The soft rustle of silk against her skin was foreign but oddly comforting.
Elara had never been one to care much for fashion in her old life—jeans, hoodies, and sneakers were her armor, her small rebellion against a world that demanded too much of her. But now, standing before the tall mirror inside the master bedroom, she slid her arms into the sleeves of a pale blue dress she'd found neatly folded in the vast closet.
The fabric whispered across her skin as she moved, light as air, smooth and cool beneath her fingers. It shimmered faintly under the morning sun that streamed through gauzy curtains, painting her in soft gold. The woman in the reflection—Celine Arden—looked effortlessly graceful. Poised. The kind of woman who belonged in elegant houses with quiet hallways and silver breakfast trays.
Elara tilted her head, studying the reflection. Her pulse quickened as she smoothed the fabric along her waist.
This wasn't her.
But it was.
The silk clung to her like the life she now had to inhabit, whispering promises of stability, beauty, and luxury—things she had never known before. Yet beneath that shimmer, something colder lurked. This wasn't freedom. It was a gilded cage with a lock she didn't know how to open.
She inhaled slowly, trying to make peace with the woman in the mirror.
Downstairs, faint sounds filtered upward—the clinking of dishes, the quiet hum of footsteps, the rhythmic scrape of cutlery. Life moved on below, indifferent to her confusion.
Gathering her courage, Elara stepped out of the room. The grand staircase curved before her like something out of a magazine, its polished banister gleaming beneath soft chandelier light. Each step she took echoed faintly through the still house, announcing her presence in a home that still felt foreign.
At the bottom, sunlight spilled in through high windows, pooling over the marble floor like liquid gold. The scent of roasted coffee and butter hung faintly in the air.
Kael Rhyne sat at the breakfast table, a newspaper unfolded in his hands, a cup of black coffee placed precisely at his right. He was dressed impeccably in a dark shirt and slacks, every line sharp, every movement deliberate.
Elara hesitated on the last step.
He didn't look up right away. His posture was rigid, his expression unreadable. Even the air around him seemed taut, like a string drawn too tightly.
When his gaze finally lifted to meet hers, it was only for a second—a flicker of acknowledgment, nothing more.
"I'll be back before six," he said, voice low, clipped, measured. "Dinner is at seven. Be ready."
The words weren't cruel, but they were cold, every syllable neatly folded into formality.
Elara nodded silently. "Okay," she murmured, almost too softly to be heard.
He didn't reply. Folding the newspaper, Kael rose from his seat in one fluid motion. His suit jacket—charcoal gray, pressed to perfection—hung over the back of the chair. He slipped it on with practiced precision and, without another glance her way, left the room.
The faint click of the front door closing echoed through the house, leaving behind a silence that pressed on her chest.
For a moment, she stood there, unsure what to do with the absence he left behind. The house was beautiful, yes—but it was also empty in a way that felt human. Every polished surface reflected her image back at her like she was an intruder wandering through a memory.
Her eyes drifted toward the kitchen.
An older woman hummed softly as she chopped vegetables, her hands moving with an ease that spoke of years spent tending to this household. Her hair was graying, her posture straight despite her age. When she turned and caught sight of Elara standing awkwardly by the doorway, her lips curved into a kind smile.
"Good morning, ma'am," the woman said, her voice gentle, warm in a way this house wasn't. "You're up early today."
Elara hesitated, unsure how to respond. "Good morning," she said finally.
The woman wiped her hands on her apron, still smiling. "You don't have to worry about Master Kael," she said kindly, her tone low but comforting. "He's always been that way—cold on the surface, but not unkind underneath. I've been with him for years. This house is as much my home as his."
Something in Elara loosened.
That warmth, however small, felt like a gift.
She smiled faintly. "Thank you," she said, and meant it.
The maid nodded, turning back to her work, humming the same soft tune.
Elara lingered for a moment longer, letting the smell of breakfast and the rhythm of simple domestic life fill the hollow ache inside her chest. For the first time since she'd woken in this body, she didn't feel like she was drowning. Just floating—uncertain, but alive.
She left the kitchen quietly and climbed the stairs back to her room, her footsteps light against the polished wood.
The afternoon sunlight had shifted, spilling through the wide window in a wash of warmth. Dust motes floated lazily in the golden air, catching the light like tiny sparks.
As her gaze swept the room, something caught her attention—a slim smartphone resting on the bedside table, its screen black and silent.
Her heart skipped.
A phone.
A connection. A lifeline to something real.
She crossed the room quickly, sitting on the edge of the bed as she picked it up. The device was sleek, newer than anything she'd owned before. Her reflection shimmered faintly on the screen's surface.
"Okay," she whispered to herself. "Passcode."
Her mind went blank. She didn't know Celine's number—but her fingers, strangely, seemed to. They moved almost on their own, tapping a familiar pattern on the glass.
The lock clicked open.
A quiet gasp escaped her.
The home screen bloomed to life—soft tones of blue and cream, minimalist and elegant. Notifications blinked faintly at the top: unread messages, missed calls, news updates.
She stared at it for a long moment, her pulse loud in her ears.
Here, at last, was a key to the life she'd inherited.
The proof of who Celine had been—and who Elara might now have to become.