Chapter 2 A House, Not A Home

Celeste - POV

The next morning arrived too quickly, dragging daylight with it like an unwanted guest. I stood by the window, still in the pajamas I hadn't bothered changing out of. Outside, the streets bustled with a normalcy that mocked me, coffee runs, joggers, honking horns. Why must the world keep turning even when mine has screeched to a halt?

At exactly 6:59 a.m, the intercom buzzed.

"Car's here," the doorman said, voice flat, as though announcing a package delivery.

I dressed quickly, choosing the only outfit I had that looked remotely polished: a navy-blue blouse with pearl buttons and pressed black slacks. I left my hair down, partly to avoid the frizz that came with humidity, but mostly to hide the anxiety that clung to my jawline.

The black car that waited for me outside gleamed like a threat. A driver in a matching black suit stood at the back door, holding it open with military precision.

I couldn't bring myself to look back as I stepped into the car.

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The car pulled up to a towering iron gate that opened so silently I almost didn't notice it move.

I expected the Westwood estate to be extravagant, and it was, but not in the way I imagined. There were no gaudy gold gates or fountains shaped like lions. No screaming wealth.

Instead, it was a quiet, stoic building. The kind of place built not to be lived in, but to be seen. To make you feel small before you'd even stepped inside. The driveway curved between tall, ancient oaks, their gnarled branches tangled like warning signs.

The mansion itself was set far from the road, almost hidden by the dense foliage surrounding it. It appeared to rise from the earth, as though it had always belonged there, a brutal beauty of dark stone, smoked glass, straight architectural lines and steel woven into a structure that was both breathtaking and severe. Ivy crawled up one side of the façade, but even the vines seemed orderly, manicured.

Twin doors of dark oak loomed ahead, flanked by white columns and potted black roses. Not a splash of color in sight, not a hint of softness, only power and control.

As the car slowed to a stop, I took a breath and glanced at my reflection in the tinted window.

Celeste Whitmore, age twenty-three, recently married to a man who hadn't said more than ten words to her.

I'd wrangled my hair back into a low twist in the car, as it was the only presentable way I knew to style my hair and I was no longer in the mood to hide. My lips were bare, my skin pale in the gray morning light. My eyes, storm-washed gray-green, looked too tired for someone so young.

The driver opened the door, and I stepped out onto the rain-speckled stone driveway. The butler was already waiting, tall as a bean pole and ghost-pale, with silver cuffs and no smile.

"Mrs. Westwood," he greeted.

His voice was polished, practiced, and utterly indifferent.

My skin prickled. Mrs. Westwood. It still didn't feel real.

"Please," I said with a faint smile. "Just... Celeste."

He didn't reply, he only nodded curtly, closed the door behind me, then motioned for me to follow.

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I stepped inside gingerly behind him, as an unwelcome stranger would.

The foyer was cavernous. Cold marble floors stretched from end to end and echoed under my boots. A chandelier hung from the ceiling, ominous red glass shaped like inverted teardrops. The walls were lined with oil paintings in heavy black frames. Landscapes without sun, portraits without smiles.

Even the air felt sterile and controlled.

A woman emerged from a corridor to the left. Late forties, tall and neatly groomed, with iron-gray hair pulled into a taut chignon.

"I'm Mrs. Langley," she said briskly. "House manager. I'll escort you to your quarters."

I followed her in silence through hallways that stretched too far and turned too often. The walls were too smooth. The doors, too tall. Everything here was designed to dwarf you.

"You'll be in the East Wing," Langley said. "Meals are scheduled. The kitchen is not for personal use. Laundry, housekeeping, and room upkeep will be handled by the staff. You'll find a printed list of household policies in your room. Adherence is expected."

The rules came like raindrops: fast, cold, and impossible to catch.

"Do I get any say in anything?" I asked, surprised by my own voice.

Mrs. Langley gave the faintest ghost of a smirk. "You can only have presence, Mrs. Westwood, not power. It'll be in your best interest if you toe the line and do as you're told."

"As I was saying, breakfast is served at eight, lunch at one, dinner at seven. Formal attire is required for evening meals should Mr. Westwood join."

"Does he usually?"

She paused for half a heartbeat.

"No," she replied, then pushed open a door at the far end of the hall.

"This is yours."

"You'll find your schedule on the desk," Langley said.

"If you need anything, call extension three. The kitchen is off-limits without permission. You may explore the grounds but avoid the south garden."

That last instruction made me pause. "Why?"

Langley's expression didn't change. "It's being renovated."

She left without saying goodbye, closing the door with a whisper-quiet click.

I stood alone in the room, my cage of cashmere and glass.

Although I had my misgivings, I couldn't deny that it was stunning.

Floor-to-ceiling windows let in muted light from the stormy sky. Pale silver drapes flowed to the floor like water. The bed was enormous-king-sized, navy linens, perfectly smoothed. A fireplace stood across from it, cold and untouched. Everything looked shiny and new, like it belonged in a staged photograph, it didn't feel like mine.

Beside the bed, a crystal vase held blue hyacinths. Someone had probably put them there as some kind of comfort, yet although they were beautiful and fragrant, they felt wrong. There was no joy in this house, only presentation and appearance.

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The knock that came next was soft but quick.

I opened the door to find two women standing side by side, so visually opposite I almost laughed.

One I recognized from a Westwood personnel file: Ava Jeong, early thirties, Korean descent, impossibly polished in a fitted white blouse, tailored black slacks, and pointy flats. She had a sleek high bun, flawless eyeliner, and an air of don't-test-me control.

The other woman... looked like she'd walked into the wrong building. She was short, with round cheeks and curly brown hair cropped just above her shoulders.

Her blouse was a cheerful shade of buttercup yellow, and she wore a long spring green cardigan over it. A chunky necklace of turquoise stones bounced as she walked in. Her lipstick was rose pink and her dark brown eyes sparkled. An unexpected splash of spring in a house built for winter.

"Hello, darling!" she chirped, brushing past Ava and taking both my hands like we'd been friends for years.

"I'm Marla. I'll be in charge of your wardrobe, fittings, and whatever else helps you look and feel divine."

"Marla's been with the family for decades," Ava added, clearly trying not to roll her eyes. "She'll handle your attire. I'll handle everything else."

"And you must be Celeste," Marla said brightly, eyes scanning me head to toe. "Oh, honey, you look so much like my daughter! Bone structure of a Vogue cover and posture of someone who's forgotten how to breathe. Try to relax, will you?"

I blinked. "I-thank you?"

"Not a compliment, sweet pea, merely an observation." She clicked her tongue and looked around the room. "Hyacinths. Ugh. Westwood has no idea how to make a woman feel welcome. Where are the peonies?

The heirloom roses? The shoes that don't look like a banker picked them?"

"I don't think he was aiming for comfort," I murmured.

Marla gave me a knowing look, then a comically obvious wink. "No. But I am."

And for the first time since I'd stepped into this place, I felt the tightness in my chest loosen by a breath.

Ava placed a folder on the desk.

"Media protocol. Pre-approved talking points. Names to avoid. Celeste, you're a Westwood now, which means your image reflects the company. What you wear, say, and do is now subject to scrutiny."

"Sounds like marriage," I muttered.

Marla laughed a full boisterous laugh, exactly like I'd expected. Ava didn't.

"You'll be photographed the next time you step outside this house," Ava said. "We'll need to approve everything from heel height to color palette."

"Color palette," I repeated.

"Lean to jewel tones for evening. Soft neutrals in daylight," Ava replied, stone-faced. "We don't want a spectacle, only elegance will do."

Marla tutted. "Which is exactly why she needs me, you're too obsessed with being invisible. I'll have you know that that's not style, it's camouflage."

Ava paid no attention to Marla and her complaints, she turned to leave. "You'll have your first official event soon. Be ready."

"Don't worry, pumpkin," Marla said, humming to herself as she began unpacking racks of clothing from a wheeled cart someone had left outside the door. "She may talk like a spreadsheet, but I've buried two husbands and survived three economic collapses. We'll be fine."

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I started to unpack slowly, while Marla worked like a whirlwind behind me, placing my few things into drawers that smelled of cedar and lavender. The bed felt too large, the silence too loud. My hand found the ring on my finger again. It glinted in the soft morning light.

Marla worked fast, tossing fabrics over furniture, blue, pink, pastel yellow, humming as she went. " You'll need assistance picking out lunch attire for later today. Mr Westwood has very specific taste, you know?"

She stroked her chin for a second, considering.

"I've got it! Why not a dangerous mix of innocence and sharpness, sweetheart? We'll play with contrast, so soft necklines, structured waists, heels you can actually walk in."

I studied her for a long moment.

"How do you survive in this place?" I asked softly.

Marla glanced at me, the kindness in her eyes sudden and silent.

"I don't let it in."

Then she smiled wide again. "Now, lift your arms."

She dangled a cream wrap dress from one hand and held a pin cushion in another.

"Let's get you into this silk number before I call the tailor and tell him you've got the hips of a goddess and need a waist taken in."

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Adrian – POV

She arrived like a ghost, yet she moved like she belonged.

I watched the footage-real-time security feed, floor twelve. She was supposed to disappear into the house like everyone else did. Fade, submit, comply.

Instead, she stood in the middle of her room while Marla chattered around her and Ava took notes, and she looked... curious.

Not lost, and not afraid. Only curious.

Celeste Whitmore wasn't a blushing bride, she was a variable, and variables could be dangerous. Perhaps later today, I would assign someone to watch over her, after all in my line of work, danger is simply a tool of the trade.

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Marla escorted me down another hallway to a sunroom overlooking a trimmed garden. A single table had been set near the window.

Adrian was already there. He didn't rise when I entered. Didn't smile. Just gestured toward the chair across from him.

"You're late," he said.

"It's 12:59."

"Which is not noon."

I sat down, resisting the urge to roll my eyes. "Do you time everything with a stopwatch?"

"No," he said without looking up. "Only the things I want to control, you simply happen to be one of those things."

My breath caught for a second, but I said nothing in the face of the thinly veiled, quiet rage that simmered behind his eyes. The lunch was delicate, portioned like a model's diet, grilled fish, a few spears of asparagus, and white wine I had no intention of tasting.

We ate in silence. Halfway through, I couldn't help myself.

"Why marry me?"

He paused mid-cut, his grip tightening on the hovering knife.

"It was convenient. You were available, disposable, and you seemed obedient enough."

The cold, detached honesty cut deeper than his words.

"I see."

He looked up at me then, his gaze unreadable. "Although now I'm beginning to wonder if I misjudged you. I suppose we'll have plenty of time to find out. Won't we?"