9. Elodie
Chapter 9
Elodie
B reakfast was a chatty affair. Annabelle and Stephanie chirped away about the masquerade ball, recounting every dress and scandal over their scrambled eggs. I picked at mine, trying to focus on anything but their voices. My stomach churned with nerves and hunger.
Marion’s eyes bore into me from across the table. “Get dressed, Elodie,” she commanded, her tone leaving no room for argument. “He’ll be here soon to pick you up. And do try, Elodie. Nothing baggy. Remind William you are an actual woman, would you?”
Annabelle snickered, her fork clinking against her plate. “Yeah, Elodie. Maybe try some makeup this time.”
Stephanie added, “It might help if you actually looked like you belonged at Crestwood for once.”
Their laughter grated against my ears, a familiar sound that always made my skin prickle. I took my plate to the sink, the porcelain cool against my fingers as I rinsed it off. The water rushed over the leftover bits of egg, carrying them down the drain with a quiet gurgle.
I wiped my hands on a dishtowel and turned to leave the kitchen. The weight of their eyes followed me as I made my way upstairs to my small room. Their voices faded into the background noise of clinking dishes and murmured gossip.
In my room, I pulled open the closet door and stared at the sparse selection of clothes. Most of them were hand-me-downs or thrift store finds—practical and plain. Nothing that would satisfy Marion’s demand for reminding William I was an actual woman .
I reached for a simple dress, one that fit well enough without drawing too much attention. As I changed, I couldn’t shake the feeling of being on display, a pawn in someone else’s game.
The mirror reflected a girl who looked tired but determined. A girl who was done letting others dictate her worth.
I brushed my hair back into its usual ponytail and took a deep breath. Whatever came next, I would face it head-on.
Marion barged in without knocking, as always. Her eyes swept over me, taking in every detail with a critical gaze.
“You actually look…” she began, letting her voice trail off as if finishing the sentence would cost her something.
I stood still, my heart beating faster. Was that almost a compliment?
“No ponytail today, Elodie,” she instructed, moving closer. “Here. Let me brush your hair.”
I froze. If it had been anyone else, I might have thought it a kind gesture—something I had craved from Marion for so long and never received. But from her, it felt more like an order than an act of care.
She took the brush from my dresser and began working through my hair with methodical strokes. It felt foreign, uncomfortable. But I let her, unsure of what else to do.
“My mother was not like yours,” she started, her voice softening just a touch. “Cold. Demanding. She had high expectations for me, expectations I never understood until I became a mother myself.”
I kept my eyes on the mirror, watching her reflection as she spoke. Her movements were smooth, almost practiced.
“She believed in duty above all else,” she continued. “That’s something you need to understand now. What you’re doing… it’s saving this family after your father made those poor investment choices.”
I felt a lump forming in my throat but swallowed it down.
“My daughters shouldn’t have to pay for something he did,” she said firmly, the brush pulling slightly at a knot in my hair. “Which means it’s on you, Elodie. It’s not fair, but it’s right.”
Her words settled over me like a heavy blanket. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right either—at least not to me. But in Marion’s world of cold pragmatism and duty, fairness had no place.
She finished brushing and stepped back to examine her work. “There,” she said finally. “Much better.”
I nodded slightly, unsure what to say or do next.
“Remember,” she added as she turned to leave, “this is for the family.” And with that, she left the room as abruptly as she had entered.
I stared at my reflection for a moment longer before taking another deep breath and heading downstairs.
Her words lingered in my mind, gnawing at the edges of my thoughts like a relentless pest. She believed this was right—that I owed it to the family to marry William and fix my father’s mistakes. But I didn’t think it was fair. Marion's definition of fairness was twisted, bound up in duty and sacrifice that always seemed to fall on my shoulders.
I picked at the hem of the dress, feeling the unfamiliar fabric between my fingers. It had been ages since I’d worn anything like this, apart from last night’s masquerade. The dress felt strange, as if it belonged to someone else. It left me feeling exposed, vulnerable in a way that made my skin prickle with discomfort.
For a fleeting moment, I let my mind wander to Keaton. His intense blue eyes, the way he crowded me in that conference room at The Ritz. There was something about him—something magnetic and dangerous all at once.
I could still hear his voice from last night, the words slipping through my thoughts like a whispered secret: Marry me.
A part of me had actually considered it. Standing there in that mask, under the dim lights and swirling music, it had felt almost possible. A reckless fantasy that had burned bright for a moment.
But now, in the harsh light of day, it seemed ridiculous. He hadn’t meant it; how could he? Keaton Douglas didn’t need someone like me complicating his life. And even if he did mean it—which I doubted—I couldn’t. I had too much at stake to indulge in such a dangerous daydream.
I heard the faint hum of an engine outside and glanced out the window. A sleek black car pulled up to the curb, and my heart sank further into my chest. William was here.
Taking a deep breath, I squared my shoulders and headed downstairs. Each step felt heavy, laden with the weight of expectations that weren’t mine but had somehow become my burden to bear.
At the bottom of the stairs, Marion waited with an expectant look on her face. Annabelle and Stephanie were nowhere to be seen—probably off somewhere planning their next social conquest or gossip session.
“Remember,” she said again as I reached her side, her voice firm yet devoid of any real warmth. “This is for the family.”
I nodded silently and stepped out into the morning air, leaving behind the stifling confines of our home and stepping toward an uncertain future with William waiting just beyond the door.
He stepped out of the car, and my heart sank further. He was an older man, his hair graying at the temples and his face lined with years of stress or perhaps cruelty. He wasn’t handsome, not in the least. His eyes held a lecherous gleam that made my skin crawl.
“Elodie,” he greeted me, a smile spreading across his thin lips. “I’m glad we finally have some time alone.”
His voice was oily, each word dripping with a false charm that only deepened my discomfort. I nodded politely, not trusting myself to speak.
As we walked toward the car, he leaned in closer so his breath clawed at my skin. “I used to be one of the major investors in your father's company, you know,” he said, puffing out his chest as if this was something to be proud of. “Your father made some poor decisions, but I’m sure you already know that.”
His words stung, but I kept my face neutral. I didn’t need reminding of my father’s failures; they were already a constant weight on my shoulders.
Then he placed his hand on the small of my back, and I nearly leaped out of my skin. The touch was possessive, almost claiming. My stomach churned with nausea, but I forced myself to remain still as he guided me to the car.
“Don’t be so nervous,” he said with a chuckle that sent shivers down my spine. “This is just a formality.”
Formality or not, every fiber of my being wanted to run far away from him and never look back.
I climbed into the car and clasped my hands tightly in my lap, praying for this day to end quickly.
The ride to the boutique felt like an eternity. William kept talking, filling the air with stories about his business ventures and connections. I tuned him out, focusing on the hum of the car engine and the passing scenery. It was easier that way, numbing myself to his presence.
When we arrived at the boutique, a bell chimed as we entered. The air inside was heavy with the scent of perfume and fabric softener. A saleswoman greeted us with a bright smile, her eyes darting between William and me.
“We’re here to find a wedding dress for this lovely lady,” he announced, his hand sliding possessively onto my shoulder. I fought the urge to shrug it off, instead offering a tight smile.
The saleswoman led us through rows of dresses, each more elaborate than the last. I felt like I was walking through a dream—or perhaps a nightmare—everything surreal and distant.
William selected several dresses for me to try on, each one more extravagant than the last. As I slipped into the first dress, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. The girl staring back looked like a stranger—a porcelain doll dressed up for someone else’s amusement.
His hands were never far from me as I modeled each dress. Adjusting a strap here, smoothing fabric there. His touch lingered longer than necessary, sending shivers of discomfort down my spine.
“That one’s nice,” he commented as I stepped out in a lace gown that felt suffocatingly tight. “But let’s try something with more flair.”
The saleswoman brought another dress, this one adorned with intricate beadwork that sparkled under the boutique’s soft lighting. William’s eyes lit up as he saw it.
“Perfect,” he said, his hand resting on my lower back again as he guided me toward the changing room. “This is the one.”
I nodded mechanically, too numb to argue or express any real opinion. My reflection in the mirror seemed even more distant now—a puppet going through motions dictated by someone else.
After William paid for the dress—his fingers brushing mine as he handed over his credit card—we left the boutique and headed to lunch at an upscale restaurant nearby.
Throughout the meal, his hands found every excuse to touch me: guiding me to my seat, brushing crumbs from my lapel, even resting on my knee under the table. Each touch made my skin crawl, but I endured it silently, focusing on getting through this day one moment at a time.
As I pushed food around my plate, pretending to eat while avoiding William’s gaze, all I could think about was how desperately I wanted this day to end.
By the time the date was over, I felt like my skin was too tight, trapping me in a life that wasn’t mine. My chest ached with the effort of holding back tears. How did it come to this? What had I done to deserve such a fate?
William's hand remained on the small of my back as he walked me to the door, each step feeling like a march toward doom. His voice dripped with false sweetness, promising more than I ever wanted.
"I'll be seeing you soon," he said, his smile never reaching his eyes. "Once you're my wife, you'll move in with me. You won't have to worry about that formal education nonsense anymore."
The words hit me like a punch to the gut. Formal education nonsense? Crestwood was my escape plan, my one shot at a future that didn’t involve being someone's possession.
"We can finally start our lives together," he continued, oblivious to my growing discomfort.
Once we reached the door, he leaned in closer. I could see his lips parting slightly, aiming for mine. Panic surged through me, and I turned my head at the last moment so his kiss landed on my cheek instead.
He chuckled softly as he pulled back, his breath warm against my skin. "Shy, are we?" His tone was condescending, as if I were a child caught in some innocent folly. "Don't worry, Elodie. I'll break you of such foolishness on our wedding night."
His words sent a shiver down my spine, not from excitement but from sheer dread. I managed a tight smile, nodding mechanically before slipping inside the house.
As soon as the door closed behind me, I leaned against it and let out a shaky breath. The house felt both too quiet and too loud at once—filled with the echoes of Marion’s expectations and my own desperate thoughts.
I headed upstairs to my room on autopilot, each step heavier than the last. Once inside, I locked the door and finally let myself cry. The tears came hot and fast, spilling down my cheeks in silent sobs.
How was this my life? How had everything spiraled so far out of control? The weight of it all pressed down on me, leaving me feeling small and powerless.
I didn’t understand any of it—the cruelty of fate or the coldness of those around me. All I knew was that I had to find a way out before it consumed me entirely.
I sat on the edge of my bed, my thoughts a tangled mess. Maybe I could find Keaton at school. Maybe I could ask him if he was serious about marrying me…
And what? Have him laugh in my face?
He was probably saying those things because he thought that was what I wanted to hear. Because he wanted more from me and thought he was being romantic.
No , a voice insisted. I saw his eyes. He's just as trapped as I am.
But even the thought sounded ridiculous. Keaton Douglas, the untouchable hockey star, feeling trapped? It seemed impossible. He had everything—wealth, status, control over his own life. How could someone like him ever understand what it felt like to be me?
I shook my head, trying to dispel the confusion swirling inside it. No. I was on my own. Relying on someone else had never worked out for me before, and it wouldn't start now.
I lay back on my bed, staring at the ceiling as if it held answers to all my problems. But no answers came—only more questions and an overwhelming sense of uncertainty about what lay ahead.
Tomorrow would bring another day at Crestwood Academy—a place where I'd never felt more out of place or invisible—and maybe then I'd have a chance to find Keaton and ask him what he'd meant.
If he even remembered who I was in the first place.