Chapter 1
The afternoon sun poured over the marble terrace in clean, vivid sheets of light, illuminating the manicured hedges and the crystal champagne towers with flawless clarity. Around the perimeter, eighty guests in tailored tuxedos and pastel silk gowns chatted in polished American accents, their fair, rosy complexions glowing beneath the cloudless sky.
Beside the tiered gift table, resting on an upholstered velvet bench, sat a small pink leather suitcase. Its brass clasps were popped open, revealing folded cotton pajamas and a small, hand-embroidered sleeping pillow.
Leopoldine stood over it. Her floor-length silk gown draped over her slender frame, diamond chandelier earrings shivering as she reached down and plucked the sleeping pillow from the interior. In its place, she dropped a stiff, gray staff apron with coarse linen ties.
Three-year-old Celia reached upward on her tiptoes, her Mary Jane shoes clicking against the stone. "My pillow. Please. That’s mine."
Leopoldine pulled the pillow against the fitted bodice of her gown, her red lips curving into a bright, venomous smile.
"My daughter gets your room," Leopoldine said, her voice a purr of sweet cruelty. "You get a job."
"Give it back," Celia whimpered, her lower lip trembling. "Daddy bought me that."
"Your father isn't the master of this nursery anymore, little girl," Leopoldine replied, tapping the apron with a manicured fingernail. "Put on the ties. The maids will teach you how to polish silver by sunset."
A broad hand with a heavy gold signet ring reached over her shoulder and snatched the pillow from her grip.
Oswin Marlowe did not raise his voice. At forty-five, his presence commanded the terrace with the crushing density of an iron vault. His tailored dinner jacket sat immaculate against his broad shoulders, his peaked satin lapels sharp as obsidian, his gray eyes cold and unblinking.
He knelt, pressing the pillow into his daughter’s arms. "Hold it tight, Celia."
Celia clutched the fabric to her chest, burying her face into the soft cotton before looking up with wide, tearful eyes.
"Daddy…" Celia whispered, her voice shaking violently. "She packed me while I was sleeping."
Oswin’s jaw tightened. He turned his eyes slowly toward the suitcase, inspecting the folded clothes and the gray apron.
"What is this, Leopoldine?" Oswin asked, rising to his full height.
Leopoldine did not retreat. She lifted the apron by its neck loop, dangling it in the sun while gesturing toward the mansion's service entrance.
"After we marry, my daughter comes first," Leopoldine said, meeting his stare without flinching. "Clarissa needs the south wing suite for her harp instructor. Your daughter can sleep in the attic nursery with the staff. It’s time she learned her place."
"Her place is beside me," Oswin said.
"Not in my household," Leopoldine replied. "We discussed modernizing the estate. We agreed on boundaries."
"I agreed to a wedding," Oswin said, his voice dropping into a deadly register. "I did not agree to an eviction."
"Then you shouldn't have signed the registry papers," Leopoldine scoffed. She leaned past his shoulder, her hand darting forward to seize the wool of Celia’s cardigan. "Come here, you ungrateful little brat—"
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Oswin intercepted her wrist mid-air. He caught her by both forearms, twisted her away from the child, and drove her backward with surgical force.
Leopoldine stumbled against the padded bench, her ankle-strap heels skidding across the flags. The apron slipped from her fingers, tumbling across the open suitcase.
