the office."
We sit.
The staff appears like teleported angels: soups, salads, plates — everything choreographed.
I eat carefully. Not predatory. Not performative.
Even though after the shower I could devour a mammoth whole.
Edward watches like an ornithologist studying rare birds — the kind you tame, not release.
Evelyn sighs.
"The children must be starving."
"Children."
Thank you, Mom, I now officially feel like I am in the nursery group "Millionaires 0+."
The father places his fork down like a prosecutor stamping a verdict.
"I am forced to make a very large donation to the university fund so you will not be expelled."
He is not angry.
He is disappointed.
"You are in your final year, and you still cannot pull yourself together and study."
Andre looks at him as at an advertisement you cannot skip but can absolutely despise.
"Father, do not ruin the appetite. A diploma is a piece of paper. You have more money than you can spend in your lifetime."
He says "I live as I want" with the tone of a man convinced that money is sorcery.
Edward's hands tighten.
"You have never known poverty. Your mother and I started in a dormitory. I earned everything myself. And you spend your life on an endless list of girlfriends."
The word "list" punches me in the gut.
I look sharply at Andre.
"A list? I am not the only one?"
He blinks like someone struck underwater.
The father observes me with mild academic curiosity.
As if testing: "Fragile model or standard edition?"
Andre blurts out:
"Isabelle, you are the best!"
I wish he had stayed silent.
Bitterness rises.
I understand:
Here, I am temporary.
Here, I am a number.
I stand up.
The chair scrapes — loud, dramatic, like a courthouse oath.
"Thank you for the lunch. But I am leaving."
I am not running.
I am leaving beautifully.
Like a woman who knows that leaving is sometimes the only power she has.
Andre sits for a few seconds, as if his personality is trying to reboot.
Then he jumps up.
"Wait, Isabelle!"
He runs.
Late, as always.
The door slams.
We vanish.
Leaving behind two adults who stopped playing family long ago and began playing "who wins today."
Evelyn throws her napkin.
"Why must you do this, Edward? Remember yourself when you were young."
Her voice belongs to a woman who is done being quiet.
"Evelyn," he says coldly, "the last one was Adelina. Before her — Lucinda. Before her… I do not remember."
He lists his son's girlfriends like furniture items.
"Ikea chairs: replaced every six months."
"Our neighbor and my friend, Darian Blackmore, wants to marry his daughter Sophia to Andre. And I agree."
The way he says "agree" sounds like he is approving the budget of a new project.
Evelyn laughs softly — dangerously.
"You agree because he promised you a business merger. You are ready to sell your own son."
Her words cut.
His voice breaks back:
"This is outrageous. How dare you?"
The napkin lies on the table like a white flag.
But no one here surrenders.
The air grows heavy, viscous.
Silence is not a pause.
Silence is an arena.
And behind the door, where Andre and I breathe and fume and tangle —
I understand:
This family does not intend to accept me.
They intend to dispose of me like a used bag.
And someone will pay for that.
Possibly — Andre.