Chapter 5 - The Morning After Nothing
951 Words
Mara POV
Sunlight burns through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
I wake up with silk pillowcases stuck to my face, black mascara streaking the white fabric. My wedding dress is twisted around my legs, the corset digging into my ribs. For three beautiful seconds, I forget where I am.
Then I remember.
I sit up slowly, my body aching from sleeping in a dress designed for standing, not collapsing. The bedroom is exactly as pristine as it was last night—white walls, minimalist furniture, absolutely no personality. Even with my suitcase exploded across a chair, the room refuses to look lived in.
A clock on the nightstand reads 7:47 a.m.
I listen for sounds from the other side of the suite. Nothing. Lucien's either still asleep or already gone. Probably gone. Men like him don't sleep in.
I peel myself out of the wedding dress, letting it pool on the floor. Standing there in my underwear, I catch my reflection in the mirror.
There are red marks on my ribs from the corset. My hair is a disaster, my eyes are puffy.
I look exactly how I feel.
The shower in my ensuite bathroom could fit six people. Multiple shower heads. Heated floors, and everything in Mable. I stand under water hot enough to hurt, scrubbing off yesterday's makeup, yesterday's performance, yesterday's lies.
When I finally emerge, wrapped in a towel, I hear voices downstairs.
I pull on jeans and a sweater from my suitcase—my real clothes, not whatever designer prison uniform Patricia will deliver today. My hair is still damp. I'm not wearing makeup. If Lucien has a problem with that, he can add it to the list.
The floating staircase feels strange under my bare feet.
The voices lead me to a dining room I didn't see on last night's tour. Smaller than the formal one. Windows overlooking the garden, a table that seats eight instead of twenty.
Lucien sits at the head, perfectly dressed in a charcoal suit despite the early hour. His dark hair is styled. His tie is knotted with precision. He looks like he slept for eight hours and woke up ready to conquer kingdoms.
The Wall Street Journal is spread in front of him. He doesn't look up.
"Good morning, Mrs. Cross!" A woman in her fifties approaches with a warm smile. Her accent is faintly Chinese. "I'm Mrs. Dahlia, the housekeeper, would you like coffee?"
"Yes, please." I slide into a chair across from Lucien, acutely aware of how out of place I look. "And Mara is fine. You don't have to call me"
"Mrs. Cross prefers coffee black," Lucien interrupts, not lifting his eyes from the paper. "Two sugars."
Mrs. Dahlia nods, disappearing toward the kitchen.
I stare at him. "I take my coffee with cream."
"You took it black at the wedding reception." He turns a page with precise movements. "I assumed that was your preference."
"I took it black because I was nauseous and needed caffeine." I lean back in my chair. "I normally drink it with cream."
He finally looks up, his steel-blue eyes assessing me.
"Noted." He returns to his paper.
Mrs. Dahlia returns with coffee—black, two sugars—and a plate of fresh fruit, pastries, and what looks like a gourmet omelet. She sets everything in front of me with the reverence usually reserved for royalty.
"Thank you." I reach for the cream pitcher myself.
Lucien's jaw tightens slightly but he says nothing.
I pour cream until the coffee turns pale. Add one sugar, not two and take a sip.
"Did you sleep well?" I ask, attempting something resembling normal conversation.
"Fine." He doesn't look up.
"The house is beautiful."
"Yes."
"Very... modern."
"Mm."
I stab a strawberry with more force than necessary. This is going to be a long two years if every morning is this excruciating.
"Do you always read through breakfast?" I try again.
"Yes." He turns another page. "Market opens in thirty minutes."
"Right, of course. Heaven forbid you miss the opening bell."
That gets his attention as his eyes snap to mine.
"Do you have a problem with how I spend my mornings, Mrs. Cross?"
"I have a problem with being ignored in my own house."
"This isn't your house." His voice is cold, precise. "It's mine. You're living here as part of our arrangement."
The words land like a slap.
I set down my coffee cup carefully, willing my hands not to shake. "Message received."
He studies me for a long moment, something unreadable flickering across his face. Then he folds his paper with sharp, deliberate movements.
"I have meetings all day." He stands, buttoning his suit jacket. "I'll be home late. Don't wait up."
"I wouldn't dream of it."
He pauses halfway to the door, his broad shoulders tense.
"Patricia will be by at ten with your new wardrobe and schedule." He doesn't turn around. "Try to be presentable."
Then he's gone.
I sit alone in the dining room, surrounded by expensive furniture and uneaten breakfast, wondering how long I can survive in a house where I'm treated like an unwanted houseguest.
Mrs. Dahlia returns, her smile sympathetic.
"He's always like this in the mornings," she says gently, refilling my coffee. "Very focused on work."
"Does he ever eat breakfast?" I gesture to his untouched place setting.
"Not usually. Coffee only." Mrs. Dahlia begins clearing his side of the table. "He works very hard."
I bet he does. Can't build an empire by wasting time on things like human connection.
"Mrs. Dahlia?" I catch her attention before she disappears into the kitchen. "Can I ask you something?"
"Of course, dear."
"How long have you worked for him?"
- Writer
