Chapter 2 - THE LOCKED DOORThe heavy oak door of our master suite slammed shut behind me, the sound echoing through the twenty-foot-high ceiling like a gunshot.
My chest heaved. Every breath felt like inhaling shards of glass. My designer luggage—three pristine leather suitcases gifted by Julian’s corporate associates—sat untouched near the walk-in closet.
An acquisition.
The word echoed in my skull. I wasn't a wife. I was an incubator with a college degree and a clean family tree. Eleanor had vetted me. She had studied my medical history, my college transcripts, my social media footprint, and probably my blood type to ensure I was compatible with the Ashford bloodline.
And Noah. Sweet, confused, eight-year-old Noah.
“She looks nicer than the other ones.”
The other ones.
How many women had Eleanor brought through this house before me? How many prospective brides had sat at that exact breakfast table, reading the exact same cream-colored card, only to fail the audition and vanish into the nebulous shadows of Ashford history?
Rule Two: Never question the staff about former members of the family.
My blood ran cold. The missing women. The "former members." Were they just ex-fiancées who walked away, or had some of them discovered something they shouldn't have?
A sharp knock rattled the heavy double doors of the suite.
“Ava? Please, open the door,” Julian’s voice came through, muffled but desperate. “We can’t fix this if you shut me out.”
“There is nothing to fix, Julian!” I yelled back, throwing open my suitcase and aggressively dumping a pile of designer sweaters into it. “You lied to me about a child! You let your mother run a casting agency for your brides! Get away from this door!”
“Ava, listen to me. If you walk out of these gates right now, the press will tear you apart. Mom’s PR machine will paint you as a gold-digging fraud who bolted the moment she realized being an Ashford comes with responsibility. You won't be able to get a job in the city. You won't be able to rent an apartment.”
I stopped packing, a sweater clutched tightly in my fist.
He was right. The Ashford family didn't just have money; they owned the media, the legal system, and half the Manhattan real estate market. If I walked out now without a strategy, they would chew me up and spit me out, turning me into a cautionary tabloid tale.
I am not running away, I told myself, my knuckles turning white. If they want to play high-society chess, I’ll take their king.
I zipped the suitcase shut with a violent zip.
Instead of heading for the front door, my eyes drifted toward the heavy, brass-accented double doors at the far end of the East wing corridor—the doors leading directly into the forbidden West wing.
Rule One: Never enter the west wing without Julian.
Eleanor had forbidden it. Julian had looked terrified when I asked about it. Whatever secrets the Ashford family was burying, they were buried deep inside those private rooms.
I checked my watch. 10:15 AM. Julian would be downstairs arguing with his mother, and the household staff would be busy preparing for the afternoon luncheon.
I unlocked my suite door, peeked out into the silent, sunlit hallway, and slipped out like a ghost.
The West wing felt entirely different from the rest of the estate. The plush Persian carpets gave way to bare, echoing hardwood floors. The walls weren't adorned with bright impressionist art or family portraits, but with dark, austere oil paintings of stern-faced Ashford patriarchs dating back to the nineteenth century.
The air here was colder, smelling faintly of old paper, dust, and something metallic—like ozone or old copper.
I walked down the long corridor, my heels clicking softly against the wood.
Door after door, all locked.
Until I reached the very end of the hall.
A heavy, wrought-iron reinforced door stood slightly ajar. A thin strip of pale blue light leaked from underneath it.
Someone was inside.
My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. I reached out, my fingers trembling, and gently pushed the heavy door open.
It creaked with an eerie, drawn-out groan.
Inside was a massive, sprawling library, completely hidden from the rest of the mansion. But it wasn't filled with classic literature. The walls were covered in giant corkboards pinned with newspaper clippings, photographs, legal documents, and financial charts.
In the center of the room, an old man with thinning white hair and thick-rimmed glasses was sitting at a massive mahogany desk, furiously scribbling notes.
Henry Ashford. The ninety-three-year-old patriarch.
Rule Six: Do not sign any document presented by Henry Ashford without first consulting Eleanor.
As if sensing my presence, the old man stopped writing. He slowly turned his head, his milky, cataract-clouded eyes locking onto mine.
For a terrifying second, neither of us breathed.
May you like
Then, a toothy, knowing grin spread across the old man’s withered face. He reached into his drawer, pulled out a thick stack of yellowed paper, and slid it across the desk toward me.
“Ah,” the old man rasped, his voice sounding like dry leaves scraping across pavement. “Julian’s new pet has finally arrived. Come closer, my dear. I have a wedding present for you… or perhaps, a death warrant.”
