Anna woke to the sound of knocking.
Three soft, measured taps—polite enough to feel intentional, patient enough to suggest she was expected to answer in her own time.
For a moment, she didn't move.
Light filtered through the sheer curtains, pale and silvery, brushing the edges of the room like something tentative. The forest beyond the glass wall was wrapped in morning mist, trees softened into shapes rather than forms. It felt as though the world had been gently hushed for her.
The knocking came again.
Anna pushed herself up slowly, the sheets cool against her skin. She had slept deeply—deeper than she could remember sleeping in years. No dreams. No half-waking anxiety. Just a clean, uninterrupted rest, like being held underwater and lifted out again without struggle.
She crossed the room barefoot and opened the door.
A maid stood just outside.
She was dressed in pale grey, the fabric crisp and immaculate, her dark hair pulled neatly back. Her posture was relaxed but precise, as though calm itself had been trained into her body.
"Good morning, Miss," she said softly, inclining her head. "I hope you slept well."
"I… yes," Anna replied, blinking slightly. "I did."
The maid smiled—not broadly, not familiarly. Just enough.
"Breakfast will be served shortly. Sir Lucien asked me to wake you when the morning light reached the east wing."
The east wing.
The words sounded important, though Anna wasn't sure why.
"Thank you," Anna said. Then hesitated. "Um—could I ask something?"
"Of course."
"My phone," Anna said, lifting it slightly. "There's no signal."
The maid's expression didn't change.
"That's normal here," she said gently. "The estate is shielded from public networks. For privacy."
"Oh," Anna said.
The word came out easier than she expected.
"There's a private Wi-Fi network," the maid continued smoothly. "Your access has already been prepared. You'll find the information on the desk."
Relief flickered through Anna—small, instinctive.
"Oh. Okay. Thank you."
"There's no need to worry," the maid added, as if sensing the thought before Anna fully formed it. "Everything you might need has already been arranged."
Arranged.
The maid stepped back slightly. "Please take your time. When you're ready, I'll guide you to the dining room."
The door closed softly after her.
Anna stood there for a moment, phone still in her hand.
The room felt warm. Still. Safe.
She walked back inside and found a small card placed neatly on the desk, exactly where the maid had said it would be. The Wi-Fi name was handwritten in clean, elegant script. The password beneath it was simple—her name, followed by a number 49.
She smiled despite herself.
Lucien had thought of her.
The shower was already warm when she stepped inside, steam rising gently as though it had been waiting. When she dressed, she chose the softest clothes she'd brought—nothing structured, nothing tight. Somehow, it felt right to be herself here. Unarmored.
When she opened the door again, the maid was waiting.
"This way," she said.
They walked through corridors that felt different in the morning. Light spilled across wood and stone, catching on smooth surfaces, lingering in corners. The house felt awake, but not busy, it's a place that didn't need noise to prove it was alive.
They stopped before tall double doors.
The maid opened them.
The dining room unfolded like something out of a storybook Anna had loved as a child.
The ceiling rose high above her, supported by dark wooden beams that curved gently upward, elegant rather than imposing. A long table stretched through the center of the room, polished to a soft sheen, set with porcelain and silver that caught the light without dazzling.
Tall windows lined one wall, opening the space to the forest beyond. Morning sunlight filtered through leaves, casting shifting patterns across the tablecloth like something alive and playful.
And there—at the far end of the table—sat Lucien.
He stood when he saw her.
Not hurriedly. Not stiffly.
Just enough to acknowledge her presence as something that mattered.
"Good morning, Anna," he said.
His voice sounded different in the open space, so warm, grounded, unmistakably calm. He wore a light shirt, sleeves rolled back slightly, the formality of the previous day softened by morning.
For a moment, she forgot how to move.
"Good morning," she replied, finally stepping forward.
The maid guided her to a seat opposite him, then withdrew without a word. The doors closed again, soundless.
Just like that, the room belonged only to them.
Anna sat slowly, aware of the quiet, of the distance between them that somehow felt intimate rather than vast. The table was long, but not empty. It felt… intentional. As if space itself were part of the design.
"I hope you slept well," Lucien said.
"I did," she answered honestly. "Really well."
"I'm glad."
Servants appeared briefly with silent, efficient pace, placing dishes before them. Fresh fruit, warm bread, delicate pastries, tea steaming faintly in fine cups. Then they were gone again, leaving no trace of themselves behind.
Anna felt something settle inside her chest.
She wrapped her fingers around her teacup, letting the warmth sink in.
"This place is… incredible," she said softly.
Lucien watched her over the rim of his cup. "I'm pleased you like it."
"It feels very…" She searched for the word. "Personal. Quiet."
"That was the intention."
She smiled faintly. "It feels like we're the only people here."
For a fraction of a second—so brief she might have imagined it—something flickered in his eyes.
Then he nodded.
"For now," he said. "Yes."
Anna didn't question it.
She only felt that strange, gentle warmth again—the feeling of being chosen into a moment, wrapped into something that existed just for her.
She took a bite of fruit, sweetness blooming on her tongue, and looked up at him across the table.
Lucien met her gaze steadily.
In that light, in that room, with the forest breathing softly beyond the glass, he looked exactly as she had imagined him the night before.
Composed.
Attentive.
Unquestionably there.
Like a prince stepping out of a tale she hadn't realized she still believed in.
After breakfast, Lucien rose first.
He set his napkin down with care, the movement unhurried, deliberate, as if nothing in his world ever needed to be rushed. Anna watched him without meaning to, her fingers still wrapped around the warm porcelain of her teacup.
"If you'd like," he said, turning toward her, "I can show you the courtyard. And the boardwalk."
She straightened at once. "I'd love that."
They walked side by side through the open doors. Sunlight met them immediately, soft and golden, brushing over stone paths and shallow streams. The garden stretched outward in quiet layers—low flowers, pale moss, water slipping gently between carved channels. The boardwalk curved ahead, wooden planks suspended just above the surface of the water.
Anna slowed, her steps light, almost careful, as if afraid to disturb the stillness. She turned her head slowly, taking everything in, her lips parting slightly in wonder.
Lucien stopped near the beginning of the boardwalk.
He turned to face her.
"Anna," he said, his voice lower now, more deliberate. "Would you like a special experience?"
The question landed suddenly.
Her breath caught.
She looked up at him, eyes widening just a little, surprise flickering across her face before she could hide it. Her fingers curled instinctively at her sides. For a brief moment, her thoughts rushed ahead of her—special in what way? Her gaze dropped to his chest, then lifted again, heat rising quickly to her cheeks.
She hesitated. "A… special experience?"
Lucien noticed at once.
He didn't step closer. Instead, his expression softened, the corners of his mouth lifting in something gentle, almost amused.
"There's a dressing room nearby," he said calmly. "It's themed."
She blinked.
"Themed?" she repeated.
He nodded. "Yesterday, you said you liked theme parks."
Her eyes widened again, this time with pure surprise.
"I had some dresses prepared," he continued. "Fairy-tale styles. Princesses. Elves. All in your size."
Anna stared at him, completely still.
"You did that… for me?" she asked, her voice barely above a breath.
"Yes."
Her hands lifted slightly, then dropped again, as if she didn't know where to place them. Her smile broke free, bright and unguarded.
"That sounds amazing," she said, words tumbling out. "I've never—no one's ever—"
She stopped herself, laughing softly, excitement shining plainly in her eyes.
"If you'd like," Lucien added, "there can be a photographer. Only when you want. Just to capture the moments you enjoy."
Her excitement flared instantly.
"Really?" she asked, almost bouncing on her toes. "That would be incredible."
Lucien watched her closely, his gaze steady, attentive.
"I'm glad," he said quietly.
She hesitated, then tilted her head, a playful spark in her expression. "Will you dress up too?"
Lucien paused.
For a fraction of a second, he looked genuinely taken aback.
Then he straightened, his posture suddenly formal, and said, "I owe you an apology."
Her smile faltered. "What?"
"I'm already thirty," he said solemnly. "And my arms and legs may not survive repeated costume changes."
She froze.
Then he softened, the seriousness dissolving into a faint, teasing smile.
"I'm afraid I'm no longer built for that kind of endurance," he added lightly. "But I'd be very happy to wait for you."
His tone was warm now, sincere.
"Seeing you happy," he continued, his eyes holding hers without wavering, "would be the best reward I could ask for today."
Her face flushed instantly.
She looked down, then back up again, lips pressed together in a shy smile, heart racing far too fast. The heat in her cheeks spread to her ears.
"Then I'll go change," she said quickly, already half turning away.
Lucien nodded, watching her with quiet patience.
As she walked toward the dressing room, her steps light and eager, she could still feel his gaze on her—steady, gentle, waiting.
And she knew, with a sudden, dizzy certainty, that she had already been completely won over.
She changed outfits more than once.
Each time she stepped out of the dressing room, she felt like she was crossing the thin boundary between reality and a story she had once believed only existed in picture books.
First, an elf.
Soft green fabric traced her shoulders and arms, light and flowing, embroidered with fine silver thread that caught the sun when she moved. Her hair was loosely braided, small strands escaping to frame her face. She stood at the doorway uncertainly, fingers brushing the hem of the dress, eyes searching for his reaction.
Lucien was seated nearby, a book resting open in his hands.
At the sound of her steps, he looked up.
He didn't speak at first. His gaze lingered—calm, attentive—moving from her face to the details of the dress, then back again. His expression didn't exaggerate, didn't perform admiration. It simply softened.
"That suits you," he said.
The words were quiet, precise.
Her lips curved into a shy smile. Her shoulders relaxed.
He rose and guided her toward a shaded path where tall trees arched overhead, their leaves filtering the light into a cool green glow. The photographer lifted the camera only when she nodded, capturing her as she turned slightly, the fabric shifting around her legs, her eyes bright with contained excitement.
After a few shots, she disappeared again.
She returned as a princess.
This time, the dress was pale blue, layered chiffon falling in gentle waves. The bodice fit her perfectly, neither tight nor loose, as if it had been waiting for her alone. She stood straighter now, chin lifted unconsciously, hands folded lightly in front of her.
Lucien closed his book and set it aside.
He watched her in silence, then gestured toward an open clearing where sunlight spilled freely across white stone and flowers bloomed at the edges like a painted frame.
"Here," he said softly.
She moved where he indicated, turning slightly when asked, lifting her skirt just enough to step forward. The photographer captured her in the light, her expression open and luminous, the faintest laugh caught at the corner of her mouth.
She felt unreal—lighter than herself, warmer, as if something inside her had been gently unsealed.
Then came the fairy.
The dress was delicate, almost weightless, with sheer layers that moved even when she breathed. Small translucent wings rested against her back, catching the light with every step.
She hesitated at the doorway this time.
Lucien looked up again.
For a moment, he forgot to stand.
His eyes held hers steadily, something quieter and deeper settling in his gaze. When he did rise, his movements were slower, as though careful not to disturb the moment.
"You look…" He paused, then smiled faintly. "Very happy."
She was.
She felt it in her chest, in the way her heart beat faster than it should have, in the way her hands trembled slightly at her sides.
After a few more photos, she lingered instead of turning away.
Her courage gathered in a sudden, fragile burst.
She stepped closer to him, close enough to feel his warmth, then reached out and lightly took his hand.
Her fingers barely wrapped around his before her nerves caught up with her.
"Would you—" She swallowed, cheeks already burning. "Would you take one photo with me?"
Her face was completely red now.
Lucien didn't hesitate.
"Of course," he said at once.
He stepped beside her, close but not touching at first. She moved nearer, her shoulder almost brushing his arm. Her heart raced wildly, loud in her ears, her breath shallow and quick.
She could feel him now—solid, steady, unmistakably real.
Lucien looked down at her.
Then, slowly, deliberately, as if giving her every chance to pull away—
He lifted one arm.
His hand hovered for a brief second at her waist.
And then, gently, he rested it there.
Not tight.
Not possessive.
Just enough to hold her.
Just enough to ask.
Her breath caught sharply.
She didn't step back.
Instead, she leaned in, the movement small but unmistakable. Her fingers tightened around his hand. Her pulse raced, dizzying, electric.
The camera shutter clicked softly.
Lucien's gaze stayed on her face, searching, attentive, warm.
For that moment—wrapped in light, fabric, and quiet—she felt as though she had stepped fully into a dream.
And she didn't want to wake up.