CLARA AWOKE TO THE FAINT rustle of movement—the soft swish of skirts, and the whisper of maids speaking in hushed tones. Pale morning light spilled through the tall windows, tinting the chamber gold.
For a moment, she lay still upon the bed, cocooned in its warmth. The mattress was far softer than anything she had ever known, and sleep—blissful, dreamless sleep—had finally claimed her after nights of anxious wakefulness.
When she stirred at last, stretching her arms with a small yawn, one of the maids noticed and curtsied at once.
"Good morning, my lady."
Clara blinked, momentarily startled. My lady. She still wasn't used to hearing it. Forcing a polite smile, she inclined her head rather than speak—words had failed her once before when she had mistakenly curtsied to a servant. She wouldn't repeat that humiliation.
The maid continued, voice delicate. "Lord Percival requests that we prepare you for breakfast."
Clara's heart gave a small, startled thump. Breakfast—with Adrian's family? She hesitated, then schooled her features into calm as she gazed at the dress picked for her. "It's quite all right," she said softly. "I can manage on my own."
A few glances passed among the servants, quickly disguised as they bowed, "As you wish, my Lady." And withdrew.
When the door closed, Clara let out a slow breath of relief. She didn't blame the servants for exchanging that look. She would too if a lady asked to dress herself, but still she couldn't risk being exposed.
She rose, her bare feet sinking into the thick carpet. The air held a faint chill as she crossed to the bathing screen. The water was warm, perfumed faintly of lavender. She bathed in silence, trying to wash away not just sleep, but the creeping fear that she would betray herself before long.
When she was ready, she slipped into the gown laid out for her—a soft silver silk that caught the morning light like mist. It was far too fine for her liking, far too easy to ruin. Sitting before the mirror, she stared at her reflection: chestnut hair tumbling over her shoulders, wide brown eyes betraying every secret thought. She reached for a brush, then paused. No—better to leave her hair loose. It felt more… honest.
Drawing one last steadying breath, she stepped out of the chamber.
Just as she did, a door across the corridor opened, and Adrian emerged.
Her breath caught.
He was already dressed—immaculate as ever—in a dark morning coat and white cravat. There was something about the way he carried himself, that quiet composure, that made him seem untouchable. Their eyes met, and for a heartbeat, neither moved.
"Good morning, your—" She stopped herself awkwardly, cheeks warming. "Adrian."
His expression softened—only slightly—but his gaze lingered, sweeping over her before returning to her face. "Good morning, Eve."
The name struck her like a misplaced note. Eve? It took her a moment to realize—he was pretending, already assuming the role for his father's sake.
Seeing her confusion, he spoke quietly. "If you wish to gain your freedom in six months, we must be convincing. My father isn't easily fooled."
She nodded, forcing composure even as her pulse fluttered. "Of course… Adrian."
He gave a small approving nod. "Good. Let's go."
They walked side by side through the long corridor, their footsteps softened by Persian carpets. Clara's heart drummed in her chest with every turn they took. The manor was enormous, its walls lined with portraits that watched her with painted eyes. When they reached the dining hall, she almost forgot to breathe.
The room was grander than the last time she was here to have dinner with Adrian—oak-paneled walls, high arched windows, and a table long enough to seat twenty, though only four places were set. Platters of fruit, pastries, and steaming dishes covered the polished surface, releasing scents so rich they made her dizzy.
Adrian moved forward, and she followed, her movements stiff, rehearsed. She curtsied low. "Lord Montrose," she murmured.
"Father," Adrian said shortly, without warmth.
Lord Percival looked up, his sharp eyes softening when they fell on Clara. "Please, join me for breakfast, dear."
Her throat tightened. "Of course, Lord Montrose," she said quickly.
Adrian pulled out a chair for her and she sat down carefully with an elegance that faltered. "Thank you." She said politely at him. He nodded and sat next to his father who sat at the head of the table.
Lord Percival smiled at this and then turned to Clara with that same smile. "Call me Father," he corrected gently. "I trust you slept well?"
Clara hesitated, her fingers worrying the folds of her gown. "Yes, Father. Thank you."
"I'm glad to hear it." He leaned back in his chair, eyes twinkling with mischief. "And did Adrian treat you well last night?"
Clara froze, color rising to her cheeks.
"Father!" Adrian's voice was sharp, warning. Surely the old man had no shame.
The old man merely shrugged, unbothered. "What? A father cannot ask after his son's new bride?"
Before Adrian could respond, the sound of hurried footsteps filled the hall.
"Apologies for my lateness!"
A young woman swept in like sunlight—Adrian's sister, Lillian Montrose. Her dark hair cascaded over her shoulders, and her bright blue gown shimmered as she crossed the room. Clara's heart sank at the sight of her—so poised, so effortlessly beautiful.
"Good morning, Father. Brother." Lillian's bright eyes landed on Clara, and she smiled playfully, already sitted. "And good morning, sister-in-law."
Clara managed a polite smile, though her stomach twisted because she suddenly felt ugly compared to Adrian's sister.
Lord Percival sighed. "It's no surprise your maid takes half the morning to dress you."
Lillian only laughed lightly, serving herself a pastry. "A woman must look her best, Father."
As the family fell into easy chatter, Clara tried to eat quietly, to appear at ease, though the silverware felt foreign in her hands.
Then Lord Percival spoke again.
"Well, my dear," he said between bites, "I'm glad you've joined us. At least it has pulled Adrian from his study for once."
Clara's heart skipped as she bit her lips, unable to say a word.
"Father," Adrian muttered on her behalf through clenched teeth, "must you always—"
"Fine, fine." The old man waved a dismissive hand, but a mischievous glint lingered in his eyes. He took another sip of tea before adding, far too casually, "Now, when shall I expect grandchildren?"
Clara's spoon froze midair. Then she choked, coughing violently as heat rushed to her face.