The golden morning light crept over the marble windowsill, spilling into the bedroom like a secret. It danced gently across the polished floor, brushing against the soft silver-white sheets like a hesitant hand. Outside, birds chirped—softly, uncertainly—as if even they were afraid to disturb the fragile hush resting over the house. The sky stretched in pale hues of gold and blue, warm and reaching… but never quite touching.
In the vast, high-ceilinged room, a girl lay still—fragile and unmoving, like porcelain carved in the shape of sleep. Her breathing was slow, measured. Raven-black hair spilled like ink over a snow-colored pillow, sharp against the timid light that tried to warm her.
The door creaked open, slow and careful.
Nanny Lucy entered with the grace of someone who had long ago learned to tiptoe through silence. Lavender followed her like a ghost—once comforting, now little more than a habit. She moved to the tall window and pulled the heavy velvet curtains open. Sunlight poured in, golden and eager, brushing across Elizabeth's face.
A tiny frown tugged at Elizabeth's brow—an instinctive protest. As if the light was too bold… for a world that no longer held promises.
Her grey eyes opened, not with wonder or confusion, but with quiet clarity. Emotionless. Sharp. Like a frozen lake—deep, unmoving, and far too still.
She stared at the ceiling for a long time. Searching for pieces of a dream she couldn't quite remember. Or maybe... didn't want to.
"Good morning, Miss Elizabeth," Lucy whispered, offering the same practiced smile she always wore. Soft. Patient. Familiar. Too familiar.
Elizabeth nodded once. Not cold. Not rude. Just... distant. Like someone who knew words didn't change anything.
She sat up soundlessly. Her nightgown trailed behind her like mist. No stretch. No yawn. No sleepy complaints. Just... motion without emotion.
Later, warm water steamed against the marble tiles. The scent of roses lingered in the air like a memory—soft, nostalgic, faintly sad.
She stood before the wide mirror, droplets of water clinging to her skin like unanswered questions. She looked at herself—not to admire. Not to fix. Just… to remember who she was supposed to be.
Elizabeth Ashford.Daughter of Adrien Ashford.Heiress of the Ashford Conglomerate.Twenty-one years old. Perfect. Precise. Polished.
Porcelain skin. Raven black hair. Petal-pink lips.And those unyielding grey eyes—cold, beautiful, untouched.
A face sculpted for admiration.A presence built to be untouchable.
But it hadn't always been like this.
Once—so long ago it felt like a dream—her laughter echoed through these same halls. Back when she'd sit in the oversized dining chair, tiny legs swinging, waiting every night with hopeful eyes.
"Will Daddy eat dinner with me tonight?"Always the same question. Always the same answer.
And Lucy would smile gently, tucking hair behind Elizabeth's ear, whispering like it was a lullaby, "Tomorrow, sweetheart. He's working today."
But tomorrow was the kindest lie ever told.
Her mother had died the day she was born. Her grandparents faded soon after. And her father—once warm—began to vanish in plain sight, buried under boardrooms, conferences, and silence. The little girl he left behind had waited. And waited. Until waiting became too heavy to carry.
So she stopped.
She learned how to be quiet. How to be graceful.How to turn loneliness into elegance.How to wear silence like silk.
She dressed in a cream blouse and a black skirt—every line elegant, every detail intentional. Lucy helped with her shoes, brushed her hair, then stepped back as if admiring a painting too perfect to touch.
Elizabeth said nothing.
She descended the stairs like a ghost carved in grace, footsteps whispering over marble.
In the cavernous dining hall, Adrien Ashford sat at the head of the table. A tablet glowed in his hands. He looked up at the sound of her arrival—no smile, no warmth. Just a flicker of acknowledgment. Barely enough to feel real.
"Good morning," Elizabeth said softly. Her voice was smooth, rehearsed. Controlled. Like porcelain: pretty, fragile, and impossible to break without consequences.
"Sit down," he replied. His tone flat. Robotic.
She obeyed, wordless.
Servants floated through the room, quiet and efficient. They placed breakfast before them—glazed fruit, flakey pastries, fresh-brewed tea. It looked like something meant to be shared. Enjoyed. But it wasn't. It was ceremony. Performance. Empty habit disguised as family.
Forks moved. Knives sliced. No one spoke.
Midway through the meal, he finally spoke again.
"There's a problem at the Southside restaurant. Visit it this weekend. Handle it."
Elizabeth didn't flinch. "Understood," she replied.
She never asked why. Or what the issue was. That wasn't expected of her. Only obedience was.
Silence settled again. Not awkward. Just... normal.
She placed her utensils down gently. The clink sounded like a scream in the quiet room.
"I'll be leaving for university," she said, her voice as soft as silk and twice as unfeeling.
He didn't look up. Didn't say goodbye.
Outside, her car waited—sleek, black, and perfectly timed.
Another morning passed in the Ashford mansion.Like every one before it.Beautiful. Immaculate.And completely hollow.
Where laughter once lived, only echoes remained.And in the stillness, memories gathered like dust on cold, perfect walls.