Chapter 1: The New Reality
The heavy oak door clicked shut behind her, the sound as final as a judge's gavel. Isadora dragged the single, worn suitcase down the grand front steps, the wheels catching on the immaculate cobblestones. Each jarring tug sent a vibration up her arm. She didn't look back. Not yet.
She made it all the way to the imposing iron gate before she stopped, the silence of the estate pressing in on her. No goodbyes. No well-wishes. Just the whisper of the wind through the manicured hedges.
A sigh, heavy with a grief that had not yet faded, escaped her lips. "Grandpa," she whispered to the empty air, her voice thick. "I don't understand. You were my sanctuary. You called me your favorite. So why?" She stared at the locked gate as if it held answers. "Why did you sign your favorite away to a stranger?"
The question hung there, unanswered. He was gone, and all he'd left her was a clause in his will a marriage to a man she'd never met, a final, baffling command from beyond the grave.
The low, purring engine of a car was so out of place in the estate's usual quiet that it felt like an intrusion. A Rolls-Royce, sleek and black as polished obsidian, glided to a halt just beyond the gate. A driver, dressed in a crisp, dark uniform, emerged with practiced efficiency.
"Miss Anderson?" he asked, his voice respectful but devoid of warmth. "May I take your bag?"
Isadora could only nod, her throat too tight for words. He placed the suitcase in the trunk with ease, then opened the rear passenger door for her. He paused before she could get in.
"Mr. Walker asked me to take you to the residence first," the driver stated, his eyes fixed on a point somewhere over her shoulder. "The wedding ceremony can wait. He is currently occupied with a pressing matter at the office."
The words landed like physical blows. Occupied. A pressing matter. She was being exiled from one house and put into storage at another. Her future husband couldn't even be bothered to pick up his own bride. Isadora stared at the gravel beneath her feet, the world tilting slightly.
Then, she lifted her gaze to the monstrously beautiful mansion behind her. A place of gilded cages and cold smiles. A living hell, dressed in marble and money. A bitter resolve solidified inside her. Whatever waited for her out there, it had to be better than staying here. She would face a thousand unknown husbands to escape the known devil of her stepfamily.
The crunch of tires on the driveway announced another arrival. A familiar sports car pulled up, and the perfect, poisonous trio emerged: her father, Andrew; his wife, Cynthia; and their daughter, Chloe.
Andrew's eyes, the same shade of blue as her own but infinitely colder, flickered from her face to the Rolls-Royce and back. "You're still here?"
The familiar sting of his dismissal pricked at her. "Yes, Father. I was just leaving. He sent a car." She gestured vaguely, refusing to say the name Walker.
Andrew's gaze swept over the driver, assessing the quality of the uniform, the cost of the car. A calculating look entered his eyes. "I would have preferred it was Chloe marrying into the Walker family," he said, the words casual and cruel. "She is… more suited to that world. But the old man was insistent on you." A short, harsh sigh. "I suppose I should thank your grandfather for that, at least. The connection will be useful."
Cynthia glided to her husband's side, her hand a possessive red claw on his shoulder. "Now, dear," she cooed, her smile not reaching her eyes as she looked at Isadora. "Remember, everything you do from this moment on reflects on this family. The Walkers are a very big deal in this city. Don't make a mistake. Your father's business can't afford the fallout."
Isadora looked at Cynthia, at the woman who had spent years carving away pieces of her life. This bitch will never change. Her eyes then cut to Chloe, who stood smirking, enjoying the spectacle. Isadora threw her a look so full of venom and promised silence that Chloe's smirk faltered for a second.
Without another word, Isadora turned and slid into the plush leather interior of the Rolls-Royce. The door closed with a soft, expensive thud, sealing her in a tomb of silence.
As the car pulled away, the grand Anderson estate shrank in the tinted window, a dark silhouette against the bruised purple of the evening sky. Isadora watched the familiar streets of her old life blur past, the cozy, lit-up windows of normal houses a stark contrast to her cold departure. The world outside was moving on, oblivious to the upheaval in hers.
Her phone buzzed, a jarringly cheerful sound in the quiet. She pulled it from her pocket to see a message from her best friend, Lena.
Hey girl! How's it going? Big day tomorrow! Are you and Mr. Mystery getting your marriage certificate ready?
A bitter smile touched Isadora's lips. She typed back, her fingers feeling clumsy. No. He's busy.
The three dots appeared immediately, followed by Lena's call screen. Isadora's heart clenched. She wanted nothing more than to hear her friend's voice, to spill all the fear and anger, but the presence of the driver felt like a wall. She declined the call and sent a quick text. I'm in the car. I'll call you later.
She watched as the neighborhoods transformed outside her window. The streets grew wider, cleaner, lined with ancient, towering trees. The houses were no longer just houses; they were estates, fortresses of wealth set back behind high gates and sweeping lawns. The streetlights here were not mere functional poles but elegant, vintage-style lamps that cast a soft, golden glow, illuminating nothing but more perfection.
At the end of a long, private road, the Walker residence appeared. It wasn't just a mansion; it was a monument. Modern and severe, all sharp angles and vast sheets of glass, it was lit from within like a jewel box, a stark, imposing silhouette against the night sky.
The car crunched to a halt on the pristine driveway. The driver retrieved her single, pathetic suitcase, a stark symbol against the grandeur. As Isadora approached the towering front door, it opened before she could reach for the handle. Three figures stood waiting in the vast, gleaming foyer: an elderly man with a stern but not unkind face, a woman in a crisp, professional dress, and a young woman who looked to be around Isadora's age.
The man stepped forward, his posture ramrod straight. "Welcome, Miss Anderson. I am Charles, the butler of the house." His voice was calm, a steady anchor in the storm of her anxiety. He gestured to the woman. "This is Mrs. Luna, our head chef." Then to the younger woman. "And this is Jane, her daughter, who assists with housekeeping. She will show you to your room."
Jane offered a small, kind smile and took the suitcase from the driver. Isadora managed a weak "Thank you" as she stepped across the threshold.
Her breath caught. If the Anderson house was gilded opulence, this was cold, modern artistry. The floor was a dark, polished marble that reflected the light from a stunning crystal chandelier hanging above. A single, abstract sculpture sat on a pedestal, and the couches were low-slung masterpieces of cream-colored leather. Every vase, every painting, every line of the architecture screamed of immense, quiet wealth. It was breathtaking, and utterly intimidating. A cold dread settled in her stomach. I could barely survive the Anderson house. How can I possibly make it in a place like this?
Her eyes, scanning the terrifying beauty of the room, drifted towards the open-plan dining area. And there he was.
A man sat alone at a long, glass table, under the glow of a single pendant light. He was dressed in a tailored white shirt, the sleeves rolled precisely to his forearms. He ate with a quiet, elegant efficiency, his attention on a tablet propped next to his plate. He was… handsome. Devastatingly so, with sharp features and an air of intense focus. Sebastian Walker.
She stood there, frozen, just inside his line of sight. He didn't look up. He gave no indication he was aware of her existence. The dismissal was more potent than any words. He wasn't busy at the office. He was here, having dinner, and I was not important enough to interrupt it.
"Miss?" Jane's soft voice broke through her spiraling thoughts. "This way, please."
Swallowing the lump of humiliation in her throat, Isadora followed Jane up a floating staircase to the second floor. Jane opened a door to a room that was larger than her entire living space back at the Anderson's a place she'd never truly been allowed to call home.
The room was decorated in soothing shades of grey and blue, with a wall of windows looking out into the dark night. It was perfect, and as cold as the rest of the house.
Jane set the suitcase down and offered another gentle smile. "I saw you looking at the young master. Mr. Walker can be… a little intense. Please don't mind him too much. If you need anything, anything at all, just let me or Charles know."
And with that, she was gone, closing the door softly behind her, leaving Isadora alone in the silent, opulent room.
Wait, she thought, the contradiction finally striking her. They said he was busy with work. Why was he at home, eating dinner? And why did he ignore me completely?
A strange, defiant calm washed over her. Well, maybe his indifference was a blessing. He wouldn't get in her way, and he wouldn't care what she did. They could live separate lives in this vast, cold house. It was a lonely thought, but for now, after a lifetime of fighting, loneliness felt like peace.