CHAPTER 4: GLASS WALLS
The silence in the house was too loud.
Alora stood at the edge of the bed, still in the silky nightgown someone had laid out the night before.
The door creaked softly as she stepped into the hallway. Everything in the mansion gleamed. Marble. Polished wood. The cool scent of lemon polish lingered in the air, masking the truth that the house, though flawless, was not lived in. It was more gallery than home.
A tap at the door startled her. She opened it slowly.
A woman in a stiff black dress — poised, likely in her fifties — offered a garment bag and a small box. "Good morning, Mrs. Vaughn. I'm Sylvia, the housekeeper. These were sent for you."
"By who?" Alora asked.
"The master."
Her throat tightened at the title.
Inside the box were pearls — delicate, expensive, and sterile. The kind of thing you wore to a boardroom… or a funeral. The garment bag revealed a pale blue dress. Modest. Designer. Perfectly tailored.
He hadn't seen her in it, but somehow it fit like second skin.
Alora dressed without ceremony and descended the sweeping staircase, heels echoing like declarations in the hall. A long dining table waited in a room with high windows. But it was empty. Only a place setting for one — her.
She sat.
A maid appeared briefly, poured juice, and disappeared again.
It was like eating inside a painting.
No music. No conversation. Just silverware clinking on porcelain and thoughts too loud to silence.
---
She found her way to the garden after breakfast — not much of a garden really. Just neat hedges, trimmed within an inch of their lives, and an iron bench under an over-manicured tree.
She stared at the sky, not sure what she was waiting for.
Footsteps interrupted the quiet.
Sylvia again, this time holding a phone. "Your father called the landline. He asked to speak with you."
Alora blinked. "My father?"
"Yes, ma'am."
She took the phone and stepped away, heart thumping harder than it had all morning. Her father didn't call often. He didn't do emotions. That was always her mother's job.
"Hello?"
There was silence for a beat too long.
Then, "Alora."
His voice. Sharp, cool. Always more judge than parent.
"I've been trying to reach you," he continued. "I expected a message by now. From you."
"I didn't have my phone," she said quickly. "They—he took it when I arrived."
"He took it," her father repeated, not as a question, but a judgement.
Alora swallowed. "I'm fine."
"Is that the truth?"
She hesitated. The truth? She didn't even know the truth yet. Married to a man she met once. Living in a house that felt like a stage set. No warmth. No explanation. Just… ice.
"I'm fine," she said again.
"I hope you understand the importance of this arrangement," her father said. "It was not entered into lightly. Your comfort is… secondary to your survival. And survival, Alora, means alliance."
She could hear the subtext. Don't ruin this.
"Yes, Dad."
The call ended before she could say goodbye.
---
She wandered aimlessly after that. The east wing of the house was locked. So were two other doors — one with a keypad and another with no handle at all.
Eventually, she stumbled into what must've been a music room.
Soft light filtered through gauzy curtains. A grand piano dominated the room. Instruments lined the walls like they were waiting to be chosen.
She touched one key gently. It rang out — clear and lonely.
A leather-bound book sat on a nearby shelf, handwritten notes peeking out of the spine. She pulled it down.
Inside were music sheets with annotations. Sharp here. Drop tempo. Wait for the breath.
His handwriting.
So Damian wasn't just a collector — he played. Or used to.
She closed the book and placed it back, more curious than before. He wasn't just a cold-hearted billionaire groom. There were pieces of him hidden in the quiet corners of this home.
Still, he'd said nothing. No message. No call. No apology for leaving her to wake alone on their wedding morning.
---
Lunch was offered, but she skipped it.
Instead, she wandered into the kitchen — to the shock of the staff. Most simply stared or looked away, but one woman, plump and warm-eyed, stepped forward.
"I'm Miriam," she said. "You must be starving."
Alora smiled weakly. "Do you have bread?"
Miriam blinked, then nodded and pulled out fresh, crusty loaves, offering a plate with butter and tea. "You don't have to eat alone, you know."
"Don't I?"
A pause.
"I mean… maybe not in the dining room. But we have a break table. You're welcome anytime."
For the first time all day, something like warmth settled in her chest.
As she ate, Miriam sat beside her, folding laundry for the staff. She didn't ask invasive questions, but her eyes were kind. Too kind.
Finally, Alora asked, "Do you know Damian well?"
Miriam hesitated. Then, carefully: "I've worked for him since he was twenty-one."
"Is he always like this?"
"Like what?"
"Distant. Controlling. Absent."
Miriam exhaled. "Mr. Vaughn has been through more than you'll ever read in the news, ma'am. He doesn't trust easily."
"That's not an excuse."
"No, it isn't. But it's a reason. And sometimes that's all you get."
They sat in silence after that.
---
Later, in her room, Alora found a crisp sheet of paper slid under her door.
A note, typed in cold font:
> Tomorrow. Breakfast. 8 a.m. Sharp.
— D
Her heart stuttered.
He would be there tomorrow. She wasn't sure if she wanted him to be.
That night, she couldn't sleep.
The room felt too perfect, too still. She cracked the window open and listened to the distant hum of the city.
So close.
Yet unreachable.
---
She sat at the desk and pulled out a piece of paper. Writing helped her think.
She didn't write to anyone. Not this time. She simply wrote for herself.
> You don't know him. He doesn't know you. But now you wear his name like a necklace that fits too tight.
You said "I do" with shaking hands. But what you really meant was "I'll try."
---
End of Chapter Four