I woke up choking on silence. It pressed against my chest, thick and heavy, like the air itself had weight. For a few seconds, I lay still, afraid that if I moved, the fragile calm would shatter and remind me of where I was. Then I opened my eyes. Everything was white.
The ceiling above me was smooth and flawless, stretching endlessly, without cracks or stains. No peeling paint. No watermarks. Nothing familiar. The kind of ceiling that belonged to places where nothing ever went wrong. I stood up and found a bathroom attached to the bedroom, bigger than the living room I'd grown up in. I stared at my reflection in the mirror, barely recognizing the woman looking back at me.
My eyes were swollen from crying. My skin looked pale. The faint mark from last night's necklace still rested against my collarbone like a reminder of a wedding that hadn't felt real. My heart started pounding violently as the memories rushed back all at once.
The contract, the signature, and the cold eyes watching me sign away my life.
Lucas Thompson.
My husband.
The word echoed mockingly in my head.
I wrapped my arms around myself and looked around the room. The bed beneath me was massive, draped in sheets so soft they felt unreal beneath my fingers. The furniture was dark and expensive, placed with perfect symmetry. Everything smelled faintly of wood polish and something sharper like power.
The other side of the bed was untouched. Cold. He hadn't come in last night.
I wasn't surprised. Still, the realization hurt in a way I hadn't prepared for.
"Of course he didn't", I told myself. Why would he?
This wasn't a real marriage. It was a transaction. A cage with velvet walls.
I slid my legs over the side of the bed, my bare feet meeting icy marble. The shock sent a shiver through my body, grounding me in the present.
"You chose this", I reminded myself harshly.
"Even though I was sold without my consent". I refuted the thought. I stood slowly and walked toward the window. When I pulled the curtain aside, the city sprawled below me, vast, glittering, indifferent. Cars moved like tiny ants far beneath the glass. Somewhere in that city was a small hospital room with peeling paint and a father whose life depended on the money tied to my marriage.
That thought steadied me.
"I can do this," I whispered. "I have to."
Behind me, the bedroom door opened silently.
I spun around.
Martha, a maid, stepped inside, her expression carefully neutral.
"Good morning, Mrs. Thompson," she said.
The title felt foreign, too heavy for my shoulders.
"Good morning," I replied softly.
She gestured toward a set of clothes neatly laid out on a chair. Simple, modest and almost painfully plain compared to the luxury around it.
"These are for today," she said. "Mr. Thompson prefers simplicity." Of course he did. I dressed quickly, acutely aware of Martha's presence but too exhausted to care. Once dressed, I followed her out of the bedroom. The hallway stretched endlessly in both directions, lined with closed doors. Every step echoed too loudly.
"This wing is yours," Martha said. "You are not to leave it unless instructed." "And if I do?" I asked quietly.
She hesitated, "Then Mr. Blackwood will be displeased." That was answer enough.
My stomach growled painfully.
"I'm… hungry," I admitted. Marta stopped walking. "You were not scheduled for breakfast," she said. I lowered my gaze. "I didn't know there was a schedule. "There is now." She resumed walking, leaving me standing there for a moment, feeling foolish and small. Eventually, she led me back to my room. "You will wait," she said gently. "I will inform him."
I sat on the edge of the bed, my hands clenched tightly in my lap. Minutes passed. Each second felt longer than the last. When Martha returned, her expression was unreadable. "He will see you," she said. Relief and dread twisted together in my chest.
Lucas stood at the bottom of the staircase when I reached it. Perfectly dressed and Perfectly composed, looking handsome and cold as always. He looked like he had never slept, yet somehow appeared untouched by exhaustion. His presence filled the space effortlessly, as if the house itself bent around him. "Where do you think you're going?" he asked coldly. "I was looking for food," I said honestly. His eyes flicked over me, assessing, dismissive like a predator.
"You don't wander this house," he said. "You were told that."
"I didn't mean to break any rules," I replied. "I just..." "Hunger does not excuse disobedience."
The word disobedience landed like a slap. I felt like a slave. "Ain't I?", I asked myself. I was sold after all. He turned slightly. "Martha." "Yes, sir." "Prepare breakfast," he said. "And make sure she understands how things work here." He didn't look at me again.
Breakfast was served in a massive dining room that could have seated twenty people. I sat alone at one end of the table. The food looked beautiful, fresh and carefully prepared. I took a bite, and nearly cried not because it tasted bad but because it reminded me how long it had been since I'd eaten without worrying about money. I forced myself to eat slowly, quietly.
Martha stood nearby. "Meals are served at specific times," she said. "If you miss them, they are not repeated."
I nodded. "You will not enter Mr. Thompson's private spaces. You will not ask personal questions. And you will not forget your position."
"My position?" I asked. She looked at me with something close to pity. "You are his wife," she said. "But this is his house."
Later that morning, I was summoned to his study. The room felt colder than the rest of the house, filled with shadows and dark wood. Lucas sat behind his desk, reviewing documents.
"Sit," he said. I did.
He slid a thick file toward me. "Your schedule," he said. "Events you'll attend with me. Appearances you'll make." I flipped through it slowly. "You exist to fulfill a role," he continued calmly. "Nothing more." My throat tightened. "And if I fail?" I asked.
His gaze lifted slowly. "You won't," he said. "Or you'll be replaced."
The words sent a chill through me. I gathered my courage. "May I visit my father?" After a long pause, "Yes," he said finally. "When she recovers." Tears burned my eyes. "Thank you."
He stood and said, "This conversation is over."
As I reached the door, his voice stopped me.
"You are my wife in public," he said. "Do not confuse that with being wanted." I walked out with my head high. But the moment the door closed behind me, I broke down in tears.
I didn't remember walking back to my room.
My feet moved on their own, carrying me down long corridors that all looked the same.Doors that remained firmly closed, as though the house itself was refusing to acknowledge my presence. The moment I entered my room, I shut the door behind me and leaned against it, my breath coming out shaky. I hadn't cried in front of him. That mattered.
I slid down slowly until I was sitting on the floor, my knees pulled to my chest. The marble was cold through the thin fabric of my clothes, but I welcomed the discomfort. It reminded me that I was still real. Still here."You knew this wouldn't be easy", I told myself.
"You knew he wouldn't be kind". So why did it hurt so much? I pressed my forehead against my knees, squeezing my eyes shut as images from the morning replayed in my head, his voice, calm and merciless. His eyes, dark and unreadable. The way he spoke of replacing me as if I were an object not a person, not a wife, just a role. A knock came at the door and I flinched immediately at the sound of that. "Yes?" I said after a moment, forcing my voice to sound steady.
Martha entered quietly, carrying a tray.
"Lunch," she said softly, setting it on the small table near the window. I stared at the food without moving. "Mr. Thompson requested that you eat," she added. That alone told me everything. I forced myself to stand and sit at the table. Each bite tasted like bitter kola in my mouth, but I ate anyway. I couldn't afford to grow weak, not now. As Martha turned to leave, I stopped her.
"Has… has he always been like this?" I asked quietly.
She paused, "For as long as I've known him," she said carefully. "And before?" I pressed. She hesitated, then shook her head. "That is not for me to say, Mrs. Thompson." The door closed behind her.
The afternoon dragged on endlessly. I wasn't given anything to do. No books, No instructions, No visitors. Just silence. I wandered the room slowly, touching the expensive furniture, the curtains, the polished surfaces. Everything felt untouched and unused. Like the room itself had been waiting for someone else. Someone who never came. As the sun dipped lower, casting long shadows across the floor, a thought crept into my mind uninvited. What if this is all my life becomes? Waiting, Obeying, and Disappearing. Fear gripped me and I walked to the window again, pressing my palm against the glass. Somewhere beyond the estate walls, life continued. People laughed, loved and lived freely.
And I was here, a wife without a place.
Dinner was announced by a quiet knock. This time, I was escorted to a smaller dining room. Lucas was already seated. The air shifted the moment I entered. He didn't look up. "Sit," he said. I did, keeping my movements careful and restrained. The table felt impossibly long, even with only the two of us seated at opposite ends. We ate in silence. The clink of cutlery echoed too loudly. Halfway through the meal, Lucas spoke. "You embarrassed yourself this morning." My fingers tightened around my fork. "I didn't intend to," I said calmly.
"Intentions are irrelevant," he replied. "Perception is what matters." I lifted my gaze, meeting his eyes for the first time since morning. "What is it you want from me?" I asked quietly. He paused. For a brief moment, I thought he wouldn't answer.
Then he said, "Obedience." The word settled heavily between us.
"And if I give you that?" I asked. His eyes darkened slightly. "Then your father would be fine." There it was. The unspoken threat finally spoken aloud. I nodded once. Dinner ended without another word. As I stood to leave, his voice stopped me again. "You'll attend an event with me tomorrow night," he said. "Be ready." I turned slightly. "What kind of event?" He looked at me then, deep.
"Where you'll learn," he said coldly, "how closely the world watches the name Thompson."
That night, sleep refused to come. I lay awake in the massive bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the quiet hum of the estate. Hours passed. Just as I began to drift, the door opened. I stiffened. Lucas entered the room. My heart began to pound violently as he closed the door behind him. He didn't look at me immediately. Instead, he removed his jacket slowly, deliberately, placing it on the chair. I sat up slightly, clutching the blanket. He turned at last. "You're awake," he said. "Yes," I whispered.
He studied me for a long moment, his gaze unreadable in the dim light. "This room is mine," he said. "You'll stay." I nodded, unable to get any word out of my mouth.
He moved toward the other side of the bed and lay down without another word, leaving a careful distance between us. The mattress dipped slightly under his weight. The proximity was overwhelming.
I could smell him, clean, sharp, and unmistakably masculine. My body reacted before my mind could stop it, a traitorous flutter settling low in my stomach. I hated myself for it. "You should sleep," he said quietly.
I closed my eyes but sleep didn't come because lying inches away from the man who held my life in his hands felt far more dangerous than being alone.