The ink on the contract hadn't fully dried when Sebastian pressed the intercom hidden in his desk. "Tell Thorn to ready the car," he said into the microphone, his gaze never leaving Ella—appraising her like a newly acquired artifact. "Take her to the West Wing Manor. Prepare everything per standard protocol."
Before Ella could process what "standard protocol" meant, two black-suited bodyguards half-escorted, half-guided her out of the office. The scent in the corridor had shifted to a sharper mint, an eerie echo of Sebastian's cedar—like the entire building was silently declaring: every breath here, even the air itself, answered to him.
The elevator dropped them to the underground garage, where a black Maybach waited in its private stall, its windows so dark they resembled a dormant beast. The man called "Thorn," a butler in a crisp tailcoat with immaculately combed hair, held open the back door. His look was polite but distant, as if assessing a fragile item that required careful handling.
"Ms. White, please."
The drive lasted longer than Ella expected. Neon lights outside the window faded, replaced by winding tree-lined roads. Halos from streetlights filtered through dense plane tree leaves, casting dappled shadows across the leather seats. Ella huddled in the corner, her fingers repeatedly brushing the silver nightingale at her throat—Sebastian's additional clause had turned the pendant into a new chain.
"Mr. Black's estate spans twenty-four acres," Thorn's voice came from the front seat, emotionless. "Your quarters are on the third floor of the East Wing, at a reasonable distance from the master bedroom. Public areas are accessible during designated hours, excluding the study, wine cellar, and West Wing restricted zones."
She said nothing. Designated hours? Reasonable distance? The words pricked like fine needles, piercing her pretense of calm.
An hour later, the Maybach passed through iron gates etched with a family crest, entering an estate grand enough to be called a "castle." The main house blazed with light, its Gothic spires cutting a sharp silhouette against the night sky. A garden fountain pulsed to the rhythm of hidden music—everything as exquisite as a medieval painting, yet utterly devoid of warmth.
Ella nearly slipped on the marble floor when led into the grand hall. A chandelier hung from the vaulted ceiling, its crystal strands refracting light that stung her eyes. Oil paintings on the walls seemed to stare, silent judges of her intrusion.
"Your luggage will arrive tomorrow," Thorn said, standing beside a spiral staircase, holding out a neatly folded silk nightgown. "Mr. Black has instructed you to adjust to the new schedule tonight. At seven a.m., the stylist will prepare your attire for the breakfast reception."
"Breakfast reception?" Ella finally found her voice, a faint tremor threading through it. "The contract didn't mention—"
"Clause three: Party B must unconditionally comply with all of Party A's schedules, including last-minute additions." Thorn cut her off, his tone as flat as reciting a legal statute. "Mr. Black believes you should familiarize yourself with basic social etiquette promptly."
He gestured for her to follow. As they climbed the stairs, Ella noticed the banister carvings: thorned vines with sharp protrusions, as if ready to tear skin—fitting for a man named Black, and the net he'd woven around her.
The room was enormous. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, a meticulously trimmed rose garden stretched out, though the roses shrank into blurry shadows in the dark. The walk-in closet was larger than her old bedroom, filled with gowns, heels, and accessories—brands she'd only seen in financial magazine ads.
"These…," she started.
"All personally selected for you by Mr. Black," Thorn said, placing the nightgown on the bed. "Starting tomorrow, your wardrobe will be decided by the styling team. Additionally," his gaze flickered to her pendant, "Mr. Black emphasized: this pendant must be worn at all times. No exceptions."
Ella's fingers tightened around the pendant, its cold metal digging into her palm. She wanted to ask why, to ask if the rumors about "Isabella" were true, to ask if she'd truly become a ghost. But the words died in her throat, leaving only a dry "I understand."
After Thorn left, the door clicked shut—a soft, final sound that told her the lock had engaged. Ella rushed to the door, only to find the inner handle wouldn't turn. This wasn't a guest room. It was a cell.
She stood before the full-length mirror. The girl staring back had pale skin, messy hair, and a silver nightingale glowing faintly at her throat. The mirror also reflected the digital clock on the nightstand: 4:17 a.m. Less than five hours until her father's surgery.
She pulled the crumpled debt list from her pocket. It was meaningless now. In its place was the signed contract, an invisible brand burning into her wrist.
The fountain outside suddenly shifted rhythm, its gurgle like quiet sobs. Ella peeled off her wet coat, staring at the closet full of new, foreign clothes, her throat tightening.
Then her phone buzzed: a text from the hospital. "Mr. White's surgery is confirmed. Payment received. Scheduled for 8 a.m."
Payment received.
Ella sank to the floor, burying her face in her knees. Cold from the tiles seeped through her jeans, clearing her muddled thoughts.
For father, she told herself, over and over, a mantra.
Six months. She just needed to endure six months.
She didn't see the study below, where Sebastian stood before a monitor, watching her huddled form. The unlit cigar still dangled from his fingers; his gray-blue eyes were shadowed in the smoky light, his gaze lingering on the faint glint of the silver nightingale in the screen.
"Thorn," he said suddenly, his voice rough. "Find out the origin of that pendant."
"Yes, sir."
"Also," he added, not taking his eyes off the screen, "have the etiquette instructor start tomorrow. I won't tolerate any mistakes at the breakfast reception."
On the monitor, the girl slowly lifted her head, looking out at the dark sky—like a nightingale trapped in a gilded cage, wings still trembling, already studying the prison named Sebastian Black, searching for a sliver of air.
And the thorns outside? They'd only just begun to coil.