Chapter 1
The cascading crystal chandeliers cast a bright, luminous glow across the ivory-paneled walls of the sprawling mansion, filling the corridors with an airy, elegant warmth. In the far reaches of the estate’s abandoned service wing, the golden light was softer, reflecting off the polished hardwood floors. Celia Merritt moved silently through the deserted hallway. Her fair, rosy skin glowed faintly in the warm illumination. She was a housemaid, beautiful like a movie star, her dark hair gathered into a perfectly neat, loose French twist. Her fitted black maid dress, with its cinched waist and short A-line skirt, rustled softly against her crisp white apron.
Celia had been sent to retrieve vintage table linens, but a faint, rhythmic tapping drew her toward a heavy, locked oak door at the end of the hall. She possessed a master set of household keys, a necessity for her senior position, and the strange noise gnawed at her curiosity.
"Is someone in there?" Celia asked, her voice barely a whisper, pressing her ear against the cool wood.
"Please," a fragile, hoarse voice answered from the other side. "Please, help me."
Celia’s heart hammered against her ribs. She fumbled with the heavy iron ring of keys, her delicate, manicured hands shaking. She found the rusted brass key, inserted it into the lock, and turned. The heavy door groaned outward, revealing a small, sparsely furnished room.
Sitting on the edge of a narrow cot was Juliet Crowne.
Celia gasped, her hands flying to her mouth. The woman before her had been presumed dead for six months. Juliet wore a plain, faded house dress and a worn cardigan, her bare feet slipped into simple flat shoes. Despite the visible exhaustion shadowing her fair, rosy complexion, Juliet’s inherent elegance remained unbroken.
"Mrs. Crowne?" Celia breathed, stepping into the room. "We… we were told you died in a car accident. We had a funeral. How are you here?"
Juliet looked up, her blue eyes wide and terrified. "Amara locked me in here. She told me Alton was dead. She told me the rival families killed him, and that she was keeping me hidden so they wouldn't kill me too. Is it true? Is my husband truly gone?"
"Mr. Crowne is alive," Celia said, her voice shaking with a mixture of profound relief and rising horror. "He is upstairs right now. Tonight is his engagement banquet. He is marrying Amara."
Juliet’s delicate hands gripped the edges of her cardigan. The color drained entirely from her face, leaving her looking like a porcelain doll. "She lied to me. For six months, she kept me in this room, telling me I was a widow. She forced me to cook her private meals on the hotplate in the corner, telling me it was the only way we could survive without alerting the guards."
"We have to go to him," Celia said, stepping forward and gently taking Juliet’s trembling hands. "We have to show him you are alive."
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"He won't believe it," Juliet whispered, tears welling in her eyes. "Amara controls everything now. If we just walk out there, she will have her guards intercept us. We need absolute proof. We need to reach him in front of everyone, where she cannot hide me away again."
"Then we will do exactly that," Celia declared, her expressive brows drawing together in fierce determination. "But we need a reason for you to step into that dining room. What can we use?"
