Act 1, Scene 1 — The Unseen Tears
The night had swallowed the world in silence, but inside me—there was a storm.
A day heavy with stress, confusion, and questions I had no answers to…
Why am I here?
Why me?
Who is he?
Every thought, every memory, every argument echoed in my skull like broken glass clinking endlessly. I couldn't think straight. I couldn't breathe right. The tension coiled around my chest like a vice.
Needing relief, I stepped into the cold shower. It was late. The wind outside whispered against the window panes, but I still chose cold water—as if icy needles could freeze the aching in my heart. Goosebumps raced down my skin. My teeth clenched.
"I'm not okay," I whispered to the tiled wall. "Why me…? Why now…?"
I hated the tears that fell silently. I hated that I was here—trapped in a mansion that wasn't mine, brought by a man I didn't even know.
Not a word. Not an explanation.
Just the suffocating stillness of his presence.
He'd brought me here.
He hadn't forced me.
But he hadn't asked, either.
When I stepped out, I reached for my towel. It wasn't there.
I remembered—I'd left it on the couch by my bed. Wrapping myself in my clothes, I padded across the room. That's when a maid appeared, holding out a towel with a soft smile.
"Here," she said.
I took it.
It looked like mine—same color, same pattern. But something about it felt… off. The fabric was too soft, too expensive. My fingers brushed over the corner. A tag.
New.
Branded.
Not mine.
Something pinched inside me—like the cracking of something delicate. A memory, maybe. A piece of me.
From outside the room, I heard faint whispers.
"She doesn't like new things, you know?"
"Lord Andrew said not to tell her. He had all her old belongings secretly replaced—same look, better quality. So she won't notice…"
My heart stopped.
Why…?
Why would he do that?
My throat tightened. I blinked fast, trying to hold the tears. But they fell before I could stop them—hot, quiet, and helpless.
Through blurred eyes, I saw him. Andrew Knight.
He passed my door like a shadow in motion—distant, unreadable, tense. He didn't look in. He didn't stop.
But my heart did.
He looked like he hadn't slept. Like he carried the weight of a thousand storms in his gaze. Cold and unreadable, yet something in him stirred the echoes of a memory I couldn't reach. The way he avoided my gaze, the silence, the loneliness—it all twisted into one unbearable ache.
I wanted answers.
But all I had was this towel.
And the weight of his silence.
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