Juniper
The car ride is silent. A long, black car that glides through the city streets like a phantom. I stare out the window, watching the familiar chaos of Brooklyn blur into the sleek, sterile canyons of Manhattan, then give way to the darkening highways that lead north. I don't know where I am going. I only know I am leaving everything behind.
We drive for what feels like an eternity. Eventually, the car turns off the main road, passing through a set of immense iron gates that swing open without a sound. We are on a private road, flanked by a forest so dense it swallows the headlights. It feels like entering a different country. A different world.
The car finally pulls to a stop in front of a house. No, 'house' is the wrong word. It’s a fortress of dark stone and glass, a modern monstrosity that looks like it was carved out of the mountainside itself. It’s imposing and beautiful and utterly devoid of warmth.
The driver opens my door. I step out, my simple work dress feeling flimsy and absurd in the face of such aggressive wealth. The front doors, massive slabs of dark wood, swing open.
A woman stands there. She is tall and severe, her grey hair pulled back in a bun so tight it seems to pull her face taut. She wears a simple, perfectly tailored black dress. She looks like a warden.
“Miss Vance,” she says. Her voice is crisp and cold, like snapping twigs. “I am Mrs. Davenport. The head of staff. Welcome to the Rourdan Estate. Please, follow me.”
I follow her into a foyer larger than my entire apartment. The floors are polished black marble that reflects the cold, recessed lighting. It’s silent. So silent it feels wrong. There’s no hum of life, no distant television, no sounds of a home being lived in. It’s a museum. Or a mausoleum.
“Mr. Rourdan has already departed on business,” Mrs. Davenport states, her heels clicking with military precision on the marble. “He has left your introduction to the estate in my care.”
“Of course,” I murmur.
“There are rules,” she continues, not breaking stride as she leads me down a wide hallway. “One. Punctuality. Meals are served at eight, one, and eight. Precisely. Your presence is expected.”
She pauses. “Two. Privacy. The east wing is Mr. Rourdan’s private domain. It is off limits. You are not to enter for any reason. Ever.”
“I understand.”
“Three. Security. The grounds are extensive but monitored. You are free to walk the designated paths. Do not stray from them. For your own safety. And no unapproved visitors. All communications are routed through my office.”
A gilded cage. That’s exactly what this is. A beautiful, luxurious, high security prison.
“Do you have any questions?” she asks, finally stopping and turning to face me.
Before I can answer, a new voice cuts through the silence. A voice like honey laced with poison.
“Questions? I’m sure the little stray has a million of them. Don’t you, darling?”
A woman emerges from a side room. She is, without exaggeration, the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. Tall, with a figure that seems poured into her emerald green dress. Her hair is a cascade of fiery red waves, and her eyes are a startling, intelligent green. She moves with a liquid grace, a predator’s confidence. She is everything I am not.
She stops in front of me, her eyes sweeping over me in a slow, deliberate appraisal that makes my skin crawl. It’s dismissive. Contemptuous.
“So, you’re the one,” she says, a small, cruel smile playing on her lips. “The librarian. Jack always did have an odd sense of humor.”
Mrs. Davenport’s expression tightens. “Lady Livia. I was not aware you were on the premises.”
“I let myself in,” Livia says, her gaze never leaving mine. “I had to see the new pet for myself. Tell me,” she leans in, her perfume a heady, expensive cloud of jasmine and something wilder, “what does a billionaire buy with one hundred and fifty thousand dollars these days? It seems the quality has gone down.”
My face flushes with heat. She knows. Of course she knows. They all probably know the pathetic, sordid details of my life.
“I am not his pet,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel.
Livia laughs, a sharp, metallic sound. “Aren’t you? You live in his house, you eat his food, you wear the clothes he will buy for you. You signed a contract. That sounds like a pet to me. A very well compensated one, I’ll grant you. But still on a leash.”
“That’s enough,” I say, surprising myself.
Livia’s eyebrows raise. “Is it? I don’t think so. I don’t think we’ve even started. You see, this house, this life… it has a certain standard. And you, in your little polyester dress and your scuffed shoes, do not meet it.”
She circles me slowly, like a wolf inspecting a lamb. “You’re human. So fragile. So… temporary. It must be terrifying, being surrounded by so much power. Knowing you’re the weakest thing in the room.”
“Livia,” Mrs. Davenport warns, her voice sharp.
Livia ignores her. “This is our world, little librarian. A world of strength, of lineage, of blood. You have none of that. You’re a placeholder. A legal fiction to satisfy some human corporate nonsense.”
Her eyes flash. “It’s a five year arrangement, I hear. A rental. Very practical of Jack. But once the contract is up, he will need a Queen. A real one. Someone with the right blood to stand by his side. Not a pathetic human placeholder he bought to solve a debt problem.”
Every word is a perfectly aimed dart, designed to wound, to humiliate. She wants me to break. To cry. To run away and prove I am as weak as she thinks I am.
I lift my chin. “My name is Juniper.”
“I know what your name is,” she scoffs.
“And I’m not a placeholder. I am his wife.” The word feels like a lie in my mouth, but I say it anyway. It’s the only weapon I have.
Her smile widens, but it’s all teeth. “You are a signature on a piece of paper. A temporary inconvenience. Nothing more. Don’t ever forget that.”
She turns to Mrs. Davenport. “Show her to her room. And have someone burn that dress. The smell of poverty is giving me a headache.”
With a final, withering glance, Livia turns and glides away, disappearing back into the room she came from. The oppressive silence of the house rushes back in to fill the space she leaves behind.
I stand there, trembling. Not from fear, but from a rage so pure and hot it shocks me. I have never hated anyone in my life. Until this moment.
Mrs. Davenport’s expression is unreadable. For a moment, I think I see a flicker of something, maybe pity, in her eyes. But it’s gone as quickly as it appears.
“Your suite is this way, Miss Vance,” she says, her tone back to its icy efficiency. It’s as if the entire exchange never happened.
I follow her up a wide, sweeping staircase and down another long, silent hallway. She opens a set of double doors and gestures for me to enter.
The room is breathtaking. It’s not a room, it’s an apartment. A sitting area with a white sofa and a fireplace, a bedroom with a bed that could sleep a family of four, and a wall of glass that looks out over the dark, endless forest. A bathroom the size of my old living room is visible through an open door.
On the bed, laid out perfectly, are several sets of new clothes. Silk pajamas, cashmere sweaters, tailored trousers. An entire new life, purchased for me.
“A tailor will arrive in the morning to take your measurements for a full wardrobe. A stylist will be in touch regarding your preferences for public appearances,” Mrs. Davenport says from the doorway. “The tablet on the nightstand contains your schedule for the week. Dinner, as I said, is at eight.”
She hesitates for a fraction of a second. “A word of advice. Lady Livia is the daughter of Alpha Valerius of the Silvermoon Pack. A noble family. She is… accustomed to getting her way.”
“She’s a she wolf,” I state, remembering the outline's words.
The confirmation is in the way Mrs. Davenport’s posture stiffens almost imperceptibly.
“You are very observant,” she says, her tone giving nothing away. “Try to stay out of her path.”
She closes the door, leaving me alone. The click of the latch is loud in the cavernous room.
I walk to the giant window. The sun has set, and there are no city lights out here. Just the moon, a sliver of silver in the black sky, and the dark, rustling shapes of the trees. I press my hand against the cool glass. It’s thick. Unbreakable.
Livia’s words echo in my head. ‘A little mouse in a lion’s den.’ ‘A temporary inconvenience.’
She is wrong about one thing. I am not a mouse. My father, for all his faults, taught me to read. He taught me that knowledge is power. And that stories are full of heroes who start out as the weakest thing in the room.
I feel small. I feel out of my depth. But I am not broken. A core of something hard and stubborn inside me refuses to crumble.
This might be a prison. Livia might be a serpent in this cold, empty Eden. But I made a deal. Five years. I can survive five years.
I have to.
