The afternoon sun streamed through the tall, ornate windows, bathing the house in warm, golden light. Each ray seemed to bring the place to life — the faint gleam off the marble floors, the soft shimmer of glass chandeliers, the lazy dance of dust motes suspended in the air.
Celine — or perhaps Elara still lingering somewhere within her — walked slowly through the grand halls, her steps careful, almost reverent. The house was silent except for the faint hum of air and the quiet rhythm of her heels against the polished floor.
She let her fingers drift across the surfaces she passed: the smooth, cold edge of a marble column, the gentle grain of carved wood, the chill of silver picture frames lined along the corridor. Every touch grounded her, reminding her that this was no dream. This life — this world — was solid. Tangible. Real.
Each room she entered carried its own kind of elegance. Soft rugs muted her steps, and paintings in gilded frames hung neatly on cream-colored walls. The decor was lavish but never loud; it whispered of old money and quiet pride. Someone had built this place not to flaunt wealth but to preserve legacy.
And yet, despite the beauty, the air here felt… curated.
Even the sunlight seemed measured, filtered through layers of lace curtains. The faint scent of jasmine hung in the air — pleasant, but too precise, like a fragrance chosen to hide something underneath.
Celine moved toward one of the wide windows overlooking the back garden. What she saw there took her breath away.
A garden sculpted to perfection — rose bushes blooming in crimson and cream, each trimmed with care. A stone fountain stood at the centre, the water's gentle murmur the only sound breaking the stillness. Beyond it stretched manicured hedges, tall and disciplined, guarding the space like sentinels.
And past the iron fence, other estates dotted the horizon — grand and silent, like distant mirrors of her own.
A few people strolled down the walkway beyond the gate. They waved politely at one another, smiled with impeccable manners, then continued on, never stopping to speak.
It struck her as strange — the quiet choreography of it all. A neighborhood of perfect smiles, polite distances, and invisible walls.
She wondered what it would be like to cross that line. To walk into one of those neighboring gardens and say hello. Would they welcome her? Or would they tilt their heads in that quiet, judgmental way that polite society had mastered so well?
Her reflection shimmered faintly in the glass — her new face superimposed over the garden outside.
No, she thought quietly. It was safer to stay unseen. To remain the calm shadow at the edge of the frame.
She turned away.
The steady tick of the clock drew her attention as she passed through the hall again. Nearly six.
Dinner was at seven.
She made her way back upstairs to the master bedroom — hers, now. The space was pristine: a bed large enough to drown in, soft cream sheets untouched, the faint smell of fresh linen lingering in the air. Everything about it was perfect… and painfully impersonal.
Opening the wardrobe, she hesitated. Row after row of beautiful dresses hung inside, arranged by colour and season. Silks, lace, chiffon — a sea of fabric she didn't know how to navigate.
Her hand brushed a cream-colored gown near the end of the rack. Simple, elegant, modest. Not too loud, not too dull. The kind of dress that said: I'm here, but I won't disturb the peace.
She pulled it out and held it against herself. The fabric flowed softly between her fingers, cool and light, like water.
When she slipped into it, the gown molded to her shape perfectly, as if it remembered her body. She stepped in front of the mirror and adjusted the sleeves.
The woman looking back was refined — poised. The kind of woman who knew how to stand still without being invisible. The kind who could draw attention without trying.
Celine exhaled slowly. She had never looked like this before. Never looked… untouchable.
Her eyes wandered over her reflection. High cheekbones. Sharp jawline. Calm, steady eyes that gave nothing away. The image in the mirror was not someone fragile, not someone small. It was someone built to survive.
She smiled faintly — not out of vanity, but defiance.
This world would not swallow her whole.
The soft creak of the door pulled her from her thoughts.
Kael Rhyne stood at the threshold.
He was dressed in a dark tailored suit, the crisp line of his tie perfectly cantered. His presence filled the doorway effortlessly, the kind of quiet authority that didn't need to announce itself.
His gaze swept over her — a quick, efficient glance — before flicking back to her face.
"Are you ready?" he asked. His tone was calm, even, but distant.
"Yes," she said simply.
For a brief second, their eyes met. There was no warmth in his, no hostility either — just the cold detachment of a man who had built walls long ago and learned to live inside them.
He gave a short nod.
And just like that, he turned and left.
The sound of his footsteps faded down the hall, followed by the quiet click of a door closing somewhere in the distance.
Celine stood in the silence that followed, the echo of his words lingering in the air like smoke.
"Don't be late."
He spoke to her like a schedule, not a person.
But she didn't flinch. Not this time.
She looked once more at her reflection, tilting her chin slightly, testing the expression that felt most like armor — serene, unreadable, untouchable.
This house, this life, this name — they were all cages of their own kind.
But she was still breathing. Still standing.
That was enough.
For now.
She turned toward the window again, watching as the golden afternoon deepened into amber dusk. Somewhere outside, the fountain murmured softly, its rhythm steady and endless.
Time moved forward whether she wanted it to or not.
And so, she would move with it.