CHAPTER 1
STACY
Chelsea never smiles like this, and the moment I see it, I know something is wrong.
Her lips stretch just a little too wide, the curve polished into something that resembles warmth without ever becoming it. The expression does not reach her eyes, and that absence is louder than anything she could say. I have spent years studying her face the way other girls study mirrors, memorizing every flicker and shift because survival depends on noticing what others miss, and this version of her is wrong in a way that settles cold and immediate in my chest.
“Anastasia,” she says, her voice coated in sweetness so deliberate it feels rehearsed. “Come in, darling. Close the door.”
I step inside and let the door seal behind me, the soft hiss of compressed air final in a way that always feels heavier than it should. The sound lingers for half a second too long, pressing against my ears as if the room itself is acknowledging that whatever happens in here does not leave.
The office smells like jasmine polish layered over sterilized air, a curated calm that never quite hides the sharp edge underneath. Everything in this room is placed with intention. The desk gleams without a single imperfection. The lightingsoftens shadows just enough to make people feel at ease while still exposing every detail worth evaluating. Even the temperature is controlled, cool enough to keep bodies alert, warm enough to prevent discomfort.
Chelsea does not believe in accidents.
I stop two paces from her desk, exactly where I am supposed to stop. My posture settles into neutral without thought, shoulders relaxed, chin level, hands loose at my sides. I give her nothing that can be read as resistance or eagerness, because either extreme invites attention, and attention is rarely something I can afford.
“You look lovely today,” she says, folding her hands neatly on the surface of her desk.
“I am as you trained me to be,” I reply, keeping my voice smooth and even.
Her smile flickers, just for a fraction of a second, and irritation cuts through the sweetness like a crack beneath glass. It vanishes almost immediately, replaced by composure so practiced it might as well be permanent.
“Still so formal,” she murmurs, tapping one manicured nail lightly against the desk. “We’ve discussed tone, Anastasia. Warmth. Approachability.”
“I can adjust,” I say.
“Can you?” she asks, tilting her head as she studies me. “Or will you choose not to?”
There is no right answer to that question, only acceptable ones.
“I will adjust as required.”
She leans back slightly, satisfied enough to continue, though I can feel the faint tension still coiled beneath her expression. Chelsea does not like variables she cannot predict, and I have spent years ensuring I remain just unpredictable enough to avoid being categorized entirely.
“I have good news,” she says.
The sweetness returns, thicker now, and I do not react beyond a small, measured breath.
“You’ve been matched.”
The words settle into the room quietly, almost gently, but they do not feel gentle. They land with the weight of something inevitable finally made real, something that has been circling closer for months now without ever fully touching me.
“So soon?” I ask, allowing just enough surprise into my voice to sound natural without sounding resistant.
Chelsea’s gaze sharpens immediately. “You say that as if you expected a delay.”
“I expected careful placement,” I reply.
“You are receiving careful placement,” she says smoothly, her tone tightening just slightly. “You should be grateful.”
Gratitude is not part of the system, but acknowledgment is, so I incline my head just enough to satisfy expectation. “Of course.”
She watches me for a moment longer, searching for something she does not find, and then she reaches for her compad. The device hums softly as a holographic display unfolds between us, layers of data rising into the air in clean, structured columns. Profiles, financial metrics, compatibility projections, contractual overlays—everything arranged to look precise, objective, unquestionable.
I do not look at it immediately. Looking too quickly suggests eagerness, and eagerness suggests attachment. Waiting too long suggests defiance. I let one breath pass, then lift my gaze.
“Your match is a Baronet,” she says, letting the title linger. “Kleid Lorens.”
