The morning light glows in the room.
Soft. Golden. Almost shy—like it’s asking permission to enter, like it knows this space isn’t ant for brightness.
My eyes open slowly. The ceiling greets first—smooth, flawless, the sa one I’ve stared at for years. But sothing is different. Sothing has shifted while I was sleeping.
The air is thick with flowers.
Roses, mostly. Their perfu heavy and sweet, pressing against my lungs like sothing alive—sothing that’s been waiting for to wake up. The scent clings to the sheets, to my skin, to the back of my throat.
I keep staring at the ceiling.
Last night...
I turn my head, looking around the room.
Flowers everywhere. Spread across the floor like snow that forgot how to be cold. Petals scattered in careless handfuls—white, cream, blush—as if soone emptied an entire garden into this room while I slept.
Candles in silver holders have burned down to nothing, their bases filled with cooled wax, the wicks drowned in their final lt.
Sunlight pours through the windows—golden, warm. It catches the white petals, makes them glow, makes them look almost alive.
Champagne. Two glasses. Resting on the table beside an arrangent of pink roses so perfect they look fake. Crystal catching the light, scattering tiny rainbows across the wall.
It looks like a painting.
Sothing unreal.
Sothing staged.
A wedding chamber.
My eyes widen.
Wait.
Wedding chamber?
How did I get here?
I push myself up slowly. The sheets fall away from my chest. My head throbs—a dull, insistent ache behind my eyes. Too much wine. Too much silence. Too much of everything.
I rember last night.
Drinking alone in the private bar. The wine dark and bitter. The silence heavy enough to drown in.
Lying down on the couch. Letting the darkness take because fighting it felt like too much work.
Then—nothing.
A gap in my mory. A hole where sothing should be.
How did I end up here?
Did I sleepwalk?
No.
I’ve never—
I run a hand through my hair, fingers snagging on tangles. Frustration prickles at the edges of my consciousness—sharp and unwelco.
Then I feel it.
Sothing on my hand.
I look down.
Bandaged.
White cotton wrapped around my palm, around my fingers—careful. Precise. Soone took their ti with this. Soone cared enough to do it right.
Last night. The wine glass broke in my hand. I got hurt.
But who did this?
And who carried here?
I turn my head sharply, irritation rising, trying to shake the fog loose— and my gaze catches on sothing.
Silas.
Sleeping on the couch.
Sunlight pours over him like water—like worship, like sothing sacred. His pale skin glows in the morning light, almost translucent, almost unreal. The curtains soften the sun, turning it gentle, forgiving—making him look like he’s made of light instead of flesh.
His brown hair is slightly ssy, a few strands fallen across his temple, clinging to his skin as if they don’t want to leave. His lashes—dark, thick—rest against his pale cheeks, long enough to cast faint shadows, to make him look like he’s dreaming of sothing beautiful.
My gaze moves over him. Slowly. From head to toe.
His lips. Pink. Slightly parted. Soft, even in sleep.
His neck. The curve of his throat. The way his collar falls open.
Lower. The rise and fall of his chest—steady, peaceful, unaware of watching.
He sleeps like he has nothing to fear.
Like he belongs here.
I blink.
Look away.
What am I doing?
My heart is beating faster than it should. My face feels warm. I press my palm against my cheek.
First. I need to know how I ended up here.
Did Dad order a servant to carry into this room while I was asleep?
A pause.
No. How could he—
I stop.
No doubt. He would do anything. Of course he would. Of course he would.
I throw the sheets aside and stand, sliding my feet into the slippers waiting beside the nightstand—placed there by soone who knew I’d need them.
My footsteps are heavy. Urgent. Each one a small declaration of war.
This is too much.
How dare soone touch while I was asleep. How dare soone move without my permission—without asking, without caring.
I am not a doll. I am not a toy. I am not sothing to be carried from room to room like luggage.
The hallway stretches before —long, empty. Morning light falls through tall windows, making everything look peaceful. Making everything look like a lie.
They made marry against my will. Isn’t that enough?
Now they lift from the couch like a sack of flour—like I weigh nothing, like I matter nothing—and deliver to their precious beta prince like a gift.
Like I’m so kind of offering.
Sothing to be wrapped in ribbons and handed over.
Sothing to make him happy.
My jaw clenches. My hands curl into fists at my sides—the bandaged one protesting, sending small shocks of pain up my arm. I ignore it.
I push open the living room door.
Dad and Mom sit on the couch.
Enjoying their morning. Peaceful. Sipping their coffee, reading from a tablet, existing in their own world like nothing happened yesterday. Like they didn’t sell their son to a stranger.
Like the universe didn’t shift beneath my feet and leave standing on nothing.
Mom’s eyes shift to . She smiles—that soft, practiced smile she’s worn my whole life.
"Good morning, son."
Her gaze moves over , head to toe.
Still in the groom’s outfit. Unbuttoned at the collar, hanging open, revealing more skin than it should. ssy from sleep—wrinkled, untucked, abandoned. Stained with wine.
Dark red splotches blooming across the white fabric like wounds.
Her smile falters.
"Ellis." A pause. "What is this?"
I stop in front of them, letting the silence stretch—letting them feel the weight of standing there, unwashed, unkempt, unimpressed.
"Isn’t that my question?"
Mom blinks. Confusion flickers across her face—genuine, or at least convincing.
"What happened?"
"I can’t believe you two did this."
Dad sips his coffee. Calm. Unbothered. The steam rises around his face, blurring him for a mont.
Mom’s voice softens—the way it does when she’s trying to calm sothing wild.
"What are you talking about?"
"You ordered servants to lift from the couch." My voice is flat. Cold. asured. "While I was asleep. And throw into my room. Didn’t you?"
Dad’s gaze shifts to . Slow. Deliberate.
Before he speaks— his mind screams
{Now what happened to him? So early in the morning. Always sothing. Always drama.}
"What are you talking about?" His voice is calm. Annoyed. The voice of a man who’s been interrupted one too many tis.
"You ordered servants—"
"Why would I do that?"
I stare into his eyes, searching. Digging beneath the surface, looking for sothing hidden.
His mind says the sa thing. He’s not lying.
I pause.
Sothing shifts in my chest. Sothing uncomfortable.
"Then how did I end up in my room?" My voice is quieter now. Less certain. The anger still there—but unfocused, searching for sowhere to land. "I was sleeping in the private bar."
Dad looks away, sipping his coffee. The ceramic clinks softly against the saucer.
"You really think I’m that kind of man?"
I cross my arms. Don’t hesitate.
"Yes." The word lands hard. Sharp. "I expect anything from you."
He sighs, setting his cup down with a soft, final sound.
"Go get so fresh air." He gestures toward the window, toward the world outside. "Maybe then your chaotic mind will calm down and start working properly."
"I’m completely fine." My voice sharpens. "If you didn’t order servants—then how did I end up in my room?"
I stop.
Mid-sentence.
The words hang in the air, unfinished.
Did he...
Did Silas do this?
The thought hits like cold water—sharp, unwelco.
I stand there, frozen in the middle of the living room, my parents watching , waiting for to finish a sentence I no longer rember how to complete.
Silas.
I turn and walk toward the door, my footsteps heavier than before.
Behind , Mom’s voice follows—soft, uncertain.
"Ellis? Where are you going?"
I don’t answer.
I just keep walking.
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