The bell in the corridor struck five-thirty, its tone sharp enough to slice through the fog of sleep. Ella jolted awake, her heart racing—she'd grown up to the soft tick of her father's clocks, not this brash, authoritative chime that felt like a command.
She sat up, the silk sheets sliding off her shoulders. The room was still dark, but through the curtains, she could make out the silhouette of the rose garden, its thorns now shadows that clawed at the window. Her fingers drifted to the silver nightingale at her throat. It had felt warm against her skin when she'd stirred at midnight, as if holding a sliver of sunlight trapped in metal.
A soft knock. "Miss White? Styling team in ten minutes." Martha's voice, pleasant but unyielding, like a well-oiled hinge.
Ella swung her legs over the bed, her feet hitting the cold marble floor. She'd never thought she'd miss the creaky wooden planks of her old bedroom, but here, even the floor seemed to judge her—too loud, too unpolished, too ordinary.
She pulled on the dressing gown laid out on the chair. It was ivory silk, embroidered with tiny nightingales along the hem—Sebastian's touch, no doubt. A reminder that even her sleepwear was chosen for her, curated to fit the role he'd assigned.
In the mirror, the girl staring back looked like a stranger. Her hair was a mess, her eyes ringed with fatigue, but the pendant glinted steadily, a constant in the chaos. She'd asked her father once why Grandma had left it to her, not to one of the cousins. He'd said, "Some things find the people they're meant to protect." At the time, she'd thought it was just a story. Now, it felt like a debt.
The styling team arrived precisely at five-forty. Three women in starched aprons, their hair in severe buns, carrying cases that clinked like they held more than brushes.
"Ms. White." The lead stylist, a woman with a clipboard and a permanent frown, nodded at her hair. "Up, please. Mr. Black prefers a low chignon for morning lessons—no stray hairs."
Ella sat on the vanity stool as they set to work. A brush raked through her tangles, yanking her head back. She bit her lip to avoid yelping. "Careful," she muttered.
The stylist's lips tightened. "Mr. Black's instructions are clear: neatness above comfort. You'll be meeting with the estate manager later—appearance matters."
Of course it did. She was a prop, not a person.
When they finished, her scalp ached. She touched the back of her head—a smooth, hard knot, held together with a dozen pins. The mirror showed a girl with a neck too long, a face too pale, and a chignon that looked like it could survive a storm.
"Breakfast in the east dining room at seven," the stylist said, packing up. "Etiquette tutor will be there. She doesn't tolerate tardiness."
Downstairs, the east dining room was smaller than the grand hall but no less intimidating. Dark wood paneling, walls hung with hunting trophies (stags with antlers that looked sharp enough to impale), and a table set with enough silverware to feed a army. Each place setting had six forks, five knives, three spoons—arranged with the precision of a military formation.
"Ms. White." A woman in a gray dress stood by the table, her back straight as a ruler. "I'm Mrs. Poole. Your etiquette instructor." She gestured to the chair. "Sit. Hands on your lap, elbows off the table, spine straight."
Ella sat. Her chignon dug into her skull.
"Today: cutlery protocol." Mrs. Poole picked up a tiny fork, holding it between thumb and forefinger like it was a live wire. "Fish fork—outermost. Salad fork—next. Note the curve of the tines: fish forks are broader, to handle delicate flesh."
Ella stared at the array of silver. It looked like a puzzle, one designed to make her fail.
"Ms. White?" Mrs. Poole's voice sharpened. "Pay attention. Mr. Black's sister is arriving next week. She'll judge you on this."
Sebastian had a sister? No one had mentioned that.
A footman appeared, placing a bowl of porridge in front of her. It was lumpy, congealing at the edges.
"Porridge spoon," Mrs. Poole said, tapping the smallest spoon. "Hold it like this—palm up, wrist relaxed."
Ella picked it up. The spoon wobbled.
Mrs. Poole sighed. "Again. You look like you're holding a shovel."
She tried again. Her hand shook.
"Stop."
Ella froze.
Mrs. Poole leaned in, her voice low. "This isn't a game. Mr. Black didn't bring you here to coddle you. He wants results. So either learn, or find out what happens when he's disappointed."
Fear coiled in Ella's stomach. What did happen? She didn't want to know.
She lifted the spoon again, slower. This time, it stayed steady.
"Better." Mrs. Poole nodded. "Now, eat. Small bites. No noise."
The porridge tasted like paste. Ella chewed silently, her eyes on the window. A gardener was trimming the rosebushes, his shears snipping through thorns. Snap, snap, snap.
The door opened. Sebastian stood in the doorway, wearing a dark sweater and trousers, a newspaper under his arm. He looked less formal than usual, but his gaze was as assessing as ever.
"Progress?" he asked, glancing at her spoon.
"Slow, sir," Mrs. Poole said. "But improving."
Sebastian walked to the table, stopping behind Ella's chair. His hand brushed the back of her neck, fingers grazing the edge of her chignon. She stiffened.
"Too tight," he said, plucking a pin from the knot. It clattered to the table. "She's not a doll, Poole. Loosen it."
Mrs. Poole's eyes widened, but she nodded. "Yes, sir."
Sebastian's fingers lingered, tracing the line of her vertebrae through her hair. A shiver ran down her spine—fear, or something else?
"Finish your breakfast," he said, stepping away. "I'll send Thorn to collect you at nine. We're visiting the stables—you need to learn to ride. Lady Black's annual hunt is in three weeks."
Another new rule. Another demand.
Ella stared at her porridge. "I don't want to ride."
He raised an eyebrow. "The contract says 'unconditional compliance.' Ring a bell?"
She thought of her father, lying in a hospital bed. "Yes."
"Good." He turned to leave, then paused. "And Ella?"
She looked up.
"Try not to look like you're swallowing glass. It's unbecoming."
The door closed behind him. Ella picked up her spoon, her hand steadier now. Unbecoming. As if anything about her mattered, beyond how well she played her part.
Outside, the gardener's shears snapped again. Snap. Snap. Snap.
Like a countdown.
To what, she didn't know. But she had a feeling it wouldn't be good.