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The city shimmered like glass under a muted sky as the car slipped through the heart of London. It was nothing like home—no soft snow piled on rooftops, no quiet streets dusted in frost. Here, everything was alive. Fast. Unfamiliar. The traffic buzzed with urgency, people moved like currents, and buildings stretched up like giants trying to touch the clouds.
Blair Maybell sat by the window of the sleek black car, her face turned toward the passing world. Her green eyes, fierce yet soft, drank in every new sight—stone buildings with flowered balconies, the river threading through the city like a secret. Her long, dark curls were pulled into a lazy braid that draped over one shoulder, and a single silver ring rested on her middle finger—her father's. A man who once loved her and now belonged to another family. A secret still waiting to ruin her peace.
She wasn't a quiet girl, not exactly. She just listened more than she spoke, choosing her words like she chose who to trust: carefully. She was the kind of girl who noticed when people's smiles didn't reach their eyes. Who saw the tension in a jaw before anyone else even knew there was something wrong.
Across from her sat Lily Quest—her mother, her best friend, the woman who never gave up. Lily was elegance in motion, with soft brunette hair cascading past her shoulders and eyes the color of sunlit honey. She smiled like her heart had never been broken and laughed like she hadn't once cried herself to sleep. Dressed in a powder-blue coat and heels that clicked like confidence, Lily looked like she belonged in this world of mansions and marble.
"You'll love him," Lily said again, fingers fidgeting with the strap of her purse. "Victor is charming, old-school, polite. You'll see. You'll understand."
Blair offered a small smile. "If you're happy, that's enough for me."
Lily leaned forward, her voice a whisper. "I want this to work, Blair. Not just for me—for us. For once, maybe we won't have to struggle. Maybe you can be seventeen and just... live."
Before Blair could answer, the car slowed. They had arrived.
Two guards in sleek navy uniforms approached the gates, one scanning the license plate while the other nodded into a hidden mic. The iron gates groaned open like a kingdom inviting its queen. The driveway was paved with polished marble stones, bordered with hedges carved into shapes—swans, spirals, something that looked like a lion mid-roar.
The Quest estate rose in the distance like a castle from a dream.
No—from a movie.
Three stories of modern architecture wrapped in silver and blue glass. Ivory towers connected by open balconies and bridges. A waterfall wall to the right poured into a crystal-clear koi pond, and to the left, a lap pool shimmered, bordered by gold-trimmed lounge chairs. Even the air smelled expensive—like lemon zest, lavender, and success.
Inside, it was worse—or better, depending on your heart.
Blair's boots clicked against imported Italian marble, the hallway stretching into gold-lit corridors with artwork worth more than her mother's last two salaries. Staff lined the walls like statues, ready to serve but never seen.
And then, at the heart of the home—he appeared.
Victor Quest.
Tall. Regal. His presence alone silenced the space.
He wore a fitted grey suit like it was tailored by gods. His hair was a smooth sweep of deep chestnut, a streak of silver curling just above one ear. His jaw was strong, clean-shaven, and his icy blue eyes held the kind of stare that made people sit straighter.
"Lily," he said in that calm, polished tone of a man who expected the world to obey.
Lily lit up. She walked to him without hesitation and wrapped her arms around him. They fit together like puzzle pieces—like maybe this time, love had a chance.
Victor turned his gaze to Blair. "And you must be Blair."
She stood her ground. "Hi."
He extended his hand. She looked at it for a moment. Then offered a nod, keeping hers at her side. Not out of rudeness—but caution. She wasn't ready to trust smiles that came too easy.
"She's beautiful," Victor said to Lily, then to Blair, "Welcome to your new home."
Blair said nothing, just gave a polite smile. An older woman stepped in—a housekeeper, by the look of her uniform. Neatly dressed, hair in a bun, her expression kind but unreadable.
"Miss Maybell, if you'll come with me," she said gently. "I'll show you to your room. Miss Cassie isn't home yet, but you'll meet her at dinner. Formal. Eight sharp."
They moved through corridor after corridor, the grandeur almost numbing. Walls were decorated with gold-framed paintings, thick rugs muffled their steps, and floor-to-ceiling windows framed the Thames like art.
When the woman opened the door to Blair's room, Blair felt her breath hitch.
A four-poster bed stood in the center, ocean-blue velvet sheets and matching drapes. The windows opened to a wide balcony that overlooked the river. There was a seating area with ivory couches and a wall of bookshelves filled with classic literature. Atop the marble vanity, perfumes and silk scarves waited in delicate arrangements. The closet opened into a dream—rows of dresses, from soft cotton to rich satin, color-coded and perfectly hung.
And on the couch near the fireplace... a puppy.
Fluffy, golden, with a tiny pink tongue and wide brown eyes.
"A puppy?" Blair blinked.
"She's yours," the housekeeper said. "Victor thought you might need a friend. Her name is Poppy."
Blair crouched down, the puppy licking her fingers instantly. Something warm fluttered in her chest.
"If you need anything, ring the bell. I'll leave you to settle in."
When the door shut behind her, Blair stood in the center of the room, her fingers absently stroking the dog's fur.
Everything was perfect.
Everything was unfamiliar.
And this was only the beginning.