In the Ashford family, beauty wasn't just admired—it was currency, status, and power. The family had survived the trials of time, evolving into a modern empire that dictated the lives of millions. The blood that flowed in their veins was said to be gold.
Beauty was their law, woven into the very fabric of their lives. It became their foundation, especially when it came to choosing their partner.
So adorned and picky, even the elderly Ashford women, well into their eighties, looked like they were in their mid thirties, each one stunningly preserved, as if time dared not touch them. A flawlessness that went beyond "make-up".
When choosing a life partner, four things mattered above all: good genes carrying immunity against most diseases, the potential for a bright mind, natural golden blonde hair, but most of all, stunning beauty. Love was the least of their worries. Even their men were the crème de la crème of every circle—immaculate, powerful, untouchable.
And I, I was nothing.
I was young when they found me—or rather, when I was bought. Yes, that was what it was.
I had never known luxury or the value of beauty until that day. Born into poverty, with my caramel blonde hair instead of the Ashfords' signature golden blonde, I was an outsider from the start. My features were considered flawless though. Even in this modern age, where chemicals in processed food had made the flawlessness of beauty a rarity, I was a diamond in the rough—at least, that's what Alexander's father saw in me.
I was young, too young to understand what was really happening.
I was a scrawny, hungry girl with no name or worth beyond what I could grab when no one was looking. My mother—an addict who gambled away what little we had—used me for her schemes. I was her pickpocket, her little thief. My father? A ghost. I never knew him. For all I know, she was knocked up in an attempt to pay off an old debt. That day, she had asked me to steal a bag of chips from a store, but I was caught. That's when Alexander's father found me.
He watched the scene unfold and saw potential, not in who I was, but in what I could become. His eyes gleamed with delight as he approached my mother and asked "How much?" as if I were livestock. His speech was elegant, smooth and his mannerism commanded attention in a way I admired.
It was the same day I learnt what my value was.
My mother, desperate and hungry, didn't hesitate. When he asked for a price, she pointed to the bag of chips, and that was all it took.
The old man chuckled, and pulled out a stack of crisp bills from his coat. My little eyes had never seen bills stacked so high and bunched so tight. But instead of handing over the stack, before my mother's watery eyes, he gave the butler a single note to buy the chips.
And with that my fate was sealed. She was asked to sign a contract. "Sign it and get your chips." That wretched woman did not waste time, signing the contract as fast as she could.
I didn't know it at the time, but that piece of paper had bound me to the Ashfords.
On my 18th birthday, I would marry the heir to the family, Alexander Ashford.
A ceremony was not needed. It was clearly stated in the document.
However, I wouldn't learn about the deal until much later.
"We'll come for you when you're of age, little one," Alexander's father whispered. I was too young to understand the weight of those words.
That very night, after my mother finished her bag of chips, she dropped me off at a man's doorstep. I did not know him, nor did I look like him, but she claimed he was my father. Out of the guilt, perhaps, for having a sh*tty past with my mother, he took me in.
That's when my real torment began. His wife and daughters were ruthless. They hated me the moment I stepped into their clean home, with its sparkling floors and walls adorned with portraits of their perfect family. I was an outsider, a burden, a constant reminder of my father's past mistakes. My stepmother made it clear from day one that I had no place among them, and her daughters followed her lead.
Their cruelty knew no bounds. It wasn't just the emotional abuse; it was physical, too. One fateful day, their jealousy took a dark turn, and I was left with a jagged scar that stretched from just below my ear, winding down my cheek, traced the curve of my jaw, snacked down to my neck, cut across my collarbone all the way down to the underside of my chest.
It became a permanent reminder that I was the ugly duckling.
By some miracle, I escaped them. I earned a scholarship to attend college. It was there I first saw Alexander. He was perfect. Handsome, powerful, and far beyond my reach—everything the Ashford family embodied. I admired him from afar, knowing someone like him could never notice someone like me.
But fate had other plans.
On my 18th birthday, Alexander came for me. The morning was dreary, the sky heavy with rain as if the universe itself knew what was about to unfold. I was completing my chores in the cramped kitchen of my father's house, when the doorbell rang.
My stepmother answered it, and her shrill voice cut through the air. "Freya! Get out here!"
I rushed to the doorway, my heart pounding in my chest. There, standing in the doorway, was Alexander Ashford. His presence was overwhelming, towering over the small, dim hallway, and beside him stood his butler, a man whose face I recognized from years ago.
"I—I know you" I said nervously.
"Miss Sinclair," the butler said, bowing slightly. "We've come to fulfill the contract."