Chapter 7 Ashthorne Hall
The car slows as the wrought-iron gates open. Ashthorne Hall sits beyond them like something out of a movie. Grand and old, with ivy clinging to the stone columns. The gravel drive winds in a perfect curve around a fountain that’s taller than the car.
I glance at Lucian, who’s watching my face.
“Welcome home.”
The car stops, and before I can move, someone’s already opening my door. A man in a suit offers his hand.
The gravel crunches under my boots. The air smells like rain and roses and money.
Lucian steps out beside me. “You don’t have to be nervous.”
“I’m not nervous,” I lie.
He gives me a look but doesn’t call me on it. Just gestures toward the wide front doors, which swing open as we approach.
Inside, the foyer is all marble floors, vaulted ceilings, and golden light pouring in through stained glass.
A chandelier sparkles above us like a constellation frozen in crystal.
My reflection follows me in the polished floor—oversized hoodie, scuffed shoes, hair in a messy braid. I look like a stray.
“Isobel,” Lucian says softly, stepping closer. “This is your home.”
I swallow hard. “It feels like a museum.”
He smiles faintly. “It’s warmer than it looks.”
A woman steps forward from the hall—tall, sleek, with perfect posture and cool eyes. She's in her forties, maybe. Impeccably dressed.
“This is Elara,” Lucian says. “House manager. She runs the estate. Anything you need—clothes, toiletries, space—just tell her.”
“Welcome, Miss Ashthorne,” Elara says with a graceful nod, like I’m royalty instead of a stray dragged in off the street.
“Nice to meet you.” I try to force a smile onto my face, but I’m not sure I succeed. “Please just call me Isobel.”
“Would you like a tour?” Lucian gestures.
“I’m going to need a map.”
“That can be arranged.” He chuckles.
A large living room with a fireplace and cushioned seats. A formal dining room with a long, opulent dining table.
We pass a portrait of a woman in a high-necked gown with a hawk perched on her arm.
“She looks like she’d stab someone with a knitting needle.”
Lucian glances over. “That’s Margot Ashthorne. Your great great great great grandmother. She probably did.”
We push through a set of double doors, and it’s like stepping into a dream.
Books line every wall, floor to ceiling, with rolling ladders and iron balconies along the second level.
There’s a spiral staircase winding up into the soft light that filters through the stained-glass dome overhead.
Velvet chairs in deep blues and emeralds are scattered around a sunken fireplace.
It’s warm here, even though no fire burns.
“This is my new favorite room.” I look around in awe.
“I’m not surprised.” Lucian chuckles. “Come back whenever you want.”
“I definitely will.” I smile as he leads us back out. Albeit, somewhat reluctantly on my side.
He shows me the kitchens—somehow bigger than the dining room—then the back terrace where the gardens stretch toward the tree line.
The gardens roll out in layered tiers with hedges trimmed to perfection, beds bursting with soft peonies, lavender, and strange flowers I don’t even recognize.
Stone paths snake through them, curving around marble statues half-sunk in ivy and time.
There’s a koi pond, of course. There’s always a koi pond in rich people movies.
But here it’s real, orange and white shapes drifting beneath lily pads.
We head down one of the stone paths, and he shows me the greenhouse.
It’s all glass and iron bones, full of filtered sunlight and the smell of damp moss.
Inside, it’s warm and misty, alive with vines, herbs, and exotic plants that stretch for the ceiling.
There’s a little table and two wrought-iron chairs tucked in the corner.
“I used to come here when I needed to think,” Lucian says, brushing his fingers across a lavender stalk. “Still do, sometimes.”
After the greenhouse, he leads me toward what looks like an outbuilding—stone, similar to the rest of the estate, but newer.
He punches in a code, and the door slides open into a modern dream.
It’s a gym. Full floor-to-ceiling mirrors, polished floors, free weights, machines I don’t know the names of, even a boxing setup in the corner. There’s a small fridge filled with water bottles, and sleek storage cabinets stocked with everything from towels to wraps and protein bars.
We exit through a side door, and the path curves again—this time to a hidden courtyard. And there, nestled in a serene oasis, is a pool.
Long and light blue, surrounded by chaise lounges and trailing vines. A glass wall to the side reveals a pool house, stocked with towels, speakers, and—yes—a minibar.
I blink. “This is insane.”
Lucian gives a small laugh. “It’s a lot. I know.”
“It’s not just a lot. It’s another planet.”
Lucian leads us back into the house, showing me which way to his office if I ever need him. My head is spinning as we make our way to the main foyer where Elara is just walking in from the other side of the house.
“Miss Isobel, your room has been prepared. Would you like to rest before dinner?”
“Oh, yes, thank you.” I smile at Elara.
Elara leads us up the stairs, her heels whispering against the marble while my boots land like gunshots.
I try to walk quieter, but everything about me feels too loud here — the weight of my steps, the beat of my heart, even the breath I hold in my lungs.
The staircase curves upward like something carved into a palace, wide and elegant, flanked by gold-dipped sconces and intricate railings that gleam beneath the chandelier’s light.
Every painting we pass feels older than the country — oil portraits of men in military coats and women in silk gowns, their gazes heavy and all-knowing, as if they can see straight through me.
The hallways stretch on, lined with wainscoting and antique tables topped with flower arrangements and crystal bowls I’m afraid to even look at too hard.
We stop at the end of a hallway at a set of double doors.
“Welcome to your room,” Lucian says as Elara opens the doors.
The room is… breathtaking. No, unreal. I stepped through a mirror and landed in some princess’s daydream.
It’s massive, at least twice the size of the living room back home, with ceilings so high I could stack five of me and still not touch the molding.
The walls are a soft stormy gray with faint silver detailing that catches the light.
One entire side of the room is windows, draped in gauzy white curtains and heavier blackout panels, all tied back with braided cords.
The late afternoon light spills in and sets the room aglow.
The bed sits in the center like a throne, canopied, four-posted, carved from deep wood with velvet hangings. The comforter is thick and pale silver, layered with plush pillows in shades of ash, ivory, and charcoal.
There’s a massive walk-in closet built into the far wall, doors wide open, revealing rows of hanging clothes.
All new. All clearly chosen for me. I spot the clothes we bought with Maeve already unpacked and hanging with yet even more clothes.
All my new shoes Lucian insisted on are lined up in neat rows.
A full wardrobe, multiple pairs of shoes. I’m speechless. Warmth spreads through my body and I want cry. I don’t feel deserving of any of this. But Lucian, my dad, cares about me.
I pull out one hanger, running my hand down a soft knit sweater, the color of oatmeal.
Before Lucian, I never owned anything that didn’t belong to someone else first. Never chose what I wore based on comfort, just…
what didn’t itch. What I could get that fit.
What didn’t show the bruises. But now, I have endless options, all of it new.
A desk sits beneath the window with a sleek laptop already charging.
A soft reading nook is tucked into the corner beneath built-in shelves, and the shelves…
are full. Books I’ve only ever seen in libraries.
Spines in leather and gold, others in soft pastels.
Art books. Fiction. Poetry. A few graphic novels.
There’s a full-length mirror near the closet. No cracks, no missing pieces. The girl in it doesn’t look like she belongs. I look like I’m trespassing.
Lucian comes from behind me. “If there’s anything you need, we can have it here by morning.”
My eyes feel like they might pop out of my head. “This is all for me?”
“Yes,” Lucian says with a little chuckle.
“I—” My voice sticks. I clear my throat. “This is… too much.”
“No,” he says, his tone firm. “It’s not even close to enough.”
“My old bedroom is smaller than the closet.”
My hands shake a little as I run my fingers over the quilt. It’s absurdly soft.
The room smells like fresh linen and something faintly floral. No mildew. No cigarette smoke. No mold creeping in from the walls.
The kind of room you don’t have to lock.
For a long moment, I stand there. I don’t cry. But something shifts inside me. Like this is the first breath after drowning.
Lucian touches my shoulder lightly. “We’ll give you some time to settle in. Dinner is at seven if you feel up to it.”
I nod, still absorbing everything. He leaves, and Elara follows, giving me one last nod before pulling the doors closed with a gentle click.
And then… Silence.
Not the kind I grew up with. Not the sharp, dangerous kind that came before yelling or slamming doors. This silence is soft. Safe. Wrapped in thick carpet and heavy curtains.
The first thing I do is walk back to the doors. Running my fingers over the cool antique brass handles… and find a keyhole. A tiny, polished key already sits in the lock.
Turning it slowly—click—I feel the lock slide into place. From the inside. I test the knob. It doesn’t budge.
A laugh catches in my throat, soft and disbelieving. A door that locks. Not to keep me in, but to keep everyone else out.
Just me. This is mine.