Anastasia had always imagined what her married life would be like.
Not necessarily a grand romance—she had never been naive enough to dream of love—but at the very least, freedom.
She had envisioned a quiet home, a modest space of her own, where she could breathe, exist, live.
Not this.
Not Kosta Manor, a place that swallowed her whole the moment she stepped inside.
It wasn't that it was ugly—no, far from it.
The estate was a masterpiece of architecture, too perfect, too pristine, like something designed to impress rather than to comfort.
The halls were vast, lined with cold, black marble, stretching so far that her footsteps barely made a sound. The air carried the faint scent of cedarwood and polished steel, and the ceilings loomed high, as if even the walls refused to let anyone get too close.
Everything about this place screamed power, wealth, control.
It was his world.
And now, it was hers.
At least, for as long as she was his wife.
The marriage was an agreement—one she had entered with her eyes open.
It had been arranged not out of love, not even out of necessity, but as a transaction between two powerful families.
Her father had promised one daughter, but when Isabella fled, he had sent her instead.
The replacement.
The lesser choice.
But that didn't matter anymore.
She had given her word.
Even if her father saw her as an inconvenience, even if she hadn't been his first choice—she would not shame her family.
She would honor this agreement.
Even if Leonidas didn't want her.
Even if this marriage was nothing but ink on paper.
She would play her role.
She would be his wife.
Quietly. Obediently. Respectfully.
It was all she knew how to do.
She spent the first day wandering, exploring the corridors, the countless rooms, trying to find a space where she belonged.
But nothing here felt like it was meant for her.
Every inch of Kosta Manor was carefully curated, as if warmth and imperfection had been deliberately erased.
There were no framed photographs, no books with dog-eared pages, no signs of life.
Even the sitting rooms, with their massive velvet couches and imported furniture, looked untouched, frozen in time.
Like their owner.
She had not seen him since their arrival.
Not when she explored the dining hall, large enough to host a hundred guests yet eerily quiet.
Not when she passed the grand library, filled with ancient books that smelled of ink and history but seemed rarely touched.
And not even when she stood in front of the doors that led to his private quarters—the only part of the manor that felt off-limits.
It was strange.
They were married.
Bound together by law, by a contract, by their families' expectations.
And yet, Leonidas seemed determined to pretend she wasn't even there.
Maybe that should have comforted her.
Maybe it should have made things easier.
But somehow, it only made the walls around her feel taller, colder.
By nightfall, the silence became unbearable.
She had taken dinner alone, sitting at a long table meant for grand feasts, her presence barely filling one corner.
The meal had been elegant, perfectly prepared, but she barely touched it.
She was too aware of the emptiness.
Too aware of how alone she was in this grand, magnificent home.
Even when she had lived under her father's roof, she had never truly belonged.
She had been overshadowed by Isabella, unnoticed, unseen.
But at least there had been noise.
At least she had been able to hear life.
Here, there was nothing.
No servants moved about unless summoned. No distant voices drifted through the halls.
And Leonidas was nowhere to be found.
Was this what marriage to him would be like?
A life spent in silence, in isolation, in a house that was beautiful but unlived in?
She didn't know.
And she wasn't sure she wanted to find out
Anastasia did not know what possessed her to push the boundaries that night.
Maybe it was the weight of the silence pressing against her chest.
Maybe it was the quiet defiance whispering in the back of her mind—a voice she had never dared to listen to before.
Or maybe, it was simply because she had spent too long being invisible.
Whatever the reason, she found herself standing at the balcony doors, pressing her fingers against the heavy glass.
Beyond them, the night stretched endlessly, the vast gardens below lit only by the dim glow of the moon.
She could hear the faint rustling of the trees, the distant hum of the city beyond the estate's towering gates.
And for the first time since arriving, she wanted to breathe fresh air.
She turned the handle.
Locked.
She tried again, jiggling it slightly.
Still locked.
Her stomach twisted.
She stepped back, eyes scanning the balcony.
And that was when she noticed it—the small blinking light near the top corner of the doorframe.
Her breath caught.
A security camera.
Watching her.
Tracking her every move.
Her heart pounded.
Why?
Why did he feel the need to watch her?
She wasn't a prisoner.
She wasn't trying to run.
This was her home now, wasn't it?
Her fingers curled into fists, and for the first time, she felt something stir beneath her usual timid, quiet nature.
Something unfamiliar.
Something that felt dangerously close to anger.
She had no idea how long she stood there, staring at the camera, feeling the weight of Leonidas' unseen gaze.
But eventually, she turned away.
Because if he was watching, he had already won.
She would not fight him.
She would not argue or demand answers.
She had agreed to this marriage.
She had agreed to play her role.
And if that meant being watched, if that meant existing within the limits of his control, then so be it.
But as she lay awake in bed that night, staring at the ceiling, she couldn't shake the feeling that somewhere in this house, Leonidas was watching her even now.
And the strangest part?
It wasn't fear that sent chills down her spine.
It was something else entirely.
Something she didn't want to name.
Something that felt far more dangerous than being trapped in his world.