I woke up slowly, the way someone does when they are afraid of opening their eyes.
For a few seconds, I stayed still, listening.
The room was too quiet—no street noise, no distant chatter, no familiar sounds that belonged to my old life. The air felt heavy, perfumed with something soft and unfamiliar, like lavender mixed with old paper and magic I didn't understand.
Magic.
The thought made my chest tighten.
I opened my eyes.
The ceiling above me was high and carved with symbols I didn't recognize, elegant lines etched into pale stone that caught the morning light. Sunlight filtered in through tall curtains, turning the room golden and unreal, like I was still dreaming.
But I wasn't.
I pushed myself up slightly, the sheets sliding down my arms. They were soft—too soft. Everything in this room was expensive in a quiet, intimidating way. Nothing screamed luxury, yet nothing felt ordinary either.
This was my room.
No.
Our room.
I swallowed.
Angel.
The name echoed in my mind, grounding me. Angel. I repeated it silently, the way one repeats a prayer. I had been called that all my life, but here, in this mansion, it felt strange—too gentle for a place built of power and secrets.
Before I could fully sit up, the door opened.
Three women entered, moving in perfect synchronization. They wore identical pale dresses, their heads slightly bowed, their expressions calm and unreadable.
Maids.
My body stiffened instantly.
"Good morning, Lady Angel," the first one said softly.
Hearing my name spoken like that—Lady Angel—sent a shiver down my spine.
"Good… morning," I replied, unsure of what else to say.
The second maid pulled the curtains wider, letting sunlight flood the room. The third approached the bed with folded clothes in her arms.
"We are here to prepare you," the first maid said.
Prepare me.
"For… what?" I asked.
"For the day," she replied, as if it were obvious.
Before I could protest, they moved closer.
One gently took the sheet from my shoulders. Another guided my feet onto the cold marble floor. Their touch wasn't rough, but it was firm, practiced—like they had done this a thousand times for women who didn't question it.
I wasn't one of those women.
"I can dress myself," I said quickly.
They paused.
The three of them exchanged glances so brief I almost missed it.
"We understand," the first maid said politely. "But it is tradition."
"I'm not used to tradition," I said, my voice tighter than I meant it to be.
Still, they didn't leave.
They helped me step into layers of fabric I didn't know the names of—soft underdresses, fitted bodices, flowing outer robes in shades of ivory and silver. Every movement felt invasive. Every adjustment made me more aware of how out of place I was.
My hands hovered awkwardly at my sides.
I didn't belong to this body anymore. I didn't recognize the woman they were turning me into.
When they brushed my hair, I flinched.
"Sorry," one of them murmured.
"It's fine," I lied.
By the time they were done, I barely recognized my reflection. The mirror showed a woman who looked composed, elegant—someone worthy of standing beside a powerful mage.
But inside, I felt like a child wearing someone else's skin.
"Is this really necessary?" I asked quietly.
"It is expected," one maid replied.
That word again.
Expected.
When they finished, they escorted me out of the room, one on each side, as though I might get lost or fall apart if left alone.
The corridors were long and echoing, lined with tall windows and tapestries that told stories I couldn't read. Every step I took felt like I was walking deeper into something I didn't understand.
The dining room was already set when we arrived.
A long table. Polished wood. Silverware placed with precision. Food arranged carefully, steaming gently.
But one chair stood empty.
His chair.
Santiago.
My husband.
I hesitated at the entrance.
"Please sit, Lady Angel," one of the maids said.
I obeyed.
The meal began in silence.
The maids stood at a distance, waiting, watching. The only sounds were the soft clink of cutlery and my own breathing. Every bite felt too loud, every swallow too noticeable.
I kept glancing at the empty seat across from me.
"He's not joining us?" I asked finally.
No one answered.
I looked up. "Santiago?" I tried again, unsure if I was even allowed to say his name like that.
The maids' faces remained blank.
"Where is he?" I asked softly.
Still nothing.
The silence pressed down on me, heavy and uncomfortable. It wasn't just that they weren't answering—it felt like they couldn't.
I lowered my gaze and finished my meal without another word.
After breakfast, they escorted me back into the corridors, then stopped.
"You are free to explore the mansion," one maid said. "But please do not enter restricted areas."
"What's restricted?" I asked.
She smiled politely. "You will know."
Then they left me alone.
For the first time since waking up, I was truly alone.
I walked slowly, my footsteps echoing against the stone floors. Every door I passed made me curious. Every hallway felt like it led to a secret.
This place wasn't just a home.
It was a fortress.
I wandered without direction, my fingers brushing against the walls, until I found myself standing in front of a large, dark wooden door.
Something about it made my chest tighten.
I didn't need to ask whose room it was.
I knew.
Santiago.
My hand hovered in the air.
I told myself to turn away. I had no reason to be there. No right. But curiosity burned inside me, sharp and irresistible.
Slowly, I pushed the door open.
The room was colder than the rest of the mansion.
Shelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling, filled with books—old, worn, powerful. The air smelled of ink, dust, and something electric.
Magic lived here.
I stepped inside, closing the door behind me.
My fingers traced the spines of the books. Some titles were written in languages I couldn't read. Others shimmered faintly, reacting to my presence.
I felt small.
Unworthy.
Why would someone like him marry someone like me?
As I reached for one book, a voice spoke behind me.
"You shouldn't be here"
My blood turned to ice.
I froze.