Mara POV
"Five years. Since he moved into the manor." Dahlia says. "He's a good employer. Fair. Generous with time off."
"But?" I sense there's more.
Mrs. Dahlia hesitates, her hands stilling on the edge of the table. She presses her lips together, choosing her words carefully the way someone chooses their footing on uncertain ground. "But he's very... particular. About how things should be done. He likes order. Control and routine."
"I've noticed."
"He's not used to sharing his space." She gives me a meaningful look, her eyes holding something between sympathy and warning. "Or his life. This will be an adjustment for both of you."
The understatement of the century.
After Mrs. Dahlia returns to the kitchen, I wander the house alone. Every room is pristine. Perfectly decorated and utterly lifeless.
There are no family photos on the mantle or side tables. No personal mementos scattered on shelves, no mail left on counters, no jackets draped over chairs, no coffee mugs forgotten on end tables. Nothing that shows a human being actually lives here, breathes here, exists here in any meaningful way.
It's not a home but a showroom. The kind of place you'd see in a magazine spread, where everything looks expensive and nobody looks comfortable.
I end up in the library-floor-to-ceiling shelves, leather furniture that squeaks when you sit. The books are organized by color, not author or subject, and I pull one out at random, turning it over in my hands before sliding it back into its slot.
I'm returning it to the shelf when I hear heels clicking on marble.
"Mrs. Cross!" Patricia's voice echoes before she appears.
She sweeps into the library carrying garment bags draped over one forearm and a tablet tucked under the other, moving with the brisk confidence of someone who has never once been late to anything in her life. Her suit is immaculate-pressed, tailored, probably steamed that very morning. Her hair is pulled back severely, pinned so tightly at her nape it looks like it would hurt to turn her head quickly. Not a strand dares to be out of place.
"I have your wardrobe selections and your schedule for the next two weeks." She drapes the garment bags over a chair with careful precision, smoothing the plastic flat before releasing it. "Mr. Cross wants you to familiarize yourself with his social calendar immediately."
"His social calendar," I repeat. "Not ours."
Patricia's smile was thin, barely reaching her eyes. "You're Mrs. Cross now. His calendar is your calendar."
She opens the tablet, scrolling with a practiced swipe, and turns it toward me. What looks like a military operation fills the screen. Events are color-coded. Times listed down to the minute. Notes crowding the margins about what to wear, what to say, who matters and in exactly what order.
"You have a fitting with Mr. Cross's personal stylist tomorrow at nine. Hair and makeup consultation at eleven. Lunch with the Cross Holdings board wives on Wednesday-I'll send you briefing materials on each woman. Names, husbands' positions, topics to avoid. Charity gala Friday night with Mr. Cross and his father."
My head spins. "That's all in one week?"
"That's a light week." Patricia looks up, her expression patient in a way that feels condescending, as if she's explaining basic math to a child who keeps getting it wrong. "Mrs. Cross, your role requires constant public engagement. Appearances matter. Connections matter. You are the face of the Cross family now."
"I thought I was just Lucien's wife."
"You're never just anything when you marry a man like Mr. Cross." She sets the tablet down on the armrest, smoothing the front of her jacket in one efficient stroke. "Now, let's discuss Mr. Cross's preferences."
"His preferences?"
"Regarding how you present yourself." Patricia unzips one of the garment bags with a neat, downward pull, revealing designer dresses. Labels I recognize from magazines, fabrics that look like they'd dissolve if you breathed on them wrong. "Mr. Cross prefers classic elegance. Nothing too trendy. Neutral colors for business events-grays, blacks, navies. Jewel tones for evening affairs. Hemlines at the knee, never above. Heels, never flats. Hair styled but not overdone. Makeup natural but polished."
I feel my blood pressure rising. "Does he have preferences for how I breathe too?"
Patricia's smile doesn't waver. She's probably heard worse-or nothing at all, from women who didn't push back. "Mr. Cross simply wants you to represent the family well."
"The family he bought me into."
The words slipped out before I could stop them.
Patricia's expression flickers-surprise, maybe, or the ghost of discomfort. Her professional mask cracks for half a second, something unguarded moving behind her eyes, before she recovers. She closes the garment bags with practiced efficiency, fingers working the zipper in one smooth motion.
"I'll leave these here for you to review. Your stylist will help coordinate everything. She's very good. She's worked with the family for years." She picks up her tablet, tucking it under her arm like a shield, and turns toward the door. "One more thing."
"Of course there is."
"Mr. Cross requests you keep your personal phone calls brief and discreet. He values privacy."
"He values control," I correct.
"He values not having his business affairs discussed with outsiders." Patricia moves toward the door, her heels clicking against the hardwood in that same measured rhythm-unhurried, certain. She doesn't look back. "I'll see you tomorrow, Mrs. Cross. Please be ready on time. The stylist doesn't like to wait."
She leaves me alone in the library with garment bags full of clothes that aren't mine and a schedule that dictates my every move for the foreseeable future.
I sink into a leather chair, the material cold against my back. I pull my phone from my pocket. Three missed calls from Diana. Five texts from Mom asking how I'm settling in, if the house is nice, if I'm happy. One from Dad that just says: are you okay?
I'm not okay. I'm trapped in a glass palace with a man who treats me like furniture, who needs to maintain power, and staff who expect me to perform even when no one's watching.
But I can't tell them that. They'd feel guilty. They would try to fix it, offer to pay back the money somehow. And there's nothing to fix. This isn't a problem with a solution. I made this choice. I signed the papers and took the ring.
I text back: I'm fine. The house is beautiful. Let's talk on Sunday.
That evening, sitting in my bedroom-the one that's mine alone, apparently-I noticed something resting on my pillow. A folded note, precise and unadorned, as if even his handwriting knew better than to take up too much space.
Dinner party Friday. Gregory will be there. Don't embarrass me. -L
