The mansion was beautiful—grand, timeless, silent.
But Lilian had never felt more trapped.
Each morning, the golden light poured through her tall windows, painting soft streaks across the marble floor and the delicate lace curtains. And yet, it didn't warm her.
It didn't reach her.
Days bled into each other, an endless cycle of stillness and suffocating silence. Time moved slowly here, like thick honey dripping down the sides of a forgotten jar.
She barely left her room.
She barely spoke.
She barely felt like herself anymore.
But there was one truth she clung to—like the last thread keeping her sane:
She would not stay here forever.
She couldn't.
---
A gentle knock echoed through the vastness of her room, followed by the soft creak of the door opening. Rosa entered, her posture composed, her eyes carefully averted as she carried a silver tray.
Breakfast.
The scent of warm croissants, golden honey, and freshly brewed coffee filled the air. The tray clinked slightly as she set it down on the small table by the window, her movements precise and practiced.
"Your breakfast, Miss," Rosa said, her voice respectful but distant.
Lilian gave the faintest nod.
Rosa didn't linger. She never did. She dipped into a small curtsy and retreated, the door clicking softly behind her.
Silence swallowed the room once again.
Lilian didn't touch the food.
Her stomach turned at the thought of eating, her appetite lost somewhere in the haze of her captivity.
She sat by the window instead, her eyes tracing the horizon beyond the gates. Beyond the guards. Beyond the beautiful, gilded cage.
And she waited—for a change she couldn't yet name.
---
— The Gala Looming Like a Storm —
The only times she was forced to leave her room were for preparations.
And today, she had no choice.
Killian had arranged for a designer to fit her for a gown for the upcoming gala—some high-profile event he was expected to attend.
She didn't want to go.
She didn't want to be seen with him, to stand beside him like some kept woman with no voice, no name, no meaning beyond what he gave her.
But she didn't get a say in the matter.
Not here.
---
The designer's studio was nestled inside one of the many wings of the mansion—a lavish room brimming with silk fabrics, shining mirrors, and the soft hum of whispered approval.
Lilian stood stiffly before a massive three-way mirror, dressed in deep sapphire silk. The gown draped over her body like liquid moonlight, every seam molded to perfection. It was elegant. Expensive.
It should have made her feel stunning.
Instead, it made her feel like a doll being dressed for display.
Gracie and Rosa stood quietly nearby, their eyes respectful, their faces unreadable.
"You look beautiful," Rosa said gently.
Lilian didn't respond.
The designer stepped forward, adjusting the neckline, his hands cool and professional.
"Mr. Blackwood will approve of this one," he murmured, not looking at her.
Approval. Always for him.
As if her worth was measured by how well she suited his taste.
Lilian's jaw clenched, but she said nothing. The walls here had ears—she had learned that quickly. Trust was a rare currency in this house, and she hadn't earned enough of it to speak freely.
Not yet.
---
When they returned, Mrs. Clara was waiting at the base of the staircase.
Lilian had met her on her first night—a regal woman with silver-streaked hair pinned neatly into a bun and eyes that missed nothing.
She wasn't like the other staff.
There was an authority in her stillness, a weight to her gaze that made Lilian's skin prickle every time she felt it.
Now, Mrs. Clara watched her with that same steady intensity, her lips pressed into a firm line.
She didn't speak.
She didn't need to.
Lilian kept walking, pretending she didn't feel the older woman's eyes lingering behind her, dissecting her piece by piece.
Something about Mrs. Clara unsettled her. Not because she was unkind—but because Lilian was certain the woman knew everything.
Every word. Every breath. Every thought.
And Lilian had the sickening sense that her escape, should she ever attempt one, would have to go through her.
---
Days continued to pass, quiet as ghosts.
Despite the mansion's grandeur, time moved like water trapped behind glass. Unchanging. Claustrophobic.
Yet there was one sliver of relief—Gracie.
The younger maid was the only person who didn't make Lilian feel like a stranger in her own skin.
She was polite. Soft-spoken. Always respectful, but not cold.
Still, even she kept her distance.
Whenever Lilian tried to breach the gap between them, Gracie would retreat behind that polished, professional demeanor. Not out of rudeness—but fear.
To Gracie, Lilian was someone who mattered.
Someone who had been chosen.
Someone the staff were to treat with a cautious reverence.
Even if no one quite understood what she was to Killian Blackwood.
Not a wife. Not a fiancée.
Just… his.
---
One quiet evening, as dusk turned the garden sky to shades of lavender and rose, Lilian found herself alone with Gracie among the blooming lilies.
The wind stirred gently, the fragrance of night-blooming jasmine hanging heavy in the air.
"I can't stay here" she said suddenly, her voice barely a whisper. "I feel like I'm suffocating."
Gracie froze, her hands tightening around the folded linen she carried.
There was a long pause before she replied.
"Miss…" she began carefully. "It would be very difficult for you to leave."
Lilian's chest tightened.
"Why?"
Gracie glanced around, her eyes scanning for signs of listening ears before she spoke again, even softer.
"The mansion is heavily secured. There are guards posted at every exit. The gates are locked and monitored around the clock."
Lilian swallowed hard.
She had seen the guards.
Had heard the coded clicks of the security gates.
But hearing it confirmed left a sharp, cold weight in her stomach.
"And… my master…" Gracie hesitated. "He is not a man to cross."
Lilian stared ahead, her heart pounding against the walls of her chest like a bird in a cage.
"I don't care," she said finally. "I have to try."
Gracie said nothing.
Her silence was answer enough.
But the flicker in her eyes—fear… or warning—told Lilian what she needed to know.
---
What neither of them realized was that they were not alone.
Behind the slightly ajar garden doors, Mrs. Clara stood quietly in the shadows, listening to every word.
She didn't interrupt.
Didn't confront.
She simply turned and walked away, her mind already working.
Not out of cruelty.
Not out of duty.
But out of something deeper—something colder.
She had seen women come and go from Killian's life like passing storms.
Some bold.
Some beautiful.
All of them gone.
But Lilian… she was different.
She had a fire in her. Quiet, but fierce. The kind of strength that didn't scream—but endured.
Mrs. Clara had watched Killian become the man he was now—ruthless, guarded, emotionally armored.
But Lilian… Lilian might be the one person who could slip past his defenses.
Even if she didn't realize it yet.
And for that reason alone, Mrs. Clara would not allow her to leave.
---
Later that night, in the quiet of her private quarters, Mrs. Clara picked up the old landline and dialed a number she hadn't used in months.
It rang once.
Twice.
Then a smooth, elegant voice answered on the other end.
" Clara," came the familiar greeting. "How is he?"
Mrs. Blackwood.
Killian's mother.
Mrs. Clara's voice remained even. "Still distant," she said. Then, after a pause, "But… there is a girl."
There was a long silence on the other end of the line.
Then a breath of interest.
"…Tell me everything."
Mrs. Clara's lips curled into the faintest smile.
She would watch.
She would wait.
And she would make sure that Lilian—no matter how hard she fought—never left.