"Mary."
Her mother's voice was clipped and low as they stepped away from the hedges.
Lady Whitmore kept her smile in place for the passing guests, but her eyes—sharp as glass—never left Mary's face. "Who were you speaking to?"
Mary adjusted her gloves, trying to steady her breath. "Just… just a guest. A singer, I think. Isabelle Hart."
"A singer?" Her mother's lips curled slightly. "That woman from the city, the one invited last minute? Why on earth would you speak with her?"
"She spoke to me first. It wasn't anything important," Mary replied, avoiding her mother's gaze. "Just a few words. That's all."
Lady Whitmore's brow creased, suspicious but distracted. "You shouldn't entertain conversation with people who don't belong in our circles. It gives the wrong impression."
Mary nodded quickly. "Yes, Mother. I'm sorry."
Before her mother could ask more, Mary added, "I'm a little tired. May I go in for a while?"
Lady Whitmore sighed but nodded. "Yes, but don't be long. Your father wants to speak with you after dinner. About Thomas."
Mary offered a polite smile and turned toward the estate. As soon as she passed through the door, her smile vanished.
Inside the Whitmore house, everything was quiet and proper. Candles flickered along the hall, portraits stared down from velvet walls, and Mary's heels echoed lightly on the marble floor as she walked upstairs.
She entered her room and shut the door behind her.
The silence hit first. Then the thoughts.
She leaned against the door, closing her eyes, trying to push Isabelle's voice out of her mind. But it clung to her like a perfume—soft and stubborn.
"You're looking at me like that."
"Even once is worth trying."
Mary exhaled and stepped to the window, pulling the curtain slightly to peek outside.
Below in the garden, she saw them—her parents and Thomas standing under the lantern-lit pergola. Her father's hand rested on Thomas's shoulder, Lady Whitmore nodding approvingly beside them.
The three of them were smiling—like plans were already made.
Like she didn't even need to be there.
Outside, beneath the golden light:
"She's young," Lady Whitmore said with a soft laugh. "But she'll learn. Mary has always been quiet, but she understands responsibility."
"I agree," Mayor Whitmore added. "She's been raised for this. To stand beside someone strong, to represent the family."
Thomas sipped his brandy, eyes flicking toward the house. "She's very… delicate. But lovely. She'll make a proper wife."
"You'll guide her," her mother said confidently. "She doesn't need to be outspoken. She just needs a steady hand. And we know you'll provide that, Thomas."
He nodded. "Of course. I'll ensure she fulfills everything expected of her."
Upstairs, alone:
Mary heard none of it.
She sat by her window now, staring out through the glass, the candle beside her flickering.
She traced the curve of the pane with her finger. Her reflection blinked back—poised, perfect, silent.
Just like they wanted her to be.
But deep inside, something whispered—faint, fragile, but persistent.
"You could be someone else."