Chapter 3: MANSIONS OF SECRETS *

The car ride was silent.

Austin drove. I stared out the window.

His driver sat up front like he was invisible.

No one spoke. Not even the radio.

Just the sound of tires on pavement and the ring on my finger digging into my skin.

Cold. Heavy. Wrong.

The Arden estate was not a house.

It was a fortress. Black gates that took a full minute to open. 20-foot walls. Cameras on every corner. Guards at the entrance who didn’t smile.

$3 billion looked a lot like loneliness.

“Welcome to your prison,” Austin said as the car stopped.

His voice was flat.

He didn’t look at me.

A maid opened the door before I could touch it. She was in her 50s, uniform pressed, eyes down. “Mrs. Arden. Your room is upstairs. I’ll show you.”

Mrs. Arden.

The name felt like a lie in my mouth. Like wearing someone else’s skin.

I followed her through marble floors so shiny I could see my reflection. Chandeliers. Art on the walls that probably cost more than my college degree.

And it was all empty. No warmth. No photos. No life.

My room was bigger than my entire apartment back home. White sheets. Cold marble. Floor-to-ceiling windows. A vanity with Nova’s initials engraved in gold.

And on the nightstand, a wedding photo.

Austin in a tux. Nova in white lace, smiling like she owned the world.

They hadn’t even taken it down.

Of course they hadn’t.

Because I wasn’t supposed to be here.

I set my one suitcase down. It looked pathetic next to the king-sized bed. One suitcase. That was everything I owned.

I was 22 and I was starting over in my sister’s bedroom.

That’s when I heard it.

Footsteps. Heavy. Coming down the hall. Slow. Deliberate.

Then a knock. One. Sharp.

Austin was in the doorway before I answered. Tie loose. Sleeves rolled up. Eyes still that same empty cold from the altar.

“You had 10 minutes to run too,” he said. No greeting. “Why didn’t you?”

I crossed my arms. “Because I’m not Nova. And I don’t have $3 billion to disappear with.”

Something flickered in his face. Surprise. Maybe respect. Maybe annoyance. I couldn’t tell with him.

“Good,” he said finally. “Then we have an agreement. You play the wife in public. Dinners. Events. Photos. I don’t touch you in private. In 6 months, we get an annulment. Clean break. No one gets hurt.”

He said it like he was reading terms and conditions.

Like I was a business deal he regretted signing.

He turned to leave, then paused in the doorway.

“There’s one rule, Neva.” His voice dropped. “Don’t go into the west wing. Ever.”

The west wing.

The part of the house with all the lights off. The windows covered. The door at the end of the hall that looked like it hadn’t been opened in years.

“Why?” I asked.

He looked over his shoulder. “Because I said so.”

And then he was gone.

As soon as his footsteps faded, I walked to the window. The west wing was across the courtyard. Dark. Silent.

Locked.

Being the unwanted daughter finally had a use.