The halls of Cavendish Manor had never felt so suffocating.
By day, I moved through them as I always had—composed, graceful, every word measured. But at night, when the world fell silent, the walls seemed to whisper. And I could not silence them.
I had spent countless hours reading and rereading Eleanor Thorne’s diary, the inked words sinking into my bones like a curse.
"Love was never meant for me. I was a pawn, a possession, nothing more. I smiled when he asked, nodded when he demanded. But in the quiet hours, I wished for another life—one where I was not bound to a man who saw me as nothing but an extension of his empire."
Each passage struck like a blade to the heart.
Was this to be my fate as well? To become the next Isabella Thorne, swallowed whole by the weight of the Thorne name?
No.
Victor was not his father.