Rosie stood motionless at the front gate of the Watts family mansion, her eyes lifted toward the towering structure before her. The building rose like a silent monarch,vast, elegant, and intimidating. Its walls were painted a pristine white that reflected the fading sunlight, while tall glass windows stretched upward like watchful eyes. Everything about the mansion screamed power, wealth, and authority.
Yet Rosie felt none of the admiration such a place deserved.
She did not marvel at the architecture, nor did she feel awe at the luxury that surrounded her. Instead, her heart was heavy, burdened by thoughts that refused to quiet. This was supposed to be her new home, her marital residence but to Rosie, it felt like a beautifully decorated cage.
Just stay for a while, she told herself. Just long enough for Mother to recover. Then I'll leave. I'll disappear.
That was the only hope she clung to.
She tightened her grip on the small bag she carried, her fingers cold despite the warm evening breeze. Five minutes passed. Then another. Rosie remained rooted to the spot, staring at the entrance as if crossing it would erase the last traces of the life she once knew.
Finally, summoning what little strength she had left, she stepped forward.
The moment she entered the mansion, noise erupted around her.
Footsteps echoed against the marble floors as servants emerged from every direction, lining up neatly on both sides of the wide hallway. Their movements were synchronized, practiced, and formal like soldiers trained for a single purpose.
"Welcome home, Mrs. Watt!"
Their voices rang out in perfect unison.
Rosie froze.
The title hit her harder than she expected.
Mrs. Watt.
The next most powerful woman in the Watts family.
Her chest tightened, and for a brief second, she forgot how to breathe. She forced herself to nod slightly, though she had no idea how one was supposed to respond to such a greeting. A smile felt inappropriate. Gratitude felt undeserved. Everything about this moment felt wrong.
What she truly wanted was simple.
She wanted a room. A locked door. A hot shower to wash away the day's humiliation. Sleep deep, dreamless sleep. And when morning came, she wanted to run. Not walk.Run.
But the Watts family had other plans for her.
A woman stepped forward from the line of servants. She carried herself with calm authority, her posture straight, her silver-streaked hair pulled neatly into a bun. Though she appeared to be in her early sixties, her presence was commanding, refined, and dignified.
"Welcome, Mrs. Watt," the woman said gently. "My name is Mrs. Smith. I am the caretaker of this household and oversee all affairs within the mansion."
Her voice was polite, but there was no mistaking the professionalism beneath it.
Rosie inclined her head slightly in acknowledgment.
Mrs. Smith gestured toward the grand staircase. "Mr. Watt has instructed that you be shown around the house and then choose a room on the upper floor that best suits you."
Rosie frowned faintly. "Upper floor?"
"Yes," Mrs. Smith replied smoothly. "Mr. Watt occupies the first floor. There is no reason for the two of you to see each other unnecessarily."
The words were delivered without emotion, as though this arrangement were the most natural thing in the world.
Rosie felt something twist painfully inside her chest.
A marriage where husband and wife avoid each other.
So this was the life she had been sold into.
"There are rules you must follow," Mrs. Smith continued, her tone firm but controlled. "Mr. Watt leaves for work at exactly six o'clock every morning. You are not permitted to move freely within the house until six ten, to ensure that he has already departed."
Rosie listened quietly, her face expressionless.
"He returns late in the evening," Mrs. Smith added. "You are allowed to remain outside your room or within common areas only until nine p.m. After that, you are expected to retire for the night."
Rules. Schedules. Restrictions.
Rosie wondered if prisoners were given more freedom.
"I'm sure Mr. Watt's personal assistant has already informed you," Mrs. Smith said, "but public transportation is strictly forbidden. All travel arrangements will be handled by the family drivers."
She paused briefly, then motioned toward two young women standing a short distance away.
"These are your maids," Mrs. Smith said. "Olivia and Eva. They will attend to your daily needs and inform you of any additional rules you must be aware of."
The two girls stepped forward and bowed respectfully.
"Good evening, Mrs. Watt," they said together.
Olivia appeared to be the older of the two, with soft brown eyes and a calm demeanor. Eva, on the other hand, looked younger and more energetic, though there was a hint of nervousness in her expression.
Rosie nodded at them slowly.
Mrs. Smith turned toward the door, her heels clicking softly against the marble floor. She stopped just before leaving and glanced back over her shoulder.
"And one more thing," she said calmly. "Do not do anything that will bring shame or a bad image to the Watts family."
Her gaze was sharp, unwavering.
With that final warning, she exited the room, leaving silence in her wake.
Rosie stood there, feeling smaller than she ever had before.
The grandeur of the mansion no longer impressed her. The polished floors felt cold beneath her feet. The chandeliers above her head seemed too bright, too heavy—like they might come crashing down at any moment.
She let out a slow breath and looked at the two maids standing before her.
"I suppose this is it," Rosie murmured, more to herself than to them.
Olivia hesitated before speaking. "Would you like us to show you the rooms, Mrs. Watt?"
Rosie nodded.
They led her up the staircase, each step echoing loudly in the quiet house. The upper floor was lined with doors—each one leading to a room larger than most apartments she had seen in her life. The rooms were lavishly furnished, with king-sized beds, private balconies, walk-in closets, and marble bathrooms.
Yet none of them felt like hers.
She walked from one room to another, her mind elsewhere—on her mother lying in a hospital bed far away, on her grandmother's handkerchief still tucked safely in her bag, on the promise she had made to herself to survive this place.
Finally, she chose a room at the far end of the corridor. It was quiet, isolated, and had a window that overlooked the garden.
"This one," she said softly.
"As you wish," Olivia replied.
After the maids left to prepare the room, Rosie sat on the edge of the bed and stared at her hands.
"I guess I was never meant to have joy," she whispered, glancing around the luxurious room that felt emptier than a prison cell. "Not even here."
Olivia and Eva exchanged a brief look but said nothing.
Rosie lay back slowly, exhaustion weighing down her body. The ceiling above her was painted with delicate patterns, yet all she could see was darkness.
Somewhere in this massive house lived the man who now owned her name, her future, and her freedom.
She had not seen his face.
She had not heard his voice.
Yet his presence was everywhere—in the rules, the schedules, the silence.
As Rosie closed her eyes, one thought echoed clearly in her mind.
Endure. Protect Mother. Then escape