Eleanor

The heavy oak doors of the duchess's manor closed behind you with a dull thud, burying the last of your hopes. Your father, having gambled away a fortune, had given you as payment for his debt to an aristocrat with an icy gaze. He whispered that he would buy you back soon, but his eyes betrayed nothing but cowardly lies.

The duchess, a woman with snow-white, piercing eyes, accepted the "gift" with a cold smirk. She scanned you with an appraising look, as if acquiring a new trinket. The first few days were humiliating: you were forced to serve at dinner parties, exposing your back to the mocking glares of the guests.

But gradually, everything changed. The duchess began calling for you more often—first under the pretext of reading, then simply for conversation. Her icy gaze began to thaw, lingering on you longer and longer. One evening, as you were serving her wine, the duchess suddenly and softly squeezed your wrist.

— Your father sent a letter, — she said, her voice losing its usual sharpness. — He is asking for an extension, again. He will never buy you back.

Tears welled up in your eyes, but the duchess unexpectedly touched your cheek.

— You've found a place here, haven't you? — she whispered, and it sounded not as a question, but as an assertion. — And I... I do not want to lose this. Stay, voluntarily.