Chapter Five - Round One
2812 Words
They were married on a Thursday no one would remember.
No flowers, no guests, no music.
Only a judge, two witnesses borrowed from the Drexler legal department, and the smell of rain coming through an open window in the east salon of the Drexler estate.
Alara wore a plain ivory dress Ismena had sent over the night before, silk, high-necked, long-sleeved, the kind of garment that cost more than most wedding gowns but looked almost austere.
Someone had braided her dark hair into a low knot. She could feel the weight of it against her nape like a collar.
She had not seen her father since the hospital.
He had not asked to meet her.
He had not sent a note.
He had simply signed the license the day it arrived and flown back from London the night before.
Now he stood three feet away, and the air around him felt refrigerated.
Alara knew it was him before anyone would have known by the way the room rearranged itself around his silence. Footsteps stopped. Breathing quieted. Even the judge lowered his voice.
“Miss Tyrell,” the judge began.
“Mrs. Drexler-to-be,” Ismena corrected softly from her seat on the velvet settee. The old woman had insisted on attending.
Alara felt Zavian move closer. Expensive wool brushed her sleeve. His cologne was winter night and cedar smoke, no warmth, only precision.
The judge cleared his throat. “Do you, Alara Marie Tyrell, take this man…”
She tuned out the words. They were meaningless anyway.
She was trading one prison for another, only this one came with better wallpaper.
When it was Zavian’s turn, his voice was exactly what the tabloids promised: low, flat, lethal.
“I do.”
No hesitation. No tenderness. Just fact.
The ring he slid onto her finger was cold platinum and a single black diamond (sharp enough to cut if she pressed too hard). She wondered, distantly, if he had chosen it himself or if his assistant had.
“You may kiss the bride,” the judge said, awkward in the silence.
Zavian didn’t move.
Ismena’s cane tapped once on the marble. A command.
Alara felt him lean in. His lips brushed the corner of her mouth, not a kiss, an acknowledgment Then he stepped back so quickly the air shifted.
Seven minutes from entrance to exit.
The judge and witnesses left first. Then Ismena, who paused to press a papery kiss to Alara’s cheek and whisper, “Be ferocious, darling.”
Then Zavian.
He stopped at the threshold. She heard the soft rustle of his coat.
“I’ll be in Tokyo,” he said to the room, not to her. “My grandmother will handle anything you need.”
And he was gone.
The front doors closed with the finality of a vault.
Alara stood alone, still wearing the black diamond that felt like a shackle, and laughed once, a sharp, bitter laugh.
A soft voice came behind her: “This way, Mrs. Drexler.”
The butler, Graves. Seventy years old, his voice like dry leaves. He offered his arm. She took it because pride was useless when you couldn’t see the staircase.
They walked through corridors that smelled of beeswax and salt air. An elevator hummed. Another hallway. A door opened onto a suite so large the echo took four seconds to return.
“Your rooms, madam. Madam Ismena thought you would prefer the south wing, because of the ocean view...." He stopped, embarrassed.
“It’s fine,” Alara said. “Describe it to me.”
Graves cleared his throat. “Floor-to-ceiling windows, white oak floors, pale blues and ivories. The bed is king, low to the ground. Bathroom is to your left, ten paces, handle on the right. Closet is already stocked. The intercom button is a large circle beside every doorframe. Press once for staff, twice for Madam Ismena, hold for security.”
“Thank you, Graves.”
He paused. “May I say, madam… welcome. And… I am sorry.”
She heard real grief in the last three words. It almost undid her.
When the door closed, she was finally, completely alone.
She counted steps until her cane found the bed. Sat. Removed the heels someone had forced onto her feet that morning and Let the silence settle.
Then she did what she had promised herself she would never do in this house: she cried.
Not for the marriage.
Not even for her eyes.
But for the girl who had believed, for one stupid moment, that someone might choose her.
F
She heard ootsteps in the hallway and then A knock.
“Mrs. Drexler?” A woman’s voice, young, nervous. “I’m Celeste, your personal maid. Madam Ismena sent me.”
Alara wiped her face. “Come in.”
Celeste entered like a frightened bird. “I’ve brought tea. And… and Mr. Drexler left instructions.”
Alara’s mouth twisted. “Instructions?”
Celeste read from a card, voice trembling:
You have full access to the house and accounts.
Medical appointments will be scheduled at your convenience.
I will return when business permits.
He had signed it simply: Z.D.
Celeste hesitated. “He… he also sent this.”
Something heavy was placed in Alara’s lap. A box, velvet, long and narrow. Inside: a white cane, custom, lightweight carbon fiber, folding, with a crystal handle cool against her palm.
On the shaft, engraved in braille the maid read it to her:
Property of A.T.D.
Use it. Do not fall.
No apology. No warmth. Just brutal practicality.
Alara closed her fist around the cane until the crystal bit into her skin.
That night she explored her new cage by touch.
The bedroom opened onto a terrace, she found the door because the wind tasted of salt. Beyond the railing, waves crashed against cliffs she would never see. She stood there until her hair whipped wild and her dress plastered to her legs, letting the ocean scream for her.
Somewhere below, a car engine roared to life. Tires on gravel. Fading into the distance.
Tokyo, she thought. Of course.
She did not sleep.
At 3:17 a.m. the intercom crackled.
“Mrs. Drexler?” Graves again, apologetic. “Madam Ismena is here.”
Alara found her way to the sitting room. Ismenabwas waiting in an armchair, wrapped in cashmere despite the mild night.
“I won’t ask how the wedding was,” the old woman said dryly. “My grandson has the romantic instincts of a tax audit.”
Alara managed a smile. “He gave me a cane.”
“He’s efficient,” Ismena allowed. “Also terrifying. The cane is the closest thing to an apology he is capable of right now.”
Alara sat. “I don’t want his apology.”
“Good".
Silence stretched, filled only by the ocean.
Ismena’s voice softened. “He hasn’t let anyone touch him since his parents died. Not truly. You’re the first person in twelve years who has forced him to feel something he can’t buy or intimidate away. Guilt is a beginning.”
“I don’t want to be anyone’s beginning.” Alara said.
“You already are,” Ismena said. “Whether either of you likes it or not.”
She rose. .
Chapter Five: The Fortress Learns Her Name
The first month passed like a slow, deliberate wound.
Alara woke every morning to the sound of waves she could not see and the knowledge that her husband was on the other side of the planet. She learned the mansion the way soldiers learn minefields: by pain and repetition.
Ten paces from bed to bathroom.
Seven to the terrace door.
Nineteen to the elevator.
She memorized every rug edge, every table corner, every treacherous step, until her shins stopped blooming purple and the staff stopped gasping when she walked unaided.
Celeste, the maid, became her shadow.
Twenty-five, soft-spoken, terrified of saying the wrong thing. She laid out clothes each morning, described colors Alara would never see again “Today is storm-cloud cashmere, Mrs. Drexler”, and read headlines aloud because Alara refused television.
Ismena always came to her bedroom.
She brought audio books, braille menus, and gossip sharp enough to cut glass. She also brought doctors: Swiss ophthalmologists, Boston neurologists, a quiet woman from Seoul who spoke of retinal stem-cell trials that were still five years from approval.
Alara sat through every examination without hope and without complaint.
She let them shine lights into eyes that felt nothing, let them map the wreckage behind her corneas, let them speak over her head in percentages and probabilities.
When they left, Ismena always stayed.
“You are not a patient,” she said one afternoon, pressing a cup of white tea into Alara’s hands. “You are a creditor. Never forget that.”
Alara laughed, bitter. “He’s very good at ignoring debts.”
“He’s better at punishing himself,” Ismena replied. “Give it time.”
Time, Alara learned, was measured in small victories.
She fired the interior decorator who suggested lowering all the light switches “for the blind convenience.”
She replaced every glass coffee table with wood.
She ordered the kitchen to stop puréeing her food like an infant’s.
She walked the cliff path every morning with only Celeste ten paces behind, cane sweeping, gulls screaming overhead, until the staff whispered that the new Mrs. Drexler was either fearless or insane.
The tabloids, meanwhile, went feral.
BLIND CINDERELLA SNARES ICE EMPEROR
DREXLER HEIR’S PITY WIFE: LOVE OR LIABILITY?
Photos of the seven-minute ceremony leaked (grainy, taken from a drone). Alara, pale and straight-backed in ivory, Zavian already turning away.
Linnea, of course, gave interviews.
“It’s so sad,” she told every microphone thrust in her face. “Alara’s always been fragile. We’re praying the marriage lasts longer than her attention span.”
Claudia hosted a “prayer breakfast” for charity and cried prettily about her stepdaughter’s tragic heroism.
Alara listened to the clips Celeste read aloud and felt nothing but tired.
Then came the day the vultures descended in person.
Graves announced them at noon.
“Mrs. Claudia Tyrell and Miss Linnea Tyrell are here, madam. They… Uninvited.”
Alara was on the terrace, wind whipping her hair loose from its braid. She considered telling Graves to send them away. Instead she said, “Show them to the winter garden. I’ll be down in ten minutes.”
She chose her armor carefully: charcoal trousers, white silk blouse, hair down and wild from the sea air. No jewelry except the black diamond wedding ring she had not removed once. She wanted them to see it and choke.
Celeste guided her to the elevator, whispering, “They brought photographers.”
“Good,” Alara said.
The winter garden smelled of orange blossoms and venom.
Claudia’s perfume arrived before she did.
“Darling!” she cooed, air-kissing somewhere near Alara’s ear. “Look at you, all settled in your new… institution.”
Linnea’s laugh tinkled. “Careful, Mommy. Some people might think you’re jealous.”
Alara smiled without teeth. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Claudia settled into a chair with theatrical grace. “We wanted to see how you were coping. And we brought gifts, of course.”
The rustle of shopping bags. Designer names Alara recognized by the crinkle of tissue alone.
“We thought you’d need help dressing yourself now,” Linnea said sweetly. “Though I suppose your husband prefers the lights off anyway.”
Alara tilted her head. “Describe the gifts, Celeste.”
Celeste’s voice shook. “Pastel lounge sets, Mrs. Drexler. Very… soft. And scented candles.”
“How thoughtful,” Alara said. “Celeste, please take them to the staff quarters. I’m sure the maids will appreciate not smelling their own poverty for once.”
Linnea gasped.
Claudia recovered first. “Really, Alara, there’s no need to be cruel. We’re family.”
“You stopped being my family the day you hung your portrait over my mother’s,” Alara said calmly. “Now you’re just trespassers with good bone structure.”
Silence, thick and stunned.
Linnea recovered with venom, whispered into her ear,
“Enjoy it while it lasts. Zavian Drexler collects wives the way other men collect watches. You’re the charity model. He’ll toss you the second Ismena dies.”
Alara stood. “Graves?”
The butler appeared instantly.
“Please see my guests out. And inform security the Tyrells are no longer welcome on Drexler property. Ever.”
Claudia’s voice rose an octave. “You can’t....”
“I just did,” Alara said, and walked away.
She did not hear the front doors close, but she felt the house breathe easier afterward.
That evening Ismena arrived from a meeting, and went to her bedroom with champagne.
“You bloodied their noses without raising your voice,” she said, clinking glasses. “I knew I chose well.”
Alara sipped. “He still hasn’t called.”
“He will,” Ismena said. “He’s losing.”
Alara almost smiled.
Three weeks later the stem-cell specialist from Seoul called with news: a new trial, limited spots, one candidate profile matched perfectly. They needed approval and funding immediately.
Ismena took the call. When she hung up, her voice was careful.
“It’s in Singapore. Three-month in-patient. Success rate still under fifty percent. But it’s real.”
Alara’s heart punched against her ribs.
“Tell them yes,” she said.
“There’s a condition,” Eleanor added quietly. “Zavian must sign the consent forms. He is listed as your medical proxy.”
Of course he was.
Alara laughed once, sharp. “Then I suppose he’ll have to come home.”
Ismena’s smile was slow and feline. “I already sent the jet.”
Two nights later, at 2:14 a.m., the house woke to the roar of an engine on the private drive.
Alara was on the terrace again, sleepless, city lights she could not see glittering somewhere far below. She heard the front doors slam. Heard Graves’ murmured greeting. Heard measured, furious footsteps climbing stairs two at a time.
Her bedroom door opened without a knock.
He did not speak at first. She felt him fill the doorway the way storms fill horizons: sudden, absolute.
Then his voice, low and lethal.
“You want to gamble what’s left of your vision on an experiment in Singapore.”
It wasn’t a question.
Alara turned toward the sound. The wind carried his scent straight to her: cedar, winter, and something new: anger laced with jet-lag.
“I want the chance to see the man who thinks he can ignore me for the rest of my life,” she said.
Silence, thick enough to choke on.
When he spoke again, his voice was closer. “If you lose the little light-dark perception you have left, you will never forgive me.”
“I already don’t forgive you,” she said. “Difference is, I’ll be able to look you in the eye while I say it.”
She heard him exhale: slow, controlled, furious.
“Pack,” he said. “We leave in six hours.”
He turned to go.
“Zavian.”
He stopped.
“Thank you for the cane,” she said softly. “It’s beautiful. Next time, put a blade in it.”
She didn’t need sight to know he smirked dangerously.
“Noted,” he said, and left her in the dark that suddenly felt less empty.
Downstairs, Ismena poured herself a finger of 60-year-old Macallan and toasted the empty room.
“Round one,” she murmured. “To the blind girl who just made the devil blink.”
- Writer
