As Valerie stepped into the grand mansion, she was hit by a wave of scent—polished marble, aged wood, and something floral, subtle, expensive. It didn't smell like home.
Her shoes clicked against the gleaming floors as she took in her surroundings: high vaulted ceilings, cascading chandeliers, and walls adorned with priceless art. Everything screamed wealth and taste, but not warmth. Not comfort. Not belonging.
It felt… hollow.
Her hand clutched the small hospital bag she still carried from visiting her grandmother. The marriage registry had been a blur—papers thrust at her, a pen shoved into her trembling fingers, her name scribbled beside Lucien's cold signature. She had cried silently through it, her tears smudging the ink. She hadn't even looked at him. Although she knew nothing of why he kept her hostage but if marrying him was the price she could pay to see her grandmother then she was okay with it.
He had kept his promise. He had allowed her to see her grandmother. Mrs. Selena was now in the best hospital in the city, attended by doctors who bowed slightly whenever Lucien's name was mentioned. For that, Valerie was grateful. But gratitude didn't erase the feeling that she had been bought, her life rewritten in fine print she never agreed to.
---
Days blurred into one another.
Lucien was barely ever home. He left early, returned late—if at all. Valerie would sometimes hear the sound of his shoes in the corridor past midnight, and sometimes she wouldn't hear him at all. His presence was more like a ghost's—palpable but rarely seen.
In his absence, she tried to do… something. Anything. She wasn't allowed out without security trailing her, so she stayed in. She wandered the endless halls of the mansion, each room more beautiful and impersonal than the last.
One morning, she tried cooking.
She rose early and made a simple breakfast—toast, eggs, tea. She had no idea what Lucien liked, so she played safe. She waited for him in the vast, echoing dining hall, only to be informed by a guard that he had already left for a board meeting.
She tried again the next day. And again. Each time, the food went cold and untouched. It wasn't about impressing him—it was about doing something that made her feel useful, something that made this arrangement feel less suffocating.
He didn't thank her. He didn't even acknowledge it.
Still, she tried.
---
Lucien had given her one of the east wing bedrooms. It was enormous, adorned in muted silvers and creams, and far from his. They rarely saw each other except in passing, and when they did, words were few.
One evening, she tried to speak. He had just returned from work and removed his coat when she said softly, "How's work?"
He glanced at her, his cold gray eyes unreadable. "Fine."
That was it. He didn't ask her how she was, didn't ask if she was adjusting, if she'd eaten, if she was lonely.
Of course, he knew she was.
But Lucien was not the kind of man to soften.
---
Some nights she cried in the massive bed, muffling her sobs into the velvet pillows. Not just for her grandmother, or herself, or the life she used to have—but for the way she felt so invisible, even as a newlywed.
Her only relief was visiting Mrs. Selena at the hospital. She went with bakeries, as usual. It made her feel like Valerie again—not Lucien Blackmoor's wife, but just a girl from the village who loved her grandmother and love baking too.
She never spoke about the mansion, about Lucien, or the unwanted marriage. Mrs. Selena didn't ask. She only held her hand and smiled like she could read her thoughts anyway.
---
Late one evening, Valerie wandered into Lucien's private study—not knowing it was off-limits. Books lined the walls, dark wood furniture gleamed under soft lighting. Papers were stacked neatly on his desk, alongside a framed photo of a younger Lucien with an older woman—his aunt, perhaps. The only personal thing she'd seen in the whole house.
She traced the frame with her fingertip, just as the door creaked open.
He stood there. Watching.
"You're not supposed to be in here," he said coolly.
Valerie stiffened. "I—I'm sorry. I didn't know. I was just…"
His stare didn't waver. "Curious?"
She swallowed. "Lonely."
Silence.
He stepped into the room, his shoes barely making a sound.
Then he walked past her, picked up the photo frame, and set it down—face down—on the desk.
"Next time, ask," he said.
And he left.
___
The Blackmoor family estate in Westbridge was known for hosting the most exclusive soirées. And this one—curated by Mrs. Rosie Blackmoor herself—was no different. Invitations had gone out to only the most elite women in the city: wives of governors, fashion magnates, media moguls, foreign investors' daughters, and carefully groomed heiresses. The event was sold as a "women's networking brunch", but beneath the manicured smiles and crystal chandeliers, the intent was much darker.
Lucien had known about the invitation sent to Valerie. He didn't stop her. He didn't encourage her either. He merely said, "If you go, go prepared." And as usual, said no more.
Valerie had taken that to mean she should try.
She picked her simplest yet most formal gown—a soft peach dress that hugged her modestly—and Lucien's driver took her to the estate. The garden had been transformed into a floral dream. Rows of white tables with pink and silver centerpieces stood under satin-draped canopies. The air was thick with expensive perfume, champagne, and polished smiles.
She walked in like a lamb among wolves.
---
At first, Valerie tried to stay quiet, tried to listen. She smiled when she should, nodded when spoken to, and whispered thank-yous when offered anything. But she didn't know the rules. Not really.
Everyone kept there eyes on Valerie, from the way she spoke which they felt was mannerless down to the wrong fork she used during the plated salad course.
They whispered among themselves about her poor etiquette. Small things. Insignificant in the real world. But in this circle, she might as well have walked in barefoot.
She heard them laughing. Whispering behind porcelain teacups. One of them—an older woman in pearls—asked where she'd studied, and when Valerie shyly admitted she hadn't gone to university, there was a soft gasp. As if she'd said she'd grown up in a chicken coop.
"Everyone" Mrs Rosie called out and all eyes were on her. She came beside Valerie, batting her eyeballs up and down at Valerie "This is Valerie, my son's unknown wife"
They all laughed quietly among themselves. Mrs Rosie's eyes gleamed with joy. She wanted to further embarrass Valerie but she didn't want to appear too extreme to the elite class.
"Even Mrs Rosie doesn't approve of her" Someone had said.
And then Clarissa walked in.
Draped in a red silk dress, diamonds dangling from her ears like they didn't cost as much as small cars. Clarissa had once been the talk of the town for her scandalous affairs with two billionaires and a married oil tycoon. Yet somehow, in their world, she was refined, acceptable—because she came from a wealthy family.
"Oh my beloved daughter" Mrs Rosie has squealed, hugging Clarissa.
For Mrs Rosie to claim Clarissa as her daughter in front of everyone means she's the one she approves of as her daughter-in-law.
"She really is sweet," Clarissa said in a too-kind voice as she leaned toward Valerie, running her fingers over Valerie's curls. "It's so brave of you to come out here. You remind me of those makeover shows on TV."
Laughter followed. Valerie smiled stiffly.
"I suppose your marriage was... sudden?" Clarissa asked, her voice syrupy. "You must feel like Cinderella."
Valerie's throat tightened. "Excuse me," she murmured and tried to step away—but just then, a glass of red wine came flying across her.
The laughter exploded. The woman who'd spilled it feigned shock. "Oh my goodness! My hand slipped!"
Valerie stood frozen, crimson liquid dripping down her dress, soaking the delicate fabric. Her breath caught. Her heart felt like it had dropped through the floor.
"Oh, don't worry," another one chimed in. "Accidents happen, right? No need to fret all over, afterall this is cheap fabric"
The insult hit like a slap.
She turned, blinking back tears, stumbling into the nearest hallway of the estate. The bathroom was marble and mirror-lined, and she stood there under golden lighting, scrubbing uselessly at her stained dress with tissue.
A girl walked in.
"Here," the girl said softly, handing Valerie a damp cloth and crouching beside her. "They're vipers. You're doing better than I would."
Valerie blinked. "Why are you helping me?"
The strange girl gave a small smile. "Because I know what it's like to walk into a room and be laughed at before you even speak. And because you didn't throw the wine back. That takes strength."
The two girls sat on the bathroom floor for a moment, surrounded by silence and the faint sound of champagne flutes clinking outside.
"I'm Ciara by the way" The strange girl introduced herself.
"I'm..." Valerie tried introducing herself.
"I know who you are" Ciara cut in.
Ciara helped her clean up as best as she could, and before Valerie left, she scribbled her number on a card.
"Text me sometime," she said. "Lets be friends."
---
When Valerie stepped outside, Lucien's driver was already waiting.
He opened the door without a word, but as she sat in the backseat, Valerie caught a glimpse of herself in the car mirror—her face pale, her eyes red-rimmed, and her dress ruined.
She said nothing on the ride home.
But somewhere deep inside, a seed of anger was taking root—slow and quiet, like everything Lucien did. Because now, she knew the truth: Mrs. Rosie hadn't accepted her. She had declared her unworthy in front of everyone.