ALORA DANIELS
The house was too quiet.
Not peaceful — just… hollow. Like a stage set with no actors, no audience. Beautiful, expensive, and lifeless.
I sat up slowly, the cold silk sheets slipping off my shoulders. The clock on the wall blinked 5:42 a.m. My body had woken on its own, no alarm, no sound — just instinct. I'd stopped trusting sleep the moment I signed away my freedom.
My wedding dress — crumpled and abandoned in a chair — looked like someone else's memory. And the ring on my finger still didn't feel like mine. It didn't sparkle. It burned.
The door creaked when I opened it.
Outside, the hall stretched wide and shadowed. Chandeliers flickered faintly above. The mansion smelled like lavender and lemon, but underneath, it smelled like money. The kind that never came without strings.
I walked barefoot past tall mirrors and closed doors. Every surface looked like it had been wiped clean of history — like no one actually lived here.
Because maybe no one did.
I found the kitchen by accident. It was large, sleek, sterile — more like something from a magazine than a home. A maid stood quietly near the island, folding napkins with clinical precision. She looked up when she saw me and immediately bowed.
"Mrs. Vaughn."
I flinched.
"Please," I said. "You don't have to call me that."
She straightened but didn't answer. Just gestured toward the long counter.
"Would you like breakfast, madam?"
"I—" My voice cracked. I hadn't spoken since last night. "Just coffee. Please."
She nodded once and turned.
As she worked, I leaned against the counter, feeling absurd in a borrowed silk robe, in a house that didn't want me. When she placed the cup in front of me, I whispered, "Thank you," and tried not to notice the way she immediately looked away.
The Vaughn staff, it seemed, had been trained to be invisible.
I wondered if Damian preferred it that way.
I wondered if he had rules for them, too.
---
By eight, the house had shifted slightly — not warmer, not louder, but awake.
Quiet feet padded across polished floors. A distant door closed. Voices murmured in the distance, muffled by thick walls. This mansion breathed on a schedule, and every breath was rehearsed, like a performance no one dared interrupt.
I returned to my room with the half-finished coffee cooling in my hands.
The mirror near the closet caught my reflection: pale skin, faint circles beneath my eyes, lips pressed tight as if afraid to part and let out the truth.
This isn't a home.
It was a waiting room for consequences.
---
Late morning, I heard a knock at the door.
Not the quiet, polite kind. Firm. Controlled.
I opened it to find a woman dressed in dark green — mid-thirties, clipboard in hand, sharp eyes that scanned me like she was evaluating a dress size, not a person.
"Mrs. Vaughn. I'm Helena." She didn't offer a smile. "Mr. Vaughn has instructed me to begin your preparation for public appearances."
I blinked. "Preparation?"
"You'll need wardrobe fitting, social media posture review, etiquette updates, and a refined public biography."
"A… biography?"
Helena glanced at the ring on my finger. "You're not just a woman now. You're a Vaughn."
That word again. A title, not a name. A warning more than a fact.
I was measured, photographed, handed pamphlets like I was studying for a final exam on how to survive his world. How to sit. How to smile. What to say and what not to say. How to keep a room from guessing the truth: that I was an impostor in designer heels.
And Helena? She didn't speak of love or warmth or even support.
Only optics.
Control.
Compliance.
---
When I returned to my room, I found a black velvet box on my bed.
No card. No explanation.
Inside: a bracelet. Silver, cold to the touch, etched with my new initials — A.V.
It was beautiful in the way a collar might be — delicate, expensive… restraining.
I left it on the nightstand.
Let him wonder why.
---
That evening, I didn't expect to see him again. But I was wrong.
I was returning from the small library when I nearly walked straight into him — Damian, descending the staircase in a dark shirt, sleeves rolled up, no jacket.
He stopped when he saw me.
So did I.
The air between us tightened.
"You had your assessments?" he asked, tone clipped.
"Yes," I replied, trying to match the cold civility in his voice.
He eyed me. "You're not wearing the bracelet."
"It's not my style."
His gaze sharpened. "It's not jewelry. It's identification. Like your ring."
"Then you should've sent a tag and collar."
The silence that followed crackled with tension. Not anger — not yet. Just surprise. I don't think he expected resistance. Not from someone he'd already claimed.
Finally, he said, "You'd do well to remember your place."
"And you'd do well to remember I had one before I ever met you."
A beat passed. Then another.
And then — quietly, unexpectedly — Damian stepped forward.
Close enough that I had to tilt my chin up to meet his eyes.
"You think fire will protect you here?" he asked, voice low. "Fire dies in the cold."
"Only if the cold is stronger," I whispered.
Our eyes locked, and for a moment, I could've sworn I saw something flicker in his — not heat, not softness, but... curiosity.
Then, as quickly as it came, it was gone.
"Stay out of my way, Alora," he said. "That's the only way this works."
And just like that, he was gone again, leaving me in the hallway with nothing but a chill down my spine and the lingering scent of his cologne in the air.
---
That night, I opened the box again.
The bracelet gleamed under the lamp, taunting me with its elegance. I picked it up, ran a finger across the letters etched into the silver: A.V.
Not Alora Vaughn.
Not His wife.
Just another mark of ownership.
And yet… part of me wanted to wear it. Not for him. For the woman I was before. The one who made a deal with the devil to protect the people she loved.
I would wear it.
But not because I belonged to him.
Because I hadn't finished writing my part in this cold, twisted story.
---
🔹 End of Chapter Two 🔹