Alaina stood in the cavernous living room for a long time before she moved. Finally, she picked up her single, worn suitcase and walked up the floating staircase to the second floor.
She pushed open the first door on the left.
The room was a study in minimalist luxury. Black, white, and grey. It was as cold and severe as Alaric Wynn himself. But every texture, every fixture, was of the highest quality.
A door led to a walk-in closet.
Inside, racks were already filled with the latest season's womenswear. Dresses, blouses, trousers, all in her exact size, the tags still attached.
She didn't touch them.
She took her own simple cotton pajamas from her suitcase and went into the en-suite bathroom.
The hot water sluiced over her skin, but it couldn't wash away the feeling of the day. In the steam-fogged mirror, she saw a faint red mark on her neck where Alaric’s fingers had gripped her jaw.
A flush of humiliation burned in her chest.
She didn't sleep.
The next morning, she came downstairs dressed in her own old jeans and a sweater. She needed to do something, anything, to feel less like a ghost in this house.
A housekeeper was in the kitchen, preparing breakfast. The woman saw her and straightened up.
"Mrs. Wynn. What can I get for you?"
The title still felt foreign, ill-fitting. "Just black coffee, please," Alaina said, feeling awkward.
She was nursing the cup, trying to figure out how to start her "work," when the front door's keypad beeped in a rapid, impatient sequence. The door was thrown open.
A girl with a high blonde ponytail, dressed in a private school uniform, stormed in like a miniature hurricane.
"Alaric! You didn't even wait for me last night!" she yelled.
She stopped dead in the middle of the living room when she saw Alaina. Her blue eyes, so like Alaric’s but full of life, widened with curiosity.
Alaina looked back at her. The uniform, the casual entitlement, the sheer energy—this had to be Addie Wynn, Alaric's ward.
Addie's gaze swept over Alaina, from her worn clothes to the coffee cup in her hands. Then, a slow smile of realization spread across her face, revealing perfect white teeth.
"Oh," she said, her tone full of dawning comprehension. "You're the 'solution'."
The word was blunt, but there was no malice in it. Only genuine curiosity.
Alaina didn't know how to respond. Was that how Alaric had described her?
Addie didn't wait for an answer. She plopped down on the sofa next to Alaina, leaning in conspiratorially. "Don't mind him. Alaric doesn't have a nice word in his vocabulary. I'm Addie."
She stuck out her hand.
Alaina shook it. "Alaina Carney."
"Nope," Addie said, wagging a finger. A mischievous glint appeared in her eye. "It's Alaina Wynn now."
Addie's directness was disarming. It cut through the thick layer of tension that had enveloped Alaina for the past twenty-four hours.
Just then, Alaric emerged from his study. He'd changed into running gear.
"Addie, what are you shouting about this early?"
Addie leaped to her feet, her voice full of mock drama. "You've been hiding a wife! You got a new bride and completely forgot about your poor, neglected ward!"
Alaric ignored her theatrics. His gaze landed on Alaina. "Eat breakfast." It was an order, but his tone was a fraction less harsh than the night before.
During breakfast, Addie was a small sun, radiating questions and chatter. She wanted to know what Alaina did, what she liked, what she was passionate about.
When she learned Alaina was an architect, her eyes lit up.
"An architect! That's so cool! Do you have your own studio?"
A shadow passed over Alaina's face. She shook her head. "Not at the moment." Her career had been one of the many casualties of her family's debt.
Addie saw the flicker of sadness. Her eyes darted around, and then she pulled out her phone, her thumbs flying across the screen.
A few moments later, she turned the phone to Alaina. It showed the listing for a gallery in SoHo.
"What about this place? I heard the owner went bankrupt and it's up for sale."
Alaina's heart gave a sudden, painful lurch. She knew this gallery. It was a classic pre-war building, beautifully proportioned. She had walked past it a hundred times, dreaming of what she could do with the space.
"It's… perfect," she whispered.
"Then it's yours!" Addie declared grandly. She immediately dialed a number. "It's me, Addie Wynn. Buy the 'Morningstar Gallery' in SoHo. Yes, with my trust fund. Transfer it immediately to… Alaina Wynn."
Alaina stared, speechless. She tried to protest, but Addie had already hung up, giving her a cheerful "OK" sign.
Alaric sat at the head of the table, sipping his coffee. He hadn't intervened, just watched Alaina's shocked expression with his deep, unreadable eyes.
Less than thirty minutes later, Alaric’s assistant delivered a file. Addie snatched it and shoved it into Alaina's hands.
"Ta-da! Welcome present! You're the owner now!"
