Isabelle

I count door after door, each one blurring into the next as we weave through the halls, trying to busy my mind as Ms. Pottsworth leads me to my new home. My distraction attempts fail. No matter how hard I try, my thoughts keep sprinting back to the crushing truth—I've just relinquished my freedom to complete psycho for the next five years.

This has to be the dumbest thing I've ever done. Who am I trying to kid? This is the dumbest thing anyone has ever done.

And we're supposed to be the smart daughter.

"I think you're the bravest person I've ever met," Ms. Pottsworth says, startling me out of my spiraling thoughts. I almost laugh, wondering if she can hear my thoughts.

How does she know what I did? Was she listening?

I would've.

She finally stops in front of a large, dark auburn door, opening it with a slight grin and a kind twinkle in her eyes. "And at my age, that's saying something."

"Right, because nothing screams brave like willingly becoming a slave to the guy everyone in the next town calls 'the Beast,'" I scoff, stepping inside despite the knot tightening in my gut.

The suite is a shrine to extravagance, every inch dripping with luxury and elegance. A grand four-poster bed, draped in rich velvet curtains, dominates half the room with its plush silk sheets and intricately carved headboard. The walls are swathed in deep burgundy and gold, bathed in the soft glow of light fixtures. The light bounces off the polished marble flooring in the room. A series of tall, arched windows draped in heavy silk curtains frame a view of the lush gardens outside. Directly across from the entrance, the marble floors continue through a set of elegant French doors that lead to an equally lavish bathroom.

On the opposite side of the bedroom, a stone fireplace with logs—ready to be burned—connects to another room. Through another set of French doors, I can see a cozy sitting room, complete with overstuffed armchairs, a mahogany coffee table, and who knows what else. The adjoining space has an inviting ambiance, offering a quiet corner to unwind, making the whole suite feel like a self-contained world of comfort and luxury. The room's extraordinary, and under any other circumstances, I'd probably twirl and do a few backflips after learning it's mine. But it isn't mine.

It's his.

Just like he believes you are.

After a quick scan of the room, I turn to Ms. Pottsworth, forcing a fake smile. "Thank you, Ms. Pottsworth," I manage, the words tasting hollow as I force them out.

"My pleasure, dear. And please, call me Eliza," she says with a kind smile. "And I meant what I said. Agreeing to stay here to save your father is one of the bravest things I've seen in this house." She guides me to the bed, gesturing for me to sit.

So, she was listening.

Told ya.

Up until now, I hadn't realized how close I was to collapsing. All at once, the gravity of what just happened hits me, and my body feels like it's been crushed by an avalanche of dread. Ms. Pottsworth reaches for my bag, and I regain enough strength to grip it like a vise.

She raises her hands in surrender. "I just thought you might want to put it in the closet, but you can keep it," she says softly, the gentle, nurturing tone in her voice easing my anxiety a fraction of an inch.

"I'm sorry. It's fine here," I reply, sliding the strap off my shoulder and placing the bag beside me on the bed. I pull my mom's book out of it, needing its comfort. It helps. A little.

She cocks her brow at the book but says nothing.

"If you fancy books so much, you won't be at a loss for them here. The library's massive. It has everything," she says with a small grin.

I can tell she's trying to lift my spirits, but right now, not even a rainstorm of hot, horny, compassionate men could cheer me up.

She must notice the nicks and tears on my book's cover because she adds, "I'm sure there's even a less weathered version of that one."

"Maybe, but," I say, hugging the book tightly to my chest.

"It wouldn't be as precious as that one is to you," she finishes my thought for me.

"It was the last thing my mom left me," I say, feeling oddly comfortable confiding in her. Her motherly aura soothes me. "She was a romance author, but she died when I was still young. When I turned eighteen, my dad gave me this book." I open the cover, running my fingers over an inscription. "Her last words to me are in here, so I keep it close t—"

"To keep her close to you," Eliza finishes for me again. I smile at her with a nod. "Then we must take great care to keep it safe."

"Thank you," I murmur, staring at the book and drawing some comfort from it.

"All I did was bring you to your room, dear."

"No. I mean, if someone kind like you can work for a monster like Marsters—" I begin, but falter, unsure how she'll take what I just said about her boss. She doesn't say anything, so I continue, "Maybe that means I have a chance of paying off his stupid debt with my sanity intact."

"Adam isn't as terrible as he'd like the world to believe," Eliza says, sitting down beside me.

I bite back a scoff.

Sure, and dragons are real and bake cookies.

"I'll believe it when I see it," I huff as a loud knock echoes through the room.

Ms. Pottsworth rises to answer it, moving like it's second nature.

"What are you two knuckleheads doing here?" she barks at the two men peeking around her to gawk at me. One's a silvered-hair fox, while the other reminds me of the doughboy.

"Just here to welcome our newest house guest," the silver-haired man announces grandly, slipping past Eliza's outstretched arms with a tray of tiny sandwiches. He's balances the tray in one hand, while raising mine in his free hand, taking it to his lips for a soft kiss, followed by a wink. "It's always a pleasure to be introduced to such a fine specimen as yourself..."

"Isabelle Shepherd, but you can call me Izzy."

His smile is charming, and again, under different circumstances, I'd probably be melting into a puddle of lust and yearning right about now.

"Isabelle." He kisses my hand again before offering me the tray. "I'm Louis, the chef. Hungry?"

"Um, no, thank you," I say, gently pulling my hand back.

"Louis, you twit! Leave the poor girl alone," Ms. Pottsworth scolds, pulling Louis back toward the door.

"I'm just here to remind Miss Shepherd to be dressed and at the dining hall by seven o'clock sharp," the chubby man says in a flat tone. He tries to act like he's not stealing glances at me, but we make eye contact a few times.

"Well, now you did, so goodbye, Claud," Eliza says, her voice firm as she ushers both men out of my room. She slams the door and turns back to me, looking exasperated from the short encounter. "Sorry about them. They can be so nosy sometimes."

"It's fine," I reply, too weary to feel as annoyed as Ms. Pottsworth seems to be.

"Well, now that you're settled, I should go with the stylist to find you something to wear for tonight," Ms. Pottsworth says, leaving the room before I can protest about someone else picking out my clothes for me—or at the very least telling her my size.

"Great," I mutter as she leaves, my voice too tired to rise to anything more.

What's one more thing I have no control over, anyway?

The door clicks shut, sealing me in this ornate prison. I clutch the book tightly to my chest as I flop on the bed with a groan, squeezing my eyes shut. Maybe if I wish hard enough, I'll wake up back in my real bed, far away from this hellish nightmare.

Author's Note:

Things are getting real for Isabelle, and I'd love to know what you think! 🌟 What are your thoughts on her new "home" and new housemates? How do you think Isabelle will adjust to this luxurious but daunting new world? Drop me a comment with your reactions, theories, or anything else on your mind! And if you enjoyed this chapter, a vote would mean the world to me. Thank you so much for your support! Your feedback truly keeps this journey alive!