Bound by Choice and Desire

Chapter 1

Eleanor Fletcher couldn’t believe it. Here she was, in the year 2023, juggling a smartphone and her sanity, and yet, somehow, she was still caught up in this archaic mess of a marriage arrangement. “Seriously?” she muttered under her breath, staring at the invitation to her own wedding—a wedding that felt more like a business deal than a union of love. How was it that in this day and age, people still felt the need to orchestrate such a cliché?

“What’s the verdict, Eleanor? Are you going to marry him or what?” Roland Winters, her soon-to-be husband, stood in front of her, arms crossed, his expression teasing yet serious. The guy exuded confidence, sporting that effortlessly cool demeanor that attracted more than a few envious looks. But the real question was, did his charm compensate for a marriage that felt so... obligatory?

She rolled her eyes, trying to suppress the wave of frustration bubbling inside her. “You can’t just throw a ‘yes’ or ‘no’ in my face like it’s a light switch, Roland. It’s not that simple.”

With a smirk, he leaned closer, lowering his voice as if sharing a well-guarded secret. “It can be, you know. Just one word—yes or no. You’re overthinking this.”

More like over-analyzing, she thought, stifling another eye roll. “Oh, one word, huh? How about ‘forget it’ or ‘no way?’ Can I add a few exclamation marks for emphasis?” In her head, she didn’t just want out of this ridiculous situation; she wanted to throw him a curveball that rattled him a little.

But when she looked into his dark eyes, the teasing facade started to wane. There was something deeper there, something that hinted he wasn’t as carefree about the whole thing as he pretended. Perhaps that was what made this mess so complicated. They barely knew each other—but here they were, living in a whirlwind of duty, expectations, and a half-baked idea of romance.

Roland straightened his posture, his voice becoming softer, almost sincere. “Look, Eleanor, I get it. This isn’t how either of us planned our lives. But I promise, if we do this, it doesn’t have to be miserable. We can have fun, we can be friends... and maybe even—”

She cut him off with a raised palm. “Don’t go there, Roland. Friends? I’m not looking for a ‘friends with benefits’ situation. I just need to wrap my head around the fact that you and I are supposed to slip this ring on and suddenly be a couple.”

“Who said anything about benefits? We’ll skip the physical stuff for now.” He winked, lightening the mood, but Eleanor could see the sincerity mixed with mischief behind his smile. At that moment, she realized that maybe, just maybe, this whole thing could turn into something unexpected, even if it was starting off on shaky ground.

She sighed, glancing around at the lavishly decorated room. It felt surreal, as if someone had dragged her straight out of her life and plopped her into a romantic comedy—only without the laugh track. The guests, the flowers, and the dress she was supposed to love but didn’t even want to wear were all part of a narrative that felt just out of reach.

“Okay, let’s try this your way,” she finally conceded, her heart racing at the thought. “But I’m laying down a few ground rules first.”

Roland grinned, flooding her with relief. “Name them. This is going to be one wild ride.”

And just like that, the weight of uncertainty shifted just a little. Eleanor felt a flicker of hope despite the chaos ahead. She was stepping into uncharted territory, but maybe, just maybe, Roland was right. Perhaps their messy start could lead to something sweet, a real connection buried beneath the layers of expectations. She took a deep breath, ready to dive headfirst into a future that was as unpredictable as it was exciting.

One step at a time, she thought—one step at a time.

Chapter 2

Isabella Fletcher's petite face was as pale as a sheet, her grip on the pen so tight that her knuckles turned white. Before her lay a marriage license, a document that marked the beginning of a life she had never wanted. She was about to marry a stranger—a decision forced upon her, devoid of any sense of excitement or joy.

Roland Winters signed his name with precise strokes, not bothering to glance at her as he sensed her hesitation. His mood shifted from buoyant to cold in an instant. His dark brows furrowed as he regarded her with indifference. "If you don't want to go through with this, then just say so," he said, making a move to snatch the form from her hands.

"Wait, no!" Isabella quickly caught hold of his wrist with one hand while hastily scrawling her signature with the other. There was no room for choice here—she was out of options.

As soon as he saw her name on the line, a flicker of satisfaction crossed Roland’s otherwise stoic face. He had pushed her to this point, and now he had her in the palm of his hand. The staff at the Civic Council Hall witnessed this unusual moment—Roland Winters, known for his ruthless demeanor, was smiling, and it was as fleeting as spring flowers blooming for a day.

Isabella, however, was too lost in her own thoughts to notice. She forced herself to follow him as they left the hall, the weight of her reluctance evident in her hesitant steps. Everyone could see she didn't want this, yet Roland acted as if he was oblivious to her discomfort. The atmosphere felt heavy; it was rare to see a couple approach such a serious commitment with so little enthusiasm.

The clerks, having seen enough reluctant brides, offered little sympathy. They only did their jobs, shrugging off the emotional undercurrents that were clearly none of their concern—especially when it came to someone like Roland Winters.

Moments later, Roland clutched two marriage certificates—his own prize, he thought, and he looked at Isabella as if he feared she might do something irrational. Without a sideways glance, he pocketed the certificates, sealing their fate.

Feeling pleased that everything was settled, he took Isabella's hand, leading her from the Civic Council Hall. She instinctively pulled away, but she was no match for his strength. He held her firmly, guiding her through the brisk evening air.

Once outside, Isabella blinked at the darkening sky, realization washing over her. Roland had pulled strings to ensure they could marry tonight—power was no longer just a term; it was a living entity he wielded with ease.

"Mr. Winters, Mrs. Winters," said Thomas Grey, Roland’s assistant, hurrying over to them as they emerged into the cold.

The title seemed to please Roland, his grip on Isabella loosening slightly as the wind rushed around them. She shivered, unsure whether it was from the chill or the implications of her new life.

“Let’s get the new Mrs. Winters home.” He draped his coat over her shoulders, and she felt both grateful and wary.

“Yes, sir,” Thomas replied, nodding respectfully.

Isabella watched Roland, confusion etched across her features. This was supposed to be their wedding night, yet he seemed intent on sending her back to Fletcher Manor, far from him.

“Pack your things,” he ordered her gently. “I’ll come for you tomorrow.”

Isabella clenched her teeth, her heart aching at the facade of kindness he displayed. She said nothing—she knew any protest would be futile.

Without waiting for her reply, he walked her to the car. Thomas opened the door, and Isabella slipped inside, feeling as if she were stepping into a cage rather than a vehicle.

The driver, Gerald Bennett, gave a firm salute to Roland, who stood vigil at the curb as they pulled away. Isabella caught a last glimpse of him, watching as the car faded into the night.

Thomas stood at Roland’s side, the wind whipping around them as he remarked, “It’s cold tonight, sir. You should get in.”

Roland finally turned, making his way to another waiting car, the sleek Bentley waiting for him to climb in. As the engine rumbled to life, it followed the two roaring black Rolls Royces that flanked him, disappearing into the darkness.

By the time the lights of the Civic Council Hall faded into the distance, the place returned to stillness, the normal hum of life interrupted just for tonight’s unusual ceremony.

Once Isabella arrived home, she stepped through the heavy doors of Fletcher Manor. Today was supposed to be one of celebration—traditionally joyous—but the house felt eerie and empty, a stark contrast to her expectations. She could hear muffled sobs drifting through the silence.

At the sound of the door, her parents, Edward and Margaret Fletcher, rushed into view, their faces brightening momentarily before concern overwhelmed them. “Isabella, you’re back!” Margaret shouted, hastily wiping away her tears. She held Isabella’s face in her hands, scanning for any signs of distress, terrified of what had transpired.

“I’m fine, really,” Isabella insisted, forcing a smile that felt more like a grimace. It was painfully obvious to her parents that she was anything but okay—they knew marrying Roland Winters hardly qualified as a good outcome.

Roland Winters was a name that meant heavy scrutiny and whispered fear throughout Westbridge. His abilities stretched across commerce, politics, and the military, and everyone seemed to want to curry favor with the man. But the truth was, he had a cruelty about him that left a trail of devastation in his wake.

When he initially took the reins of Winters Trading House, many believed he would be a green rookie. They soon learned they were mistaken—his ruthless ambitions made it clear he intended to dominate, and those who underestimated him paid dearly for it.

Chapter 3

Roland Winters didn’t say much in public, but behind closed doors, he had a reputation for getting things done. It was just under a week before those who dared to oppose him began to face their own downfalls—one after another, their lives unraveled. Families torn apart, fortunes lost, even his own cousin didn’t escape unscathed.

In Westbridge, a few wealthy elites had noticed Roland’s methods and were eager to ingratiate themselves with him. They tried to maneuver into his good graces, but those enterprises that dared to cross him found their fortunes collapsing within a month—vanishing without a trace from the community.

Just a year ago, a CEO had even tried to seal an advantageous union by throwing his daughter at Roland’s feet. She disappeared, and a month later, that same CEO stumbled upon her in a backroom of a club, utterly broken—rumor had it that she had lost her mind. Since then, no one in Westbridge had dared to make any moves against Roland Winters.

Meanwhile, Fletcher Manor found itself mysteriously entangled with this powerful figure, forcing Eleanor Fletcher into an unwanted marriage.

Margaret Fletcher, watching her daughter’s turmoil, felt her heart ache. There wasn't a flicker of hope left; they were powerless to alter Eleanor’s fate. It hurt even more knowing they were failing to protect her from a life of suffering.

Tears slid down Margaret’s cheeks as she thought of her daughter’s bright future slipping away. Edward Fletcher, clutching his wife’s shoulder, offered quiet comfort. In their home, only six-year-old Lily remained blissfully unaware, while everyone else moved with trepidation, each servant being careful not to provoke the man in charge.

Eleanor closed her bedroom door, finally allowing the tears that had been building up to spill over. They fell softly to the carpet, a mix of sorrow and resignation tightening in her chest.

She had been raised in a world of privilege, never knowing hardship, and now she understood: her parents were truly out of options. If she refused to marry Roland, their family could face ruin. Her little brother still needed them.

“It's just marriage... I don’t have anyone in mind anyway. Might as well save the family.” Eleanor whispered to herself, wiping her tears. She was naturally optimistic. After all, marrying a man like Roland Winters might make her the richest woman in Westbridge. It could be a deal worth taking.

Eleanor splashed water on her face, steeling herself for what lay ahead. Initially, she had known little about him, but after some digging, she realized it would be best not to test his patience.

After packing a few essentials, Eleanor dimmed her lights and crawled into bed. She needed her rest; facing Roland would require every ounce of strength she could muster.

The following morning, while the household enjoyed breakfast, Roland Winters arrived unannounced at Fletcher Manor. He hadn’t taken Eleanor back to his estate, a considerable concession on his part. Edward and Margaret greeted him with a mix of respect and fear.

Though the Fletchers were a well-respected family in Westbridge, compared to Winters Manor, they felt like dust in the wind.

“Mom, Dad.” Roland smiled, trying to appear warm, despite the absurdity of the situation.

“Oh! Roland, come in, come in!” Edward stumbled over his words, startled by the familiarity. It was bizarre for him to think of Roland as a son-in-law when all Edward could see was this desperate attempt to trade his daughter's happiness for his own gain.

Margaret’s face darkened, but she said nothing, peacing out to find Eleanor upstairs.

Once seated, Edward nervously cleared his throat, his anxiety a palpable cloud in the air. He wasn’t just worried about the awkwardness—he was terrified of upsetting Roland, of his daughter facing any more hardship.

“Please, just call me Roland,” he said, flicking his gaze around the room casually.

“Eleanor’s still sleeping,” Edward fumbled, wiping sweat from his brow.

“No rush,” Roland replied, lifting a tea cup to his lips, demanding silence with his presence.

The atmosphere turned heavy until there was a stir at the doorway. Thomas Grey walked in with a handful of workers, their arms loaded with boxes. “Roland, everything’s been delivered.”

Edward’s eyes widened at the scene unfolding before him, workers flooding into what was once a serene space.

“Dad, that’s the dowry,” Roland explained, placing a sleek card on the table. “Inside is six hundred million. A little gesture, nothing extravagant. I hope you and Mom won’t mind.”

Edward’s hands shook as he glanced at the card, then at the workers, each carrying extravagant gifts. Six hundred million in dowry? There was only one man in Westbridge who could throw around that kind of cash.

“Oh no, no!” Edward stammered; his pride crumbled as he felt more like a beggar than a father. It was a bizarre twist—a new son-in-law commanding respect while the father teetered on the edge of defeat.

“Everything was handled with care,” Roland assured him, a smile breaking across his face that did little to ease the tension. The power dynamics in the room had completely shifted.

Chapter 4

Edward Fletcher and Roland Winters exchanged uncertain glances, their silence stretching on until Eleanor Fletcher, cheerful as a morning sunbeam, bounded down the stairs.

Roland, noticing her, visibly brightened. He stepped forward, eager to take the bags she was carrying, but Thomas Grey, quick on his feet, swooped in and relieved Roland of the load.

After all, who would be brave enough to let Roland Winters do the heavy lifting?

"Have you got everything ready?" Roland asked, his eyes narrowing in focus.

"All set!" Eleanor replied with a warm smile, determined to keep the morning light and breezy, avoiding any unnecessary tension.

"Great, let's head out." Roland stepped closer, his intent to take her hand clear, but Eleanor held her ground, her thoughts racing.

Yet, like a bright star finally catching the right current, Roland grasped her hand in his.

Margaret Fletcher watched them leave, her heart heavy. All she could do was hope that Roland wouldn’t be as ruthless as the town whispered. She prayed he would treat her beloved daughter with at least a modicum of kindness.

Thomas opened the car door, allowing Eleanor to slide in while he settled into the front seat. "Thomas, have breakfast ready when we get back," Roland instructed, his voice firm and resolute.

Roland had noticed one untouched bowl back at Fletcher Manor—Eleanor hadn’t eaten.

"Sure thing, Roland," Thomas replied, recognizing the weight of his orders without questioning them.

As they drove in silence, Roland maintained his hold on Eleanor’s hand, and she felt herself growing stiff beneath his grip, unsure how to handle his attention.

Once they arrived at Winters Manor, Eleanor was struck by the vast difference between it and Fletcher Manor. The grandeur of Winters Manor was more than just impressive; it was overwhelming. She couldn't wrap her head around Roland's insistence on marrying her. If he only wanted her for her looks, he could've easily kept things casual and moved on when he grew bored.

The lack of a prenuptial agreement puzzled her most—if they were to split, a hefty portion of Roland’s wealth would belong to her. Why commit to such risky business?

"We're home," Roland announced, finally releasing her hand. The warmth faded quickly as he wrapped an arm around her waist, nearly lifting her off the ground as they entered the house.

"Good morning, young master and missus," several attendants greeted them, and for a moment, Eleanor felt as though she had stepped into a historic royal court, teeming with opulence and authority—an existence far from what she’d known.

"Breakfast is ready," an older servant announced, his demeanor respectful.

"This is Mary Parker," Roland said as he guided Eleanor into the dining room. "You must be starving. After breakfast, I’ll show you around."

Eleanor sat, keenly aware of her teasing stomach. She hadn't realized how hungry she'd become, and with a shrug to tamp down her rising anxiety, she began to eat. To her surprise, the table was laden with her favorite dishes. Seeing her pleasure, Roland eased back, relaxed, knowing he had gone a bit overboard, but desperate to see her happy.

He yearned to wake up next to her every day, rather than only seeing her in photographs and videos. He wanted to hold her close, to kiss her passionately, to share a life filled with laughter and love.

Once sated, Eleanor met his gaze. "I'm done."

"Good. Follow me; let me show you our room," he said, still holding her hand. As they ascended the stairs, she covertly studied the vast home. It felt cavernous, devoid of warmth, strikingly different from the inviting atmosphere of Fletcher Manor.

"You don’t have to tiptoe around. You’re the mistress of this house now; feel free to call the shots," he assured, seemingly able to read her thoughts as they climbed the stairs.

They reached the third floor, and he ushered her into their shared bedroom. "This is ours." The word "ours" lingered between them, heavy with the unspoken implications of their union.

"This is the walk-in closet, fully stocked with the latest styles. If you fancy something, just let me know," he continued, gesturing around. "The bathroom is here, and next to it is the study, then the gym. You have free rein over this place; you can change whatever you don’t like."

Surprisingly, he seemed genuinely open to her adjusting the decor. “You want a home, not just a house, right?”

"Okay… Roland…" She hesitated, unsure about using his name.

“Roland or Ah-Cheng, it doesn’t matter,” he replied with a gentle touch to her hair, as though he could decipher her inner turmoil. It unnerved her to be seen so deeply.

"Roland, can I still go to work?" she ventured, her voice steadying. She had been a silver staff member, earning her keep without relying on family connections, and she valued that independence.

"Of course," he said, his tone casual yet firm. "You’re free to do as you wish—as long as you don’t leave me in the dark about it."

"Thank you," she replied softly.

"What about the wedding? Any thoughts on where you want it to be—traditional or modern?" Roland’s enthusiasm shone through; he wanted the world to know Eleanor was his.

"I... can we hold off on the wedding?" Eleanor stumbled over her words, knowing she ought to accept his plans but terrified of how much her life would change.

Should news of their ceremony slip out, Westbridge would be abuzz with whispers, making her every outing scrutinized—a nightmare she wished to avoid.

“No wedding?” Roland frowned, furrowing his brow. "But how can we be married without a wedding?"

"Yeah, I’d like a couple more years to work," she explained. "If we have a wedding, I wouldn’t be able to keep my job."

"Alright," he conceded, although clearly disappointed. Still, his respect for her autonomy was evident. “We can wait. I won’t push you.”

"Thanks," she sighed, relief washing over her. As long as she could maintain some semblance of normalcy, she felt a flicker of hope.

"I’ll be in the study. If you need anything, just call for me," he said, lightly squeezing her fingers before departing.

Once he left, Eleanor exhaled deeply. Without his imposing presence, she could breathe a little easier. So far, Roland had treated her kindly, a small comfort amidst this confusing whirlwind.

Eleanor decided to explore Winters Manor for a while. Its expansive hallways felt daunting, but she hoped to find her footing in this new domain. Downstairs, house staff greeted her with reverence, referring to her as the "young mistress." Heat rose in her cheeks; she smiled awkwardly, unsure how to handle the attention.

The house exuded European elegance, striking yet empty, save for a few paintings from an artist she adored.

Stepping outdoors, she wandered through the sprawling gardens, surrounded by flowers and greenery that nearly all caught her fancy. A cold chill settled in her stomach; what if these were planted with her in mind? Roland Winters might’ve gone to extraordinary lengths just to keep her comfortable, and the implications were dizzying.

Meanwhile, Roland sat quietly in the study, the thought of Eleanor working at the bank gnawing at him. The life of a clerk was taxing and thankless; he'd rather she stay home. Her job involved responsibilities he couldn’t fathom.

"Thomas, reach out to the bank president. I need to ensure the young lady's position is low-stress," he ordered, a flicker of concern in his voice.

"Of course, Roland."

"And Gerald Bennett will be assigned to her full-time; we’ll keep a guard on her just in case," he decided, playing it safe. Given his enemies, it was better for Eleanor to stay close.

He signed off with ease, knowing he’d do whatever it took to make Eleanor happy—even at the cost of his own nerves.

Chapter 5

Eleanor Fletcher tiptoed through yet another carefully orchestrated day at Winters Manor. The staff treated her with an almost excessive reverence that felt stifling, rendering her interactions as rich as cardboard. There was no small talk to break through the meticulous politeness wrapping around her like a heavy blanket.

Lunch had been a solitary affair with Roland Winters, and dinner promised to be the same. Across the table, Roland watched Eleanor with an intensity that made her fidget in her seat. He was quick to load her plate with food, so consumed with feeding her that she felt more like prey dodging its predator than a guest at a family meal.

That night, after washing up, Eleanor climbed into bed, hoping to mimic a turtle hiding in its shell, ready to shut out the world. She could almost forget about him, the daunting presence of Roland, who was said to be sleeping just a few feet away. She wished for the bliss of oblivion.

But sleep eluded her. It was barely a few minutes later that she heard the gentle creak of the door. He entered—the man whose gaze she could feel even in the dark. She could hear him moving about, shedding the day’s clothes for an easygoing bathrobe that left little to the imagination. The sight of his toned physique was almost enough to make her mouth water. Yet, she felt like a deer in headlights, paralyzed by the thought of what might happen next.

What if he lunged at her like a hungry wolf? Should she resist or simply go with the flow?

Eleanor's mind was a flurry of indecision, tightening like a noose around her throat. Then she felt the bed dip behind her, a clear sign that Roland had joined her. He noticed her tension, perhaps even relished it, but he made no overt moves. He simply turned off the light and drew her into his arms, whispering, “Relax. If you don’t want to, I won’t touch you.”

Her heart raced in response, but as he held her gently against him, she felt herself begin to unwind. The anxiety that had crashed over her like a wave gave way to a surprisingly deep sleep.

The next morning, Eleanor awoke alone, relief washing over her. She didn’t have to face him just yet. After getting out of bed, she headed downstairs for breakfast.

“Mrs. Fletcher, Gerald Bennett is waiting outside to take you wherever you’d like,” one of the staff informed her.

“Uh, thanks.” Eleanor chuckled nervously. She felt as if she were under constant surveillance, but it was a game she had no choice but to play. A prison with a comfy dining room, she thought bitterly.

The days began to stretch on in a monotonous loop. With no family to visit, nothing urgent to attend to, she found herself feeling more trapped than she had imagined. Just when she started to believe she could deal with the solitude, Roland returned, announcing he was going to take her back to Oakridge Manor.

“I... don’t think returning now is appropriate,” she stammered. Deep inside, she felt like little more than a mistress, not even allowed to think of herself as the lady of Winters Manor.

“Nonsense. There’s a family gathering today. Besides, it’s an opportunity for you to meet everyone. Go pick out something nice to wear. I’ll wait,” Roland said, planting himself on the couch, shooting her an expectant glance.

He had informed his family about their marriage, but no one had met her yet. They didn’t approve, and how could they? The disparity between Fletcher Manor and Winters Manor was ridiculous. But the opinions of others faded into the background when Roland was around.

Eleanor changed into a carefully chosen outfit and added a touch of makeup, remembering her upbringing as a society girl had instilled certain protocols in her.

“Let's go.” Roland reached for her hand, and she slipped hers into his, warmth spreading through her.

By the time they arrived at Oakridge Manor, lunch was nearly ready, and they were met with curious eyes as the house staff announced the return of their “young master.”

Roland had become a force to be reckoned with at Winters Manor, transforming the family business into a thriving empire. Naturally, no one dared to question his authority, yet whispers about his choice of a wife persisted, muttering that he'd married below his station.

In the crowded living room, a swarm of family members gathered to see the new addition to the clan. Roland’s aunt chirped with faux enthusiasm, not quite concealing her surprise. “So, this is Roland’s new bride! She’s... quite ordinary, huh?”

Eleanor felt the heat of humiliation creep up her neck. Roland’s relationships with his extended family had always been strained, compounded by the fact that he was the only child, and his awkward status left him isolated.

“Yes, Aunt Isabella, that’s my wife,” he replied tersely, curtly brushing aside her judgment. “She’s important to me, remember that.”

Eleanor flinched at the biting remarks, uncertain how to navigate the minefield of opinions that draped around her like a suffocating shawl. The conversation continued, and she was grateful that at least Roland’s grandfather was kind, offering her a beautiful bracelet—a family heirloom—that made Eleanor feel like she was drowning in its weight.

“I can’t accept this,” she protested, her motives both genuine and protective.

“Please take it. It’s yours now, a symbol of our family’s trust in you,” Roland said, blocking her protest. “It’s meant for the lady of the house. You can’t go wrong.”

Whatever hesitation she felt dissolved as she slipped it onto her wrist, though the thought of its fragility made her uneasy.

As they lingered through lunch, she caught sight of Roland's aunt eyeing the bracelet like a hawk, frustration palpable on her face.

When the gathering dwindled, Roland whisked Eleanor away before any more hurtful comments could fester. As they returned to Winters Manor, she hesitated, then reached for Roland’s arm.

“Maybe you should keep the bracelet for safekeeping. I’d hate to lose it,” she suggested, a hint of anxiety edging into her voice.

“Eleanor, it’s yours. Trust me. My grandfather gave it to you—nobody would dare blame you if something happened to it. Don’t let their words weigh on you. I like you for who you are, not what they think,” he reassured her.

Gazing down, Eleanor felt her heart thrum with trepidation. His known affection seemed more like a dream than her reality, too distant to grasp and yet blazing with warmth she had never expected.

Roland chuckled softly, wondering what kind of woman had disregarded his affirmations so easily. He’d have to work at making her understand just how precious she truly was.

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