Chapter 1: The Bells on My Ankle

I married into my lady’s place, stepping into a life meant for someone else—a life tied to the Caldwell heir, blind and rumored to be dying.

On my wedding night, the world felt both new and terrifying. The room was silent, my breath catching as someone entered. He knelt, fingers cool and steady as he slipped the bells around my ankle, the faint jingle echoing in the silent room. My skin prickled with a sudden, sharp panic—memories of being marked before flashed through my mind: Mrs. Porter’s hand gripping my wrist, the invisible chains of servitude I thought I’d left behind. Now, this. I tried to swallow the dread as the bells settled, binding me with sound.

I thought maybe it was just caution—he couldn’t see, after all. But every night after, he found the bells himself, striking them so they never stopped ringing, their constant jingle a reminder that I was never truly alone.

I couldn’t help myself—I asked, "Didn’t they say the heir apparent was gravely ill and wouldn’t live long? Why is he so energetic?"

His empty eyes suddenly sharpened. He brushed aside the sweat-dampened hair on my forehead, his palm lingering a moment too long, steady and warm. "Don’t worry. Your husband will never let you become a widow."

A shiver ran down my spine. The words were a promise and a warning all at once. The dim-lit room felt smaller, the air heavy with something unspoken. His touch was gentle, but it unsettled me—a comfort that felt more like a claim.

The Caldwell manor’s foyer smelled faintly of lemon polish and old money, the American flag fluttering on the porch, and a row of SUVs parked out front. The wedding date loomed. Ethan Caldwell—the Caldwell estate’s heir—had fallen ill, lost his sight, and the whole of Lucas County whispered that he wouldn’t last the year. Even the cashiers at Target gossiped about it, voices low as they bagged groceries for the Porters.

Mr. and Mrs. Porter couldn’t bear to see their only daughter trapped, but they couldn’t break off the engagement either. In the end, they shoved me into her place.

I still remember that morning—Mrs. Porter’s shrill voice slicing through the kitchen, Mr. Porter pacing with his mug of black coffee, unable to meet my eyes. They spoke of opportunity, but it felt more like being led to slaughter.

My nerves jangling, I climbed into the Caldwell family’s wedding limousine, completed a bizarre ceremony involving a live rooster, and was swept into the bridal suite.

The car smelled like new leather and pine air freshener. The driver, a stoic man in a crisp suit, didn’t glance my way. The Caldwell manor loomed, three stories of brick and ivy, American flags flanking the porch, a line of black SUVs out front. Someone pressed a live rooster into my trembling hands—some old superstition—and then I was ushered inside. The suite was cold, sunlight filtered through gauzy curtains, everything too clean and perfect.

After a while, the backyard noise faded, replaced by distant laughter and the clink of glasses—a reminder that for the guests, life would go on. I listened to engines pulling away, the house settling around me.

The door creaked open. Polished black dress shoes stopped at the threshold, gleaming beneath the lamplight. The air shifted—a hint of expensive cologne, fresh and edged with cedar, drifted in.

He lifted my white bridal veil, revealing a youthful face. Ethan Caldwell was only a few years older than me, but he looked even younger—clean-shaven, skin smooth, lips set in a firm line. I’d expected a dying man, but he looked like he belonged in a college football ad, not a hospital.

"Are you Ethan Caldwell?"

"I am not." His voice was cold as January. He crouched before me, his tone suddenly softer: "Sorry about this. I know it’s weird."

His words were clipped, but less formal than I expected. I felt a chill as he knelt, deliberate and careful.

He knelt, fingers cool and steady as he slipped the bells around my ankle, the faint jingle echoing in the silent room. The metal was icy against my skin. His hands worked with practiced gentleness, but I felt exposed—tagged, as if ownership had changed hands.

"What are you doing?"

"The heir apparent can’t see. He can only find people by sound."

He spoke like it was nothing, as if he’d just mentioned the weather. I pictured him moving through these endless halls, tracking me by the sound of bells.

He stood and vanished out the door—a whisper of movement, footsteps barely audible on the hardwood.

I looked down. The bells were locked around my ankle; I couldn’t take them off. Every time I shifted, they jingled softly—a constant reminder of my new place.

It felt strangely intimate, almost possessive. I wondered how long I’d have to wear them, how long I’d be someone’s marked property.

I suppose it made sense—strangers forced to share a bed. I’d heard before that Ethan Caldwell had been a force in local politics, shrewd and calculating, the kind of guy who could charm donors at a country club brunch.

There were whispers about backroom deals, strategic campaign dinners—he’d been the type to shake every hand, sizing up friends and rivals. Was all that really gone now?

Maybe he was just being careful.

After that man left, no one else came. I leaned against the headboard and closed my eyes.

I don’t know how long passed before I felt a feather-light brush on my cheek.

The room had grown cold; a draft made me shiver beneath the heavy comforter. The touch jolted me awake, heart thudding.

I opened my eyes—his face was close. He wore a white tuxedo jacket, sharp brows drawn low, eyes empty and uncertain.

A flicker of uncertainty flashed across his face, but his jaw set with determination. For a second, I glimpsed the confidence he must have worn before all this.

"Heir apparent?"

He curled his lips. "Wife, you’ve waited long."

His voice was low, but carried a quiet authority. For a heartbeat, I almost forgot he couldn’t see me at all.

Though Ethan Caldwell was blind, his hair was neatly styled, his features striking, his bearing dignified. He didn’t look like a dying man at all.

There was something about the way he sat—shoulders squared, hands folded—that said he was still in command of his fate, not just waiting to die.

"Wife, are you tired?" He tipped his head, as if listening for my answer in the quiet.

His presence wrapped around me, cool but not cold. The faint scent of his cologne—crisp, citrusy—mixed with clean linen. The mattress dipped, and I felt caught between leaning in and running away.

After a moment, Ethan’s striking face turned toward me. By candlelight, his eyes, once dull, seemed to catch the light, as if he could see me after all.

Maybe it was a trick of the shadows—or maybe it was just the force of his attention.

I swallowed. "Husband, it’s time for the wedding night."

The words sounded braver than I felt. My heart thundered, the weight of expectation pressing down like summer heat before a storm.