Eleanor
The scent of fresh espresso and warm brioche fills the Lancaster estate's grand dining hall, mingling with the faint trace of peonies from the marble vases that stand proudly in every corner. The morning sun filters through the towering French windows, casting a golden glow over the crystal chandeliers, the polished mahogany table, and the silverware so perfectly arranged it looks untouched.
As I descend the grand staircase, my fingers trail against the intricate gold railing. My heels click softly against the marble, a sound that is both familiar and grounding.
This is home.
And yet, it never quite feels like it.
"Good morning, everyone," I say smoothly, stepping into the dining hall. My tone is polite, poised, practiced.
I make my way around the long, lavishly adorned table, leaning down to press a kiss to my father's cheek before sliding into my usual seat. Opposite me, Beatrice sips her tea, smirking knowingly. She already senses my reluctance about today's inevitable discussion.
Breakfast at Lancaster Manor is never just breakfast. It is a performance—a gathering of the most powerful names in British high society under one roof. My uncles, my aunts, my cousins, and of course, my father. The great Alastair Lancaster. The man who built Lancaster Innovations into the empire it is today.
But today isn't about him. It's about me.
"Ah, Eleanor," my uncle Dorian remarks, setting his coffee cup down with deliberate ease. "I hear there's an event lined up for your official introduction into the company."
I keep my expression neutral as I slice through my croissant. "I was hoping for something more subtle. A press conference, perhaps?"
The response is instant. A murmur of disapproval spreads around the table like wildfire.
"Subtle?"
"A Lancaster doesn't do subtle."
"It has to be grand!"
"It's tradition."
Of course, it is. Because everything about this family is dictated by tradition.
I glance at my father. He remains silent, watching me carefully. His presence alone commands authority, his calm exterior unreadable. It's the same expression that has made men twice his age bend to his will in boardrooms across the world.
He sets down his silverware with a soft clink, and just like that, the room falls into silence.
"This isn't up for discussion, Eleanor," he says evenly. "We honor tradition. Your entry into Lancaster Innovations will be celebrated accordingly. End of discussion."
I tighten my grip on my fork, suppressing the urge to argue. It would be pointless. Alastair Lancaster does not entertain opinions, not even from his own daughter.
Everett chuckles, clearly entertained by my predicament. Across from him, Hugo barely hides his grin.
I inhale deeply, forcing a smile. Let them have their party. Let them parade me like a prized thoroughbred in front of the elite.
I will play my part.
But I will never be one of them.
The heavy oak doors creak open, and the murmur of conversation dies down as a new presence enters the room.
Everett strides in like he owns the place—because, in his mind, he does. He wears last night's mistakes as if they were part of his ensemble: a crumpled white dress shirt, his brown hair slightly disheveled, a lingering scent of bourbon trailing behind him.
Aunt Catherine's sharp gaze locks onto him instantly. "Everett Lancaster, where have you been?"
Everett smirks, unbothered. "Living, dear mother."
Hugo leans toward me, whispering under his breath. "Still drunk or just hungover?"
I suppress a sigh. For God's sake.
Everett, being Everett, ignores the scrutiny and makes his way toward me, placing both hands on the back of my chair as he leans in. His smirk is infuriatingly smug.
"So, Eleanor," he drawls, "are you ready to enter our world?"
I lift a brow. "Shouldn't you be upstairs, showering off last night's mistakes?"
Lucian chuckles, but Theodore—our responsible one—doesn't share the amusement. He knows the risk Everett poses. Scandals are not tolerated in the Lancaster household—not unless they are carefully curated.
I shoot Theodore a look, silently telling him to handle it. He sighs before clapping Everett on the shoulder.
"Come on, you need to change before the elders start asking real questions."
Everett winks at me before sauntering off toward the stairs.
My father watches the exchange, his expression unreadable. He has long since learned to pick his battles with Everett.
I take a slow sip of my coffee, my mind already moving to the real event of the evening—Genevieve's performance.
"Genevieve," I say, shifting the attention. "Are you ready for tonight's show?"
She grins, though there's a flicker of nervousness in her blue eyes. "I think so, but I'm a little nervous."
"You'll be brilliant," I assure her, squeezing her hand.
She beams before rushing off, her energy a welcome contrast to the calculated atmosphere that often lingers in this house.
As breakfast comes to a close, Beatrice claps her hands together. "We need to finalize our outfits for tonight's event!"
I barely suppress a sigh. Events like these are second nature to my family, but to me, they are merely another performance.
I rise from my chair, smoothing out the silk of my dress. Just before I reach the last stair leading up to my wing of the house, a voice calls out.
"Miss Eleanor Lancaster."
I pause, turning to see Everett standing at the base of the staircase, his smirk still firmly in place.
"Yes, Everett?"
His gaze sharpens, and for the first time that morning, his playful demeanor shifts. "Are you ready for this?"
For a moment, I don't answer.
Because the truth is—I don't know.