Laughter slipped through the corridor before Elara realized it wasn't meant for her ears.
She slowed, then stopped.
The sound came from the service hall near the east wing, where staff gathered between shifts. She had learned the layout quickly. Where footsteps softened. Where doors hid sound instead of blocking it.
"Elara," one voice said, light with amusement. "That's her name, right?"
Another laughed. "Names don't matter when you're rented."
Elara's breath caught. She stayed still, pressed to the shadowed wall, her hands curling slowly at her sides.
"I heard she came from nothing," a woman continued. "No parents. No connections. Just some poor relative who sold her off."
"Smart move," someone replied. "If I were that desperate, I'd do the same."
A third voice chimed in. "You think Mr. Blackwood touches her?"
Silence followed. Then a snort.
"Please. Men like him don't marry women like her for pleasure."
The laughter returned, sharper this time.
Elara felt the words land one by one, precise and unforgiving. She didn't move. She didn't breathe. She listened because she had learned that truth lived in unguarded mouths.
"She barely speaks," the first woman said. "Like a mouse."
"Better that way," another replied. "Keeps her from forgetting her place."
The phrase echoed painfully.
Elara stepped back quietly, careful not to make a sound. She turned and walked away, her steps measured, her posture steady.
Her heart pounded too loud in her ears.
By the time she reached the main hall, her face was calm. She had mastered that part. Expressionless. Unremarkable.
Inside her chest, something cracked.
So this was how they saw her.
Not as a wife. Not even as a person. But as a temporary solution, purchased and contained.
A cage, she realized, didn't need bars. It only needed people to believe you belonged inside it.
She returned to her room and shut the door softly. She stood there for a long moment, palms pressed against the wood, grounding herself.
She had known she was alone.
She hadn't known she was entertainment.
Dinner that night was quiet.
Adrian sat at the head of the table, scrolling through messages on his phone. Elara sat to his right, hands folded, eyes lowered.
"You didn't eat lunch," he said without looking up.
She blinked, surprised. "I wasn't hungry."
He finally glanced at her. "You should eat."
"Yes."
She reached for her fork, her movements careful.
"You look tired," he added.
"I'm fine."
He watched her for a moment longer, his gaze sharp, as if searching for a fault line.
"Did something happen today?" he asked.
Her pulse jumped. She kept her eyes on her plate. "No."
He leaned back slightly. The chair creaked softly.
"You hesitate when you lie," he said.
Her fingers tightened around the fork.
"I wasn't lying," she replied.
A pause followed.
Then he smiled faintly. Not warm. Not amused. Just knowing.
"Good," he said. "Then we won't waste time pretending to care."
The words stung, but she said nothing.
After dinner, Adrian stood and adjusted his cuffs. "You'll join me in the study."
Her breath caught. "Now?"
"Yes."
She followed him through the corridor, her mind racing. The study felt different at night. Dimmer. More private.
He shut the door behind them.
"Sit," he said, gesturing to the chair across from his desk.
She obeyed.
He moved around the desk slowly, deliberately, and stopped in front of her.
"You've been quiet today," he said. "Even for you."
She lowered her gaze. "I didn't want to disturb you."
"Disturb me how?"
She hesitated. The truth pressed against her chest, sharp and insistent.
"You overheard something," he said.
Her heart skipped.
"No," she said quickly.
His eyes narrowed. "There it is."
She swallowed. "It wasn't important."
"Say it," he ordered.
She forced herself to look at him. "Some of the staff were talking."
"And?"
She inhaled slowly. "About me."
His expression didn't change, but something in his posture shifted. Tension, subtle but present.
"What did they say?" he asked.
Her voice trembled despite her effort. "That I was… replaceable."
Silence fell.
Adrian studied her face, his gaze unreadable.
"And?" he prompted.
"That I didn't belong here," she continued softly. "That I was temporary."
He straightened.
"Are they wrong?" he asked.
The question landed like a blow.
She stared at him, her chest tight. "I don't know."
"Yes, you do," he said calmly. "Answer me."
She took a breath. "No."
The word surprised even her.
His brow lifted slightly.
"No?" he repeated.
"I don't think I am replaceable," she said, her voice shaking now. "Not as easily as they believe."
He stepped closer.
"You're testing something," he said quietly.
"I'm trying to understand," she replied. "If this is truly all I am to you."
He stopped directly in front of her. Too close.
"You are what you were purchased to be," he said. "Nothing more."
The honesty hurt worse than the mockery.
Her eyes burned. She blinked, refusing to let tears fall.
"Then why do you watch me?" she asked before she could stop herself. "Why do you notice when I don't eat? Why do you care if I hear things?"
His jaw tightened.
"I don't care," he said.
She believed him. And yet.
"Stand," he ordered.
She did.
He reached out and tilted her chin upward, forcing her to meet his gaze. His touch was firm, controlled, not gentle.
"You mistake awareness for concern," he said. "I notice what belongs to me."
Heat spread through her skin despite herself. She hated the way her body reacted. Hated that he felt it.
His eyes darkened slightly.
"You hear gossip," he continued. "You feel small. That's expected."
His thumb brushed her jaw slowly.
"What matters is this," he said. "You don't correct them. You don't seek sympathy. You remain silent."
Her breath came shallow. "Because silence keeps me safe."
A flicker of something crossed his face. Approval, perhaps.
"Exactly," he said. "You're learning."
His hand dropped away.
"Go," he said. "And remember. Staff opinions don't change reality. I do."
She turned to leave, her legs unsteady.
At the door, she stopped.
"Adrian," she said quietly.
He looked at her.
"If I disappear," she asked, "would you notice?"
The room went still.
His gaze sharpened. "You won't disappear."
The certainty in his tone sent a chill down her spine.
She nodded once and left.
Later that night, Elara lay awake, staring at the ceiling.
The voices replayed in her mind. Rented. Replaceable. Temporary.
She pressed a hand to her chest, feeling her heart race.
This marriage wasn't just a cage.
It was a display.
She was meant to be seen. Judged. Controlled. Reduced.
Her phone buzzed.
A new message.
You asked an interesting question tonight. Don't make me answer it the hard way.
Her fingers trembled.
She turned the phone face down and closed her eyes.
Somewhere in the house, Adrian moved. She could feel it, the way she had begun to feel everything about him. His presence. His attention. His ownership.
The realization settled heavy and cold.
If she stayed silent, she survived.
If she spoke, she shattered.
And the most frightening part wasn't the servants' laughter.
It was knowing that the man who owned the cage was the only one who noticed when she rattled the bars.