Bound by secret

Chapter five

Eleanor sat frozen in her chair, her fingers gripping the armrests as if letting go would send her spiraling into the abyss. Her mother and Isobel were still laughing, still shifting through layers of fine silk and lace, completely unaware or worse, completely indifferent to the storm raging inside her.

She couldn’t believe it. Her mother. The woman who had once held her as a child whispered lullabies into her hair, and promised her that love was the most precious thing in the world now sat before her, trading her happiness for power.

It was as if Eleanor had been nothing more than a piece on a chessboard, and her mother, the calculating player, had just moved her into checkmate.

“This one,” Lady Rosalind declared, holding up a gown made of the finest ivory silk, embroidered with golden thread. “It exudes grace and refinement exactly what a wife of Lord Blackwood should wear.”

Isobel clapped her hands, her face glowing with excitement. “Oh, Eleanor, you’ll look like a queen! Everyone will envy you.”

Eleanor barely heard them. Her heart pounded in her chest, her mind screaming at her to say something to do something. But what was the point?

Nothing she said would change the fact that she was being sold.

“Isobel, fetch the seamstress,” Lady Rosalind instructed, adjusting a delicate pearl clasp on the gown. “We’ll need the final alterations made before the ceremony.”

Isobel nodded eagerly and rushed out of the room, her excitement bouncing off the walls.

As soon as the door closed behind her, Eleanor finally found her voice.

“Mother,” she whispered, her throat tight, “do you even care about me at all?”

Lady Rosalind didn’t flinch. She didn’t even look up from the gown she was examining. “Don’t be dramatic, Eleanor. Of course, I care about you.”

Eleanor’s nails dug into the fabric of her dress. “Then why are you doing this to me?”

Her mother sighed as if growing impatient. “I am not doing anything to you. I am securing your future. This marriage will give you wealth, status, and protection. Everything a woman could ask for.”

“Everything except happiness.” Eleanor’s voice was sharp, cutting through the air like a blade.

Lady Rosalind finally set the gown down and turned to face her daughter. “Happiness is a fleeting thing, Eleanor. Power, and security those last. And in time, you will learn to appreciate them.”

Eleanor let out a bitter laugh, shaking her head in disbelief. “So, that’s it? You’re just like Father. You care more about wealth than you do about me.”

Lady Rosalind’s face hardened, but there was something unreadable in her eyes something Eleanor couldn’t quite place.

“I care about survival,” her mother said quietly. “And in this world, survival is not won by love. It is won by alliances, by strength, by knowing when to sacrifice.”

Eleanor’s stomach twisted. “So I am the sacrifice?”

“You are the future of this family,” Lady Rosalind corrected. “And that future rests in the hands of Lord Blackwood. Whether you like it or not.”

Eleanor felt something in her chest c***k, but she refused to let the tears fall.

“You’re wrong,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “There are other ways to survive. I’ve read about them. I’ve seen—”

“Books will not save you, Eleanor.” Lady Rosalind’s voice was cold now, clipped and final. “Nor will foolish dreams of love.”

Eleanor’s fingers clenched into fists at her sides. “I will never forgive you for this.”

Lady Rosalind’s expression did not change, but for the first time, Eleanor thought she saw a flicker of something guilt? Pain? Doubt? It was gone before she could be sure.

“You will understand one day,” her mother murmured.

Before Eleanor could say another word, the door swung open again, and Isobel burst back inside, followed by the seamstress and two maids carrying spools of golden thread.

“Everything is ready!” Isobel beamed. “Eleanor, just wait until you see the final look! You’ll be the most beautiful bride in the kingdom.”

Eleanor’s chest tightened.

Bride.

The word felt like a noose tightening around her throat.

She watched as the seamstress unrolled the golden thread, as the maids fluffed the layers of fabric, as her mother and sister gushed over every intricate detail.

They were planning a wedding.

But she was preparing for a funeral.

Her own.

And no one not her mother, not Isobel, not anyone seemed to notice.