Chapter 3
Elara
The moment I stepped off the bus, I understood what I'd come to see.
Blackwood Estate blazed like a bonfire against the darkening sky. Every window lit. The circular driveway choked with luxury vehicles—Rolls-Royces, Bentleys, a Maybach with diplomatic plates. A red carpet ran from the front steps all the way to the valet station, where men in black tails directed traffic with choreographed precision.
Camera crews. Ring lights. A woman in a headset directing shots.
On the massive LED screens flanking the doorway, I could see the live viewer counts: Instagram: 534K. TikTok: 612K.
I moved closer, drawn by sick fascination.
On screen, Sloane descended the grand staircase in a gown that probably cost three hundred thousand dollars. White silk and French lace, the train cascading behind her like a waterfall. She was luminous—the kind of beautiful that didn't look real even in person.
Julian waited at the bottom of the stairs in a midnight blue tuxedo. When she reached him, he slid a ring onto her finger—a diamond so massive it fractured every light in the room into rainbows.
The comments scrolled by in a blur:
"OMG PERFECT COUPLE"
"This is what true love looks like!!!"
"GOALS GOALS GOALS"
"Literally a fairy tale"
"Why can't I find a man like this"
I stood in the snow, my daughter's ashes clutched to my chest, and watched them kiss to thunderous applause.
"Miss Vance."
Two security guards had materialized from the gatehouse—both linebacker-sized, both wearing earpieces and expressions of professional courtesy that didn't reach their eyes.
"Mr. Vane has issued explicit instructions. You are not permitted on the property."
I'd known that, of course. But I hadn't come to crash the wedding.
My hand moved to my throat. To the silver chain that had rested there so long I'd stopped noticing its weight. My frozen fingers fumbled with the clasp, barely able to work the tiny mechanism.
The compass pendant slid into my palm.
It was small—no bigger than a quarter—the engraving worn smooth from years of wear. N. S. E. W. And underneath, in script so tiny you had to hold it to the light: You'll always find your way home.
The weight of it triggered another memory. The last good memory I had.
Five years ago. Late summer. The library at Blackwood Estate.
I'd been seventeen. Two years living at Blackwood—two years of being reminded daily that I was here on charity, that I should be grateful, that I would never truly belong.
Victoria had been particularly vicious that day. She'd "accidentally" spilled coffee on my homework, then laughed as I tried to salvage the papers. Tristan had watched with that cool detachment he'd perfected, offering no help, making it clear whose side he was on.
I'd fled to the library—the one place they rarely went. I'd been crying into my algebra textbook when Julian had walked in.
He'd been twenty then, home from Harvard for the weekend. He'd stopped when he saw me, his expression unreadable.
"What happened?"
Not "are you okay." Not "what's wrong." Just a simple question, posed with the same tone he might use to ask about the weather.
"Nothing," I'd said quickly, wiping my face. "I'm fine."
He'd crossed to the desk where I sat, his gaze falling on the coffee-stained papers. For a long moment, he'd said nothing. Then he'd reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small velvet box.
"Your birthday was yesterday. Seventeen, correct?"
I'd stared at the box, hardly daring to breathe. He'd remembered. He'd actually remembered.
"Yes."
He'd opened it himself, revealing the compass necklace. Silver. Simple. Elegant. Nothing like the ostentatious jewelry Victoria wore.
"Your father saved my grandfather's life," he'd said, his voice matter-of-fact. "That makes you someone who should be treated with respect in this house. The fact that certain family members haven't understood that is... unfortunate."
He'd held out the box. Not offering to put it on me. Not touching me. Just presenting it like a transaction.
"The engraving says you'll always find your way home. Consider it a reminder that you have a place here. Not because of charity, but because it's owed to your father's memory."
I'd taken the box with shaking hands. "Thank you, Julian."
He'd nodded once, already turning to leave. "You shouldn't let them make you cry. It's beneath you."
"Julian?" I'd called after him.
He'd paused at the doorway but hadn't turned around.
"This means... this means a lot to me."
"It's what's appropriate," he'd replied. Then he'd left.
I'd sat there for hours, holding that box. Replaying every word. Convincing myself that "you have a place here" meant something more than obligation. That "it's what's appropriate" was just his way of being formal.
I'd put the necklace on and never taken it off.
For the next year, I'd worn it like a talisman. Touched it when Victoria sneered. Held it when I felt alone. Convinced myself it was proof that I mattered—that Julian saw me as more than just the daughter of a dead employee.
I'd been so stupid.
When I was eighteen, the thing that changed my relationship with Julian happened.
Waking up in that unfamiliar bed, my head splitting, my body aching in ways I didn't understand. Sunlight streamed in mercilessly through the floor-to-ceiling Windows.
Julian had been standing by the window, fully dressed, his back rigid.
"You're awake."
I'd tried to sit up, realized I was naked under the sheets. Fragments of the night before—I drank champagne given to me by a few people at a party, feeling dizzy, someone's arm around me as they led me somewhere, everything after that a blur.
"Julian? What happened?"
He'd turned then, and the look on his face had shattered something inside me.
Pure disgust.
"You really don't remember? Or is this part of the performance?"
"I don't understand—"
"Don't." The word had come out sharp, cutting. "Don't insult my intelligence, Elara."
He'd picked up my dress from the floor, thrown it at me without getting close enough to touch.
"Get dressed. There's a car waiting."
"Julian, please, I don't know what—"
"You disgust me, Elara."
The words had been so cold they'd burned.
"I thought you understood your place here. I thought you respected what your father did enough not to throw it away. But you're just like all the others—scheming, manipulating, trying to trap a Vane."
"No! I would never—"
"You drugged my drink." His voice had been flat with certainty. "Or had one of your little friends do it. Don't deny it. I know what I felt. What happened."
"Someone must have drugged both of us—"
"I woke up clear-headed. You're the one who orchestrated this." He'd turned back to the window, his posture radiating contempt. "The only reason I'm not having you arrested is because of what your father did for my grandfather. But that debt is paid now, Elara. We're even."
"Please, you have to believe me—"
"Get out."
"Julian—"
"Get. Out." He'd spun around, and the rage in his eyes had been terrifying. "Before I change my mind about calling the police. Stay away from me. You make me sick."
I'd gathered my clothes with shaking hands. The compass necklace had still been around my neck—I'd worn it every day for a year.
As I'd stumbled toward the door, I'd turned back one last time.
"I love you," I'd whispered. "I've always loved you."
His expression hadn't changed. Hadn't softened. If anything, the disgust had deepened.
"That makes it pathetic."
