Chapter 1
CHAPTER ONE
ELENA’S POV
I used to believe that the worst thing in the world was being unwanted.
I was wrong.
The worst thing was being wanted only when someone needed something from you.
“ELENA!”
I closed my eyes.
Three seconds.
That was all I allowed myself.
Three seconds to imagine a life where nobody screamed my name like it was a curse.
“ELENA! ARE YOU DEAF?”
And just like that, my three seconds of peace were over.
“Coming, Mrs. Whitmore!”
I placed the silver tray on the kitchen counter, wiped my hands against my apron, and hurried toward the grand staircase.
Margaret Whitmore stood at the top, wearing a cream silk robe and an expression that suggested I’d personally ruined her entire existence.
Which, considering it was barely seven in the morning, was almost impressive.
“Do you have any idea what time it is?”
“Seven fifteen.”
“And what time was Vanessa supposed to have breakfast?”
“Seven.”
She raised one perfectly shaped eyebrow.
“Then why is my daughter still waiting?”
Because your daughter is a twenty-one-year-old woman with two perfectly functioning hands and absolutely no reason she can’t make her own breakfast.
Obviously, I didn’t say that.
I rather enjoyed having somewhere to sleep.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Whitmore. I was preparing the ballroom for tonight.”
“Excuses.” She waved a dismissive hand. “Honestly, Elena, sometimes I wonder why we even bother keeping you here.”
There it was.
My daily reminder that I was nothing more than a charity project.
Eight years.
I’d lived in this ridiculous mansion for eight years, and not once had these people allowed me to forget that they’d taken me in out of the supposed goodness of their hearts.
Although, considering I’d spent most of those years cleaning their floors, cooking their meals, and doing their laundry, I was beginning to suspect they’d gotten a rather good deal.
“Is there anything else, ma’am?”
“Yes. Vanessa needs her silver gown steamed, her jewellery polished, and her shoes collected from the designer.”
“Of course.”
“And Elena?”
I looked up.
Margaret’s eyes travelled over my faded black dress.
“Do try to look presentable tonight. Some very important people will be attending, and I won’t have you embarrassing us.”
I smiled.
The same fake smile I’d perfected over eight miserable years.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
She narrowed her eyes, perhaps detecting the sarcasm.
I lowered my gaze before she could decide to make my day worse.
As she disappeared upstairs, I turned toward the kitchen.
“One day,” I muttered under my breath, “I’m going to buy this entire house just so I can demolish that ridiculous staircase.”
“Talking to yourself again?”
I nearly jumped out of my skin.
Mrs. Bennett stood in the doorway, holding a basket of fresh towels.
“Goodness, you scared me.”
She chuckled.
“That’s what happens when you’re busy plotting revenge.”
I grinned.
“Was I that loud?”
“Only loud enough for the neighbours in the next county.”
Mrs. Bennett was the closest thing I’d ever had to a grandmother.
She was seventy, stubborn as a mule, and apparently immune to Margaret Whitmore’s terrifying personality.
She also happened to be the only person in this house who remembered I was human.
“Come on,” she said, gently pushing me toward the kitchen. “I’ve made you some breakfast.”
My stomach immediately betrayed me with an embarrassingly loud growl.
Mrs. Bennett laughed.
“Good heavens, child. When did you last eat?”
“Yesterday.”
Her smile disappeared.
“Elena.”
“What?”
“Properly.”
I hesitated.
She sighed.
“Sit down.”
“Mrs. Whitmore said—”
“I don’t recall asking what Mrs. Whitmore said.”
And that was how I ended up eating scrambled eggs while Mrs. Bennett stood guard at the kitchen door like a seventy-year-old secret service agent.
For five beautiful minutes, life was almost bearable.
Then Vanessa walked in.
And ruined everything.
“Why are you eating?”
I slowly lowered my fork.
Vanessa Whitmore stood in the doorway, wearing pink silk pyjamas and the kind of expression usually reserved for people who’d discovered something unpleasant on the bottom of their shoes.
“Good morning to you too, Vanessa.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“Don’t get smart with me.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
She marched toward the counter and picked up my plate.
“Mother said you were supposed to finish preparing for tonight.”
“I’ve been working since five.”
“And?”
I stared at her.
Sometimes I genuinely wondered whether Vanessa had been born without the part of her brain responsible for basic human decency.
“And I was hungry.”
She smiled sweetly.
Then tipped my breakfast into the bin.
I watched the eggs disappear.
Something hot and ugly twisted inside my chest.
“There,” she said, placing the empty plate on the counter. “Problem solved.”
I looked at her.
Really looked at her.
Perfect blonde hair.
Perfect skin.
Perfect designer pyjamas.
Everything about Vanessa Whitmore was beautiful.
Except the part that mattered.
“Do you ever get tired?” I asked quietly.
She blinked.
“Of what?”
“Being cruel.”
Her expression changed.
For a moment, I thought she might slap me.
Instead, she laughed.
“Oh, Elena. You’re adorable when you forget your place.”
She leaned closer.
“Let me remind you. You’re here because my parents felt sorry for you. Without us, you’d be back on the streets where you belong.”
I held her gaze.
“Are you finished?”
Her smile vanished.
“Excuse me?”
“Because I have work to do.”
I walked past her before she could respond.
My hands were shaking.
Not because I was frightened.
Because every day, it was becoming harder to keep my anger buried.
And I had a terrible feeling that one day soon, it would finally explode.
By seven that evening, Whitmore Manor looked like something out of a billionaire’s fever dream.
Crystal chandeliers.
White roses.
A champagne fountain.
An orchestra.
Hundreds of guests wearing clothes that probably cost more than my annual living expenses.
All for Vanessa’s birthday.
Naturally.
I stood near the ballroom entrance, balancing a tray of champagne glasses and silently calculating how much money the Whitmores had wasted on decorations.
The answer was enough to make me physically ill.
“Champagne?”
I turned toward the deep masculine voice.
And nearly forgot how to breathe.
The man standing in front of me was unfairly attractive.
Not handsome in the friendly, boy-next-door way.
No.
This man looked like he belonged on the cover of a luxury magazine titled Men Who Could Ruin Your Life and Your Credit Score.
Tall.
Broad shoulders.
Dark, slightly tousled hair.
A sharply tailored black suit.
And eyes so intensely grey they almost looked silver beneath the chandeliers.
He was watching me with an expression I couldn’t quite read.
I straightened.
“Would you like a glass, sir?”
One corner of his mouth lifted.
“Sir?”
I blinked.
“Sorry?”
“Do I look old enough to be called sir?”
I glanced at his face.
“Would you prefer Your Majesty?”
His eyebrows rose.
Oh.
Wonderful.
I’d officially lost my mind.
I was being sarcastic to a guest.
A very wealthy-looking guest.
A very wealthy-looking guest who was now staring at me.
Then he laughed.
Not politely.
Not awkwardly.
A genuine, surprised laugh.
“That’s a new one.”
I bit the inside of my cheek.
“Champagne?”
He took a glass.
“Thank you, Your Majesty.”
I stared at him.
He smiled.
And something incredibly annoying happened inside my chest.
My heart skipped.
Absolutely not.
I didn’t have time for handsome strangers.
Especially handsome strangers who probably owned private jets and thought ordinary people existed to carry their luggage.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Elena.”
“Elena,” he repeated.
The way he said it made my name sound different.
Softer.
Almost important.
“And yours?”
“Adrian.”
Of course.
Even his name sounded expensive.
“Well, Adrian, enjoy the party.”
I turned to leave.
“Wait.”
I stopped.
He tilted his head.
“Are you always this eager to get away from people?”
“Only the ones who ask too many questions.”
His smile widened.
“Interesting.”
“Not particularly.”
“Do you work here?”
I glanced down at my black uniform.
“No. I just enjoy carrying champagne around strangers’ houses for fun.”
He laughed again.
And I hated that I liked the sound.
“You’re rather difficult, Elena.”
“Funny. I’ve been told I’m extremely accommodating.”
“By whom?”
“People who don’t ask too many questions.”
He took a sip of champagne.
“Then I suppose I’m in trouble.”
I opened my mouth to reply.
But before I could say anything, a familiar shriek echoed across the ballroom.
“ADRIAN!”
I closed my eyes.
Of course.
Of all the men in this enormous room, the one I’d decided to be sarcastic with just had to know Vanessa.
She appeared beside us in a shimmering silver gown, practically throwing herself at him.
“Darling! I’ve been looking everywhere!”
Darling?
Interesting.
Adrian’s expression became noticeably less enthusiastic.
“Vanessa.”
She linked her arm through his.
“You didn’t tell me you’d arrived!”
“I only just got here.”
“Well, you should have called me.”
Her eyes finally landed on me.
And her smile disappeared.
“What are you doing?”
I lifted the tray slightly.
“Serving drinks.”
“Then why are you bothering Adrian?”
Before I could answer, Adrian spoke.
“She wasn’t bothering me.”
Vanessa blinked.
“I was talking to her,” he added.
For some reason, that made Vanessa look even angrier.
“Oh.” She laughed awkwardly. “Well, Elena has a habit of forgetting she’s staff.”
I felt my cheeks heat.
Adrian’s expression hardened.
“Does she?”
Vanessa leaned closer to him.
“She’s an orphan my parents took in years ago. We’ve practically raised her.”
I stared at the floor.
There it was.
My entire existence reduced to a charity announcement.
“How generous,” Adrian said.
Something about his tone made me glance up.
He wasn’t smiling anymore.
Vanessa, apparently oblivious, continued.
“Honestly, she can be so ungrateful sometimes.”
I tightened my grip on the tray.
Adrian looked directly at me.
“Is that true, Elena?”
Vanessa laughed.
“Of course it is.”
“I wasn’t asking you.”
Silence.
Beautiful, glorious silence.
Vanessa’s mouth fell open.
I almost smiled.
Almost.
“Excuse me,” I said quietly. “I have work to do.”
This time, Adrian didn’t stop me.
But as I walked away, I could feel his eyes following me.
And for some ridiculous reason, I wanted to look back.
I didn’t.
Not until I reached the ballroom doors.
Then I glanced over my shoulder.
He was still watching.
Our eyes met.
He lifted his champagne glass slightly.
A silent salute.
I rolled my eyes.
He smiled.
And I knew, with absolute certainty, that Adrian was going to be trouble.
I just didn’t know how much.
Because twenty minutes later, I would lose the only home I’d ever known.
And the stranger with the silver eyes would be standing at the centre of everything.
