The next morning, the tailor arrived. He was a small, nervous man who smelled of starch and fear. He was ushered into the morning room where Tiffany was already holding court, surrounded by three assistants who were fluffing the train of a crimson gown.
"It's magnificent," Eleanor cooed, clapping her hands.
Elara stood in the corner, blending into the beige wallpaper. The tailor glanced at her, then at Victoria.
"And for... the other one?" the tailor asked.
Victoria waved a dismissive hand. "Something off the rack. Last season. Modest. She doesn't need to shine; she just needs to be presentable for the Thorne family to inspect."
Thorne.
Elara's ears didn't move, but her attention sharpened to a razor's edge. Inspect. Like cattle.
"Of course," the tailor said. He pulled a garment bag from the bottom of his pile. He handed Elara a grey dress. It was shapeless, high-necked, something a governess would wear to a funeral.
"Put it on," Victoria commanded.
Elara went behind the screen. The fabric was itchy. It hung off her frame, swallowing her figure. She walked out.
Tiffany laughed. "Oh my god, she looks like she stole a maid's uniform."
Elara hunched her shoulders, making herself look smaller, more pathetic. She looked at the floor, hiding the calculation in her eyes.
Later that afternoon, Elara slipped into the library. It was a two-story room filled with books no one in this family read. She found a niche behind a row of encyclopedias and sat on the floor.
Voices approached. The heavy mahogany doors didn't latch completely.
"Julian Thorne is a wreck," Richard's voice drifted in. "Since the accident. He's paralyzed from the waist down. He's bitter, he drinks, he's a recluse."
"Which makes him perfect," Victoria replied. Her voice was cold steel. "The Thorne family needs a wife for him to secure his trust fund release. They don't care who it is. Tiffany is too valuable to waste on a cripple. Elara will do."
"Do you think she can handle him?" Richard asked. "I hear he has a temper."
"She's a mute," Victoria scoffed. "She can't complain. She can't go to the press. She just has to survive a year until the merger is complete. Then we divorce her, take the settlement, and cut her loose."
Elara pressed her forehead against the bookshelf. Her fingernails dug into her palms until skin broke. Sold. She was being sold to cover a business deal.
She waited until they left. Then she moved.
She didn't just leave the room. She moved to Richard's desk. The computer was locked, but Richard was a creature of habit. He had written his passwords on a sticky note tucked under his blotter-a security flaw she had noted in her foster father's office years ago. She logged in. She didn't look for money. She looked for medical records. The Vance family private server.
She found the files. Richard Vance. Eleanor Vance. Tiffany Vance. She pulled out her phone and snapped photos of the blood type reports. A, A, and B. Impossible biology. She didn't know the full story yet, but she had the ammunition. She logged out, wiped the recent activity log, and vanished.
Back in her room, she pulled out the tablet. She bypassed the family's parental controls again and dove into the deep web.
Subject: Julian Thorne.
Search results:
Former Wall Street shark.
Car accident two years ago.
Spinal injury. Wheelchair-bound.
Fiancée left him one month later.
Rumors of violent outbursts at the Thorne estate.
She pulled up images. Most were grainy paparazzi shots. Julian in a wheelchair, head down, looking frail.
But Elara wasn't looking at the wheelchair. She zoomed in on a photo taken three months ago. Julian was gripping the armrest of his chair.
She applied a filter to enhance the resolution.
His hands. The knuckles were white. The tendons were defined.
She switched to a photo of him entering a car. He was lifting himself. The triceps definition was extreme. But it was the legs that caught her eye. In the shadow of the car door, his calf muscle was engaged.
Paralysis causes atrophy. Muscle wasting happens within months. Julian had been in that chair for two years. His legs should be sticks. They weren't.
She zoomed in on his eyes in another photo. There was no glaze of alcoholism. No dullness of depression. They were sharp. Predatory.
He was faking.
That night, Tiffany knocked on her door. She held out a string of pearls. "Here," she said, her voice dripping with fake sweetness. "Grandma said you should wear these. To look less... poor."
Elara took them. Plastic. She could tell by the weight.
"You're going to meet Julian tomorrow," Tiffany smirked. "Good luck. I hear he throws things."
Elara put the pearls on. She looked in the mirror and gave a terrified, trembling smile.
Tiffany beamed, satisfied that her terror campaign was working, and left.
As soon as the door clicked shut, Elara ripped the pearls off and tossed them into the trash can. She went to the closet and looked at the grey dress.
She didn't need to be beautiful. She didn't need to be charming. She needed to be the one thing Julian Thorne wouldn't expect.
She needed to be his accomplice.
