PART I: The Arrangement
1365 Words
Ellie:
The Windsor mansion is quiet in the way old money learns to whisper—expensive, curated silence. The kind that makes every sound deliberate. Even the rain outside falls politely against the glass, as if it knows better than to make a scene in front of the Windsors.
I’m in my office, surrounded by the assemblage of a thousand business deals. Fresh lilies in a Baccarat vase, a stack of investment proposals I’ve already improved, and a glass of sparkling water I’ll never drink. The desk gleams beneath my fingertips—Italian marble, veined with silver. It looks cold, beautiful, and utterly unfeeling. Just like me.
People like to think privilege makes you soft. It doesn’t. It just gives you prettier weapons.
My name is Eleanor Windsor, and I was born into the kind of family that can buy virtue, bury scandal, and destroy careers with a phone call. We own half of San Monclair’s skyline and rent out the other half to people who pretend they aren’t afraid of us.
My mother used to say: The Windsors don’t cry, darling. We acquire.
So I acquired everything. Grades, internships, whispered admiration, grudging envy. I learned early that perfection is a currency.
My phone buzzes. One vibration. No name. I don’t need one, only one person would dare bother me while I'm working.
Father: Study now
A single command. No punctuation, no pleasantries. Just entitlement.
I stare at the message for a heartbeat before sliding my phone face down. I let him wait—five, maybe six minutes—long enough to remind him that I am not one of his board members.
When I finally rise, I smooth the skirt of my black sheath dress, adjust the diamond stud in my left ear, and check my reflection in the glass. The woman staring back is perfect. Blood red glossed lips, hair like dark silk, eyes lined to kill. I look like control dressed as temptation.
Walking through the hallways feels like moving through a museum of my father’s inflated ego—oil portraits of ancestors who look more like predators than patriarchs, marble floors polished to the point of blindness. The house smells faintly of money and fear.
His study door is closed. I don’t knock. I’ve never been one to wait for permission.
Griffin Windsor looks up as I enter, irritation flickering across his face before it settles into something colder. My father’s power sits in his posture—spine straight, hand steady around a crystal tumbler. The kind of man who believes the world should bow because it always has.
“Eleanor,” he says, voice even, clipped. “Sit.”
“I’ll stand, thank you,” I reply, closing the door behind me with the soft click of defiance. “What is it this time? Another charity gala you want me to host so we can launder our sins in sequins?”
His lips barely twitch. “This isn’t about charity.”
“Then it must be serious.” I glance around the room—leather-bound books, a painting worth more than most people’s houses, the faint aroma of his imported cigars. Everything here is curated intimidation.
“I’ve made an arrangement,” he begins.
I arch a brow. “How very mysterious of you, father. Should I be flattered, or frightened?”
“With Holt Sinclair.”
My laugh is quiet and sharp. “The cybercriminal with a taste for offshore accounts? Charming. Are we diversifying our brand of corruption now?”
His expression doesn’t change, but the air does. Heavy. Dense. “This partnership will strengthen both families.”
“Partnership,” I repeat, the word dripping with disdain. “You mean an alliance built on mutual blackmail.”
“Call it what you like, Eleanor.” He leans back, studying me as if I’m a stock portfolio he’s calculating risk on. “You’re part of that alliance.”
“Part of?” I cross my arms. “You mean I’ll oversee the logistics?”
“You’ll marry his son.”
The sentence lands like a slap—silent but echoing.
I blink once. “I beg your finest pardon?”
“I’ve arranged your engagement to Reign Sinclair,” he says, unbothered, unblinking. “The dinner is tomorrow. They’ll be here at eight.”
For a moment, I can’t even summon words. My heart isn’t racing—it’s burning, slow and acidic, like champagne gone flat.
“Reign Sinclair,” I say at last, letting the name roll off my tongue like poison wrapped in silk. “The playboy heir. The one who thinks ‘corporate strategy’ means finding new ways to pour liquor down his throat.”
“He’s more capable than he looks.”
“Then perhaps you should marry him.”
“Don’t test me, Eleanor.”
“I’m not testing,” I say sweetly. “I’m simply asking why you’ve decided to turn your only daughter into a pawn in your business expansion.”
His voice sharpens. “You are not a pawn. You are an investment. And I expect a return.”
There it is. The Windsor creed. Love, family, affection—all synonyms for utility.
I should scream. Cry. Break something delicate and meaningful. But I don’t. I’ve been trained too well for that.
Instead, I walk to his bar cart, pour myself a glass of something amber and expensive, and turn toward the window. The city lights stretch endlessly below, glittering like a necklace of false promises.
“You’re making a grave mistake, father,” I say quietly.
“No,” he replies. “I’m ensuring your future.”
“My future doesn’t require a husband.”
“Your future requires stability,” he corrects. “Reign’s company will be useful. His father, more so.”
I turn to face him, every inch of me calm, contained, lethal. “And what will be useful to me?”
He smiles, faint and cruel. “Your Windsor trust.”
The words slice through the air, cutting away whatever illusion of choice I had left.
“Tomorrow,” he says again, dismissing me with the wave of a hand. “Be gracious. Wear something appropriate.”
I drain the rest of my drink, the burn a small, private rebellion, and set the glass down with a soft click. “Don’t worry,” I murmur. “I’ll play my part beautifully.”
He doesn’t respond. He doesn’t need to. He already thinks he’s won.
But I know better.
"Maybe something black, you know, for the poor boys funeral."
I walk the long corridor back to my office, the echo of my heels following like a metronome of rage. Every step feeds the fire building in my chest.
I pass the portrait of my mother in the grand hallway—her painted smile perfectly composed, her eyes just a shade too sad. She died when I was seventeen, leaving me the burden of her beauty and none of her mercy.
Sometimes I think she knew exactly what kind of man she married—and what kind of daughter she left behind.
Back in my office, I sit again, staring at the city beyond the glass. Somewhere out there, Reign Sinclair exists—reckless, untamed, the spoiled heir to his father’s empire. A man who’s never worked for anything and yet somehow owns everything.
I can almost hear his laugh, low and careless, echoing through the gossip columns. San Monclair’s favorite sin.
I hate him already.
A nd I hate that a part of me—the part that loves danger in diamond form—wants to see what kind of man could make my father flinch enough to sign his daughter away.
But hate is a better weapon than fear. I’ll wield it well.
Because I am not a pawn.
I am not a prize.
I am a Windsor.
And when the Sinclairs arrive tomorrow, I’ll smile like the queen I was raised to be.
If they think I’m walking into a marriage—
they’re dreadfully wrong.
I’m walking into war.
- Writer
