Olivia
The house feels different without the men in it.
Quieter, though not empty. The walls still hum with energy, with secrets, but there’s less weight pressing down on me when Roman and his brothers leave for whatever business drags them out into the night.
The wedding gown still sits in a lump of dirty silk and crumpled lace, mocking me. It looks wrong here, like a ghost that followed me from the church waiting to rise up and suffocate me. I go to it, run my fingers over the bodice, the stiff boning pressing back against me.
For years, everything I was taught came down to this gown. To the day I’d wear it and be handed over like property. And now? It’s nothing more than torn, limp, fabric. Useless. A reminder of chains I never chose.
I picture setting a match to it, watching it burn until the lace shrivels and the silk turns to ash. The image makes my heart race, makes me almost smile. But I’m not ready. Not yet.
Not until Roman’s home.
I shower in his huge en-suite and pull on one of his dark shirts, haphazardly buttoning it up.
It falls all the way to my knees, thankfully, and I wonder when I’ll eventually get my own clothes.
I slip out from the suite and wander the halls carefully, unsure if I’m meant to, unsure of the rules.
A part of me expects to be scolded for stepping out of Roman’s space, the way I used to be scolded for straying from my rooms at my father’s house.
But no one stops me. No one tells me I don’t belong.
But the mansion feels like it’s watching me.
Every wall, every corridor, every closed door seems to hum with secrets. I tell myself I’m just exploring, stretching my legs, but really I’m testing the boundaries, waiting for someone to stop me.
But no one does.
I trail my hand along the banister as I descend a narrow staircase that isn’t as polished as the grand one in the front hall. This part of the house feels older, dustier, as if it hasn’t been touched in years. The corridor bends sharply and ends at a heavy oak door cracked just slightly open.
Curiosity prickles. I push it wider.
The air inside is cooler, tinged with the faint, lingering scent of polish and old paper. Moonlight filters through tall windows draped in heavy curtains, silvering the outlines of furniture. At the center of the room, silent and solemn, sits a grand piano.
My breath catches.
For a moment I just stare at it, black and gleaming, its keys waiting like teeth in the dim light.
Memories flood me. Endless afternoons bent over ivory keys, tutors correcting my posture, my father standing in the doorway reminding me that no husband would tolerate mistakes.
Music was never mine. It was another box to tick, another way to make me “accomplished.”
And yet, seeing the piano here, abandoned and dusty with disuse, something inside me stirs.
I drift forward, my fingertips brushing the smooth lid. The silence of the room is thick, expectant, as though it’s been waiting for someone to wake it. My heart pounds as I lift the cover, exposing the keys. A few are yellowed, some chipped, but most still gleam faintly in the moonlight.
I sit, the bench creaking beneath me. My hands hover uncertainly, trembling.
What if someone hears?
What if Roman hears?
I almost push the lid back down, but then I remember the way he looked at me like I wasn’t a pawn, like I was something so much more than that. My fingers lower before I can stop myself.
The first note is soft, hesitant, echoing through the empty room. The sound hangs in the air, fragile, like a secret I’ve confessed aloud. My chest tightens.
I try another, then another, the beginnings of a melody I haven’t played in years. My fingers stumble, clumsy from disuse, but the notes come anyway. Quiet. Imperfect. Real.
I close my eyes.
For a few stolen moments, I’m not the girl in the gown, not the bride kidnapped at the altar. I’m just a woman at a piano, breathing life into something that was always supposed to belong to someone else but now, finally, belongs to me.
The melody falters when emotion clogs my throat. I press my palms to the keys, letting the discordant clash ring out before falling back into silence.
Tears sting my eyes. I don’t even know if they’re from grief or relief.
A floorboard creaks in the hallway. My heart leaps into my throat, panic surging. I slam the lid shut and stand so fast the bench tips backward.
But no one comes.
The hall remains empty and still, only shadows moving in the moonlight.
I press a hand to my chest, willing my pulse to slow. My cheeks burn with embarrassment, even though no one caught me. It feels illicit, that small act of rebellion, like taking back something I wasn’t meant to have.
When I finally leave the music room, I pull the door shut behind me, sealing in the faint echo of my notes.
The mansion feels different now. Still vast, still full of secrets, but not entirely hostile.
I make my way back to Roman’s suite when the sound of hushed whispers and soothing lullabies float down the corridor. I head towards the sound taking me further away from Roman’s rooms, until a glow just beyond a doorway catches my attention. It’s a library, full of books and old leather chairs.
A beautiful young woman glances up when I push the door open, her blond hair tied up messily, a book balanced on her knee. She’s nursing a newborn, her glow undeniable, though her gaze is sharp. She smiles when she sees me. “You must be Olivia. I’m Clara.”
Her tone isn’t cold. It isn’t pitying either. Just… warm and kind.
I nod, clutching the frame of the sitting-room door. “Yes. I—” I falter, unsure how to explain. Bride. Kidnapped. Stolen bride. Not really a bride at all.
Clara doesn’t make me. She sets her book aside and gestures to the sofa. “Come sit. The men will be gone for hours yet.”
The others trickle in as if summoned. I’m introduced to Sarah, quieter, her eyes downcast but kind.
Isabella, more confident, sharp-tongued in a way that makes me flinch at first until I realize it isn’t aimed at me.
Finally, Rachel introduces herself with a nod and a wink handing me a cup of chamomile tea.
They circle me with questions, not cruel or prying, but curious.
Do I like Roman’s suite? Do I like to read?
Have I ever been to Paris? Their voices braid together until I almost forget I’m the outsider.
For the first time in my life, I feel like I’m sitting among women who understand what it means to be like me.
Only more than that. To be claimed , not politely courted, not handed over like an asset, but taken, possessed by men who were strangers and yet somehow exactly what we needed.
It makes me feel less alone.
Hours slip by in laughter, seeing to babies and toddlers, and gentle conversation until the heavy slam of doors announces the brothers’ return. Clara pats my knee, her smile knowing. “He’ll be looking for you.”
I rise, nerves twisting in my stomach, and slip back upstairs.
Roman finds me waiting in his bedroom, perched at the edge of the bed. His shoulders are tight, his jaw sharp as he strides in carrying something heavy. Two black trash bags hit the floor with a dull thud.
My heart sinks.
“My things?” I ask, though I already know.
His mouth twists with something close to fury. “This is how your father sent your things. Packed up like garbage.”
The words sting sharper than I expect. I don’t cry, though. I don’t let myself. I’ve learned how to keep my face smooth, my voice even. It’s what kept me safe under my father’s roof.
But Roman isn’t fooled. He sees the flicker, the way my shoulders stiffen, the way I stare too long at the bags.
“Olivia.” His voice is rough, warning and gentle all at once.
I shake my head quickly. “It doesn’t matter. They’re just things.”
The lie tastes bitter. My life reduced to plastic sacks, dumped at the feet of the man who stole me.
Roman crosses the room in three strides, his hands seizing my waist, hauling me against him. “It matters. He doesn’t get to decide what you’re worth. He doesn’t get to treat you like trash. You hear me?”
I nod, though my throat tightens too much to speak.
“I’ll take you out as soon as the stores open, you can get anything and everything you want and need…”
I cut him off with a shake of my head. “I don’t have any money. I have no job, no allowance. My father always sent for my clothes and toiletries. How can I buy new things?”
“Olivia, you’re mine now, what’s mine is yours.” He pauses for a moment before smirking at what that means. “You are yours. I’ll have you added to my account, spend whatever you want, however you want, whenever you want.”
“But–” I try to argue.
“But nothing, Olivia. I won’t have you feeling trapped and isolated because you have no money. And if you want to work you can work for the family like Rachel does. Now, there’s something else I want from you.”
His mouth claims mine before the first tear can fall. The kiss is rough, demanding, not asking permission but giving me what I need, something stronger than the hurt, something hotter than the shame.
His lips trail down my jaw, my throat, branding me where no one can erase. His hands roaming with fierce possession.
“Mine,” he growls against my skin. “Not his. Never his. Only mine.”
The ache in my chest melts, replaced by heat that races down my spine. I clutch his shoulders, snake my hands around the back of his neck, desperate, grounding myself in his strength.
“Roman,” I gasp when his hands tear at his shirt that I put on earlier, stripping me bare in seconds.
He doesn’t slow, doesn’t let me retreat. He lifts me easily, my legs wrapping around his waist, and presses me into the wall. His cock presses hot and hard against my core, sliding against the slickness already pooling there.
“Say it,” he demands, eyes blazing. “Say who you belong to.”
“You,” I breathe, no hesitation. “I’m yours.”
He thrusts inside me in one hard stroke, filling me to the hilt. My head knocks back against the wall, my cry swallowed by his mouth.
This isn’t gentle. This isn’t slow. It’s feral, driven by the need to overwrite every insult, every dismissal, every time my father treated me like I was nothing. Roman pounds into me, each thrust a vow, each kiss a promise, each sharp sting a reminder that I’m alive.
I cling to him, nails digging into his shoulders, body shattering around him again and again. He doesn’t stop, doesn’t falter, until I’m sobbing his name, begging for more.
When he finally spills inside me, roaring against my throat, I feel it down to my bones: I am his. Untouchable.
He lowers me carefully after, though his hands don’t let go, his body still braced against mine.
“No one throws you away,” he whispers. “Not while I’m breathing.”
The words undo me more than the sex, more than the fury in his eyes. Because for the first time in the madness of the last thirty-six hours, I believe them.