A poor student married a 70-year-old millionaire and a week later was sh0cked by what he saw.

She gave a faint smile and set the tablet aside. “Good. The arrangements will be made immediately.”

One week later, Mark stood in a small courthouse, dressed in a suit Eleanor had provided. The ceremony was quiet, attended only by Eleanor’s lawyer and a notary.

As they exchanged vows, Mark couldn’t shake the unease in his chest. When the officiant declared them husband and wife, Eleanor turned to him, tears in her eyes and a smile that didn’t quite reach them.

“Welcome to your new life, Mr. Davis.”

As he left the courthouse under the pouring rain, Mark looked at his reflection in a puddle and wondered, “Did I just save my family—or did I sell my soul?”

The gates of Eleanor Brooks’s estate creaked open as Mark’s taxi rolled up the long driveway. The house loomed ahead—an imposing mansion that could easily have passed for a museum. Its towering columns and flawless stone façade radiated old wealth, yet the windows looked dark and lifeless.

Mark stepped out with his suitcase in hand, feeling like a visitor in someone else’s dream—or perhaps their nightmare. Eleanor greeted him in the foyer, as poised and refined as ever.

“Welcome, Mr. Davis,” she said, and the formality sent a chill down his spine. “I trust everything meets your expectations. Dinner is at seven.”

He nodded silently, following a maid who led him to his room.

It was lavish—a king-sized bed, antique furniture, and tall windows overlooking immaculate gardens. Despite the luxury, the room felt cold, as though it had never known human warmth.

That evening, Mark sat stiffly at the long dining table. Eleanor was seated across from him, impeccably dressed in a silk blouse and pearls. The meal was extravagant, prepared by a chef he had yet to see, and served by staff who moved in near silence.

“I hope you’re settling in,” Eleanor said, slicing her filet mignon with surgical precision.

“It’s… different,” Mark replied carefully. “This place is enormous. I feel like I might get lost.”

Eleanor gave a knowing smile. “You’ll get used to it—or you won’t. Either way, you’re here.”

Her bluntness irritated him.

“You didn’t say much about your late husband before,” Mark said.

Eleanor’s knife paused mid-cut. She dabbed her mouth with a napkin before answering.

“He was a businessman—like your father. Their paths crossed once or twice.” Her tone darkened. “But as you can imagine, not all encounters end well.”

Mark’s pulse quickened. “What do you mean?”

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