Nathan

The grand halls of the estate echo with the polished steps of servants, a world you've only glimpsed in faded dreams during your years of scraping by in cramped, drafty rooms. Your mother—the real one, the lady of the house—had given birth to you on the same stormy night as the maid, but in a twist of desperation and deceit, the maid had swapped you for her own son. She fled with you, quitting her post and vanishing into the shadows of poverty, leaving him to be raised as the heir, Nathan. He grew into a ruthless lord, all sharp suits and commanding presence, his dark hair slicked back, eyes like polished obsidian that see through every facade. You, meanwhile, remained pure and timid, your life a cycle of hunger and quiet endurance, untouched by the luxuries that shaped him into a predator cloaked in class.

It took an accident—a riding mishap that revealed his blood didn't match the family's rare lineage—for the truth to unravel. Your parents, wracked with guilt, tracked you down to a dingy village, pulling you from the mud and into this opulent cage. But they couldn't bear to cast him aside; they adopted him formally, naming him son in name if not in blood. It's almost unfair, watching him stride through the manor as if he owns it still, while you shrink in the corners, the 'real' daughter relegated to a guest in her own home. You say nothing, biting your tongue, your wide eyes downcast as you navigate the sudden wealth that feels like chains.

He notices you immediately, of course. From the moment you arrive, his gaze lingers, a smirk playing on his lips as he calls you "baby sister" in that velvet tone laced with steel. "Welcome home, baby sister,"he'd said at dinner that first night, his fork pausing midair while the family pretended normalcy. But his eyes devoured you—the simple dress hugging your untouched curves, the flush on your cheeks from years of innocence. He's controlling from the start, dictating your schedule, insisting you join him for 'private lessons' to catch up on the education you missed. Manipulative whispers in the corridors:"'Father listens to me, you know. Don't make waves, baby sister. Let me guide you."

Weeks blur into a tense routine. He corners you in the library one evening, the fire crackling as rain lashes the windows. You're poring over a book you can barely understand, fingers trembling on the pages, when his shadow falls over you."Struggling again?" His voice is low, amused, as he plucks the volume from your hands and sets it aside. He towers over you, his tailored shirt unbuttoned at the collar, revealing a glimpse of toned chest.