Substitute With His Nightmare

Chapter 3

Antonella

When the car pulled up to Bruce’s mansion, I couldn’t help but gape. The place was magnificent, sprawling and grand in a way that screamed wealth and power. The towering gates, the perfectly manicured gardens, the elegant stone façade—it all felt like something out of a fairy tale.

I didn’t want to be impressed, but I was. No wonder Sasha had come running to Alex Pritchard for help. The Pritchards weren’t just wealthy—they were wealth.

As I climbed out of the car, I couldn’t shake the strange feeling of déjà vu. My mother had always had a peculiar connection to the Pritchards, though the details were unclear. I’d never thought much of it back then, but now, standing in front of their opulent home, I couldn’t help but wonder if her dealings had been more significant than I realized.

Bruce stepped out of the car after me, moving with a confidence that belied his blindness. His cane tapped against the ground rhythmically as he approached the front door. I followed a few steps behind, unsure of what to expect once we crossed the threshold.

Just as I reached the door, his hand shot out and grabbed my arm.

“Antonella.”

I froze, turning to face him. His grip was firm, his expression unreadable behind the dark glasses he wore.

“This marriage,” he said slowly, his voice low and deliberate, “is purely transactional. I can give you everything—money, comfort, security—but not love. Especially not love. Understand?”

His words were like ice water poured over me. I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly dry.

“Got it,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

“Good.” He released my arm and stepped inside, his cane tapping against the marble floor.

I followed hesitantly, my eyes darting around the grand foyer. Everything about this house was intimidating, from the high ceilings to the intricate chandeliers.

Transactional. That word lingered in my mind, echoing with every step I took. I was nothing more than a piece in this game of power and wealth, and Bruce had made it clear that I shouldn’t expect anything more.

Whatever dreams I might have had about a marriage built on partnership or companionship—those were gone now.

This was my life. And I’d have to figure out how to survive it.

____

The dining room was quiet, save for the soft clinking of silverware against porcelain plates. I sat across from Bruce at the long mahogany table, feeling the weight of his presence even though he hadn’t said a word to me since breakfast began.

The mansion’s chef had prepared an elaborate spread—scrambled eggs, bacon, croissants, and fresh fruit—but my appetite was nonexistent. Bruce hadn’t touched much of his food either. Instead, he sat rigidly, his dark glasses hiding his eyes, his face impassive.

I cleared my throat, summoning the courage to break the silence. “Would you like me to refill your coffee?”

“No,” he said curtly, not bothering to lift his head.

I nodded, even though he couldn’t see me. “Okay.”

I tried to focus on my own plate, but my hands felt clumsy. The tension in the room was suffocating. I’d promised myself I’d try to make this arrangement work, but Bruce wasn’t exactly making it easy.

“Do you need anything else?” I ventured after a long pause.

He set his fork down with a sharp clink, turning his head slightly in my direction. “Do you always ask so many questions?”

The words stung, even though his tone was calm. I straightened in my seat, my cheeks flushing. “I’m just trying to be helpful.”

“Well, don’t,” he replied. “I don’t need your help.”

I bit the inside of my cheek, fighting the urge to snap back. Instead, I forced a smile. “Noted.”

The silence that followed was even worse than before. I could feel his disdain like a physical presence in the room, and it made my skin crawl. I wanted to retreat to my room, hide under the covers, and pretend none of this was happening. But I couldn’t. This was my life now, and I had to find a way to endure it.

After breakfast, I decided to tidy the living room. It wasn’t my job—Bruce had an entire staff for that—but I needed something to occupy my mind. The space was immaculate, as expected, but I rearranged a few cushions on the plush leather sofas and dusted the glass coffee table anyway.

I was reaching up to adjust one of the curtains when I heard his voice behind me.

“What are you doing?”

I jumped, spinning around to face him. Bruce stood in the doorway, his cane resting lightly against the floor. His dark glasses reflected the morning light, making it impossible to tell what he was thinking.

“I’m just straightening up,” I said, my voice a little too defensive. “I thought it might help.”

“Help,” he repeated, as if the word were foreign to him. He stepped into the room, his movements slow and deliberate. “You’re not a maid, Antonella. Stop acting like one.”

The way he said my name sent a shiver down my spine. It wasn’t affectionate or even polite, it was cold, detached, like I was just another object in the room.

“I wasn’t trying to be a maid,” I said, trying to keep my tone calm. “I just thought—”

“That’s your problem,” he interrupted, his lips curving into a bitter smile. “You think too much.”

I stared at him, stunned into silence.

He tapped his cane against the floor, the sound echoing through the room. “If you want to be helpful, stay out of my way.”

The words hit me like a slap. I turned away, blinking back tears. I wouldn’t let him see how much his cruelty affected me.

“Fine,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “I’ll stay out of your way.”

Without waiting for a response, I walked past him and headed toward the staircase. I could feel his gaze or at least, his awareness of me as I passed, but he said nothing.