Eliza's POV:

  The white woolen top scratched uncomfortably against my neck, a stark contrast to the black jeans and heavy leather coat that felt like a costume I hadn't chosen. Staying home, lost in the familiar comfort of my own space, suddenly seemed like a brilliant idea. The only flicker of anticipation was the thought of seeing Ethan.

  "Mom, really, this?" I held up the delicate ring and chain she'd selected, its formality mocking my usual style.

  "You are not yet his daughter-in-law, Eliza. A little dignity when meeting his family. They deserve respect," she stated, her tone laced with that familiar blend of expectation and disapproval.

  It was her way of pushing buttons, of reminding me that Ethan didn't fit her carefully constructed image of success. I couldn't care less about their "perfect" rich family. My heart belonged to Ethan, a truth that wouldn't waver regardless of their opinions. Why couldn't she see the goodness, the quiet bravery that shone within him? Perhaps his lack of a prestigious job had blinded her to everything else.

  "Ready, honey?" Mom's voice, softer now, addressed Dad.

  "All set. Did you get the sweets?" he replied, ever the peacemaker.

  "Yes. Eliza, be careful on the road. Honestly, inviting Ethan… just come home safely, okay?" Mom's anxiety always bubbled to the surface.

  "We will, Mom. On time and safe," I promised, already feeling the weight of her unspoken reservations.

  "Let's go, dear," she said to Dad, and they bustled out, leaving me to wait for Ethan, the minutes ticking by under the oppressive weight of this ridiculous outfit. Just as the thought of suffocating in wool and leather became a vivid possibility, a familiar bike horn echoed from the street.

  "Thank God, Ethan," I breathed out, relief washing over me. He is looking damn hot.

  "Whoa, Eli! I didn't know you could pull off this look. You're absolutely gorgeous, baby," he exclaimed, his eyes wide with playful surprise.

  "Don't even try it. It feels like a straightjacket. Let's go; we're already late. What are these?" I gestured to the small bag he carried.

  "Fruits," he offered with a sheepish grin.

  "We're not visiting someone in the hospital, Ethan," I joked, a small smile finally breaking through my apprehension.

  He always gravitated towards practical gestures. It was one of the things I loved most about him. When my period cramps flared, he'd magically produce saved mart coupons, a silent permission to indulge my cravings without a second thought about the cost. He always remembered.

  "Let's gooo," I urged, hopping onto the back of his bike and wrapping my arms tightly around his waist, the familiar closeness a grounding force. A sudden thought surfaced.

  "Hey," I began, my voice a little hesitant against his back, "have you ever… been jealous of Arthur? Mom always seems to hold his career over your head."

  Silence stretched between us for a moment, the rumble of the engine the only sound. Had he not heard me?

  "No," he said finally, the single word carrying a weight I couldn't quite decipher.

  Really? I'd always suspected a flicker of jealousy, a reason why he avoided any mention of Arthur, even in our private conversations.

  "I'm afraid, Eli," he confessed, his voice low and vulnerable, "that he is more independent than me. I'm not even truly independent myself yet. I'm afraid one day… you'll wonder if marrying him, someone like him, would make your life… more valuable than this."

  The world around me seemed to blur at the edges. Tears pricked at my eyes, a sudden wave of emotion washing over me.

  "I will never think that, Ethan," I choked out, my grip tightening.

  "Good to hear," he murmured, his hand reaching back to briefly pat my head, a small gesture that spoke volumes.

  Ethan pulled up to a house that felt less like a dwelling and more like a monument to wealth. It loomed before us, an expanse of pale stone and manicured perfection. He parked his bike, and we approached, the gravel crunching underfoot like a hushed warning. I hoped he wouldn't feel swallowed by its grandeur. Our backgrounds were similar, but Arthur existed in a different stratosphere.

  "So," he said quietly, breaking the silence as we walked towards the imposing front doors, "do you remember what we planned?"

  "Yes," I replied, a knot of anxiety tightening in my stomach, "but how can you possibly get his secrets? It feels like a ridiculous idea."

  "It's simple logic, Eli. You've been here before, you know the layout. We just need to slip into an office or a bedroom, somewhere we can find his personal things," he explained, his voice surprisingly confident.

  "Do you honestly think that's going to work? In this situation?" I couldn't shake the feeling of impending disaster.

  "This is actually an excellent opportunity," he insisted, a glint of determination in his eyes.

  I just sighed, the weight of the evening pressing down on me. Ethan rang the bell, the sound echoing through the silent grounds. Arthur's wife, a woman with a surprisingly warm smile, opened the door and greeted us, her open and friendly manner a stark contrast to the house's intimidating facade. She introduced herself to Ethan, her genuine warmth putting me slightly at ease. Inside, the family was gathered in a vast room, their figures perched on expensive-looking furniture. We took the remaining seats beside my mom, the silence punctuated by polite greetings.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  The room was immense, dominated by formal portraits and a sprawling gold and brownish sofa that looked more like a throne than a place to relax. A large fireplace crackled at one end, casting dancing shadows on the polished surfaces. Precious ceramic saucers and cups gleamed on glass shelves, untouchable artifacts. A low glass table displayed an array of meticulously arranged food.

  "Hey, how is life, darling?" Grandpa's voice, formal yet kind, broke the initial stillness.

  "Yes, it is good," I replied, offering a polite smile.

  He smiled back, a brief, almost contractual exchange.

  "Actually," Arthur's voice cut through the air, his tone carrying a strange hesitancy, "the dinner is ready if you want then…."

  "Yeah, sure," Mom replied quickly.

  I still didn't understand his peculiar way of speaking, always leaving his sentences hanging, as if seeking constant validation, and yet he only did it with Mom and Dad. It felt like an exaggerated form of respect, bordering on timidity. He barely acknowledged me, a familiar pattern whenever I visited. I usually spent my time with Maya and then left, having long ago adapted to this stilted atmosphere.

  Ethan sat beside me, a silent figure in this opulent setting. He hadn't uttered a word, and no one had made an effort to include him in the polite exchanges. A wave of regret washed over me. Had I made a mistake in bringing him here?

  "So," Ethan whispered, leaning closer as we were ushered towards the dining table, "where is his room?"

  "We have to take the stairs. His office is on the second floor, and their bedroom is on the third," I murmured back.

  "Let's at least enjoy the dinner," he replied, a small smile playing on his lips, "so we have the energy for our… efficient use of the house."

  Thank goodness he wasn't completely overwhelmed. Perhaps the thrill of the "mission" was keeping him grounded.

  As I began to eat, I noticed Arthur had taken the seat directly across from us. His gaze was fixed on us, his expression unreadable, like a seasoned poker player. What was he thinking? He then turned his attention to Mom, silently serving himself.

  "The food is delicious," Mom offered, breaking the strained silence.

  "Glad you like it. If you want any more…" Arthur began, his voice trailing off again.

  There it was. That hesitant cadence.

  "No, we're all quite full anyway, right, Eliza?" Mom interjected, her eyes flicking towards me.

  Why me?

  "It's already more than enough, and absolutely delicious," I agreed quickly, eager to avoid any further attention.

  A small, almost imperceptible smile touched Arthur Penhaligon's lips. I made a mental note – Arthur smiled. It was a rare occurrence. He was undeniably handsome, I had to admit, perhaps even more strikingly so than Ethan in a purely physical sense. Tall, tanned, with a lean, athletic build and impeccable posture. It was a mystery why he'd agreed to an arranged marriage.

  I realized I'd been staring. I quickly averted my gaze to Ethan, a flush creeping up my neck. I think he noticed. Shit.

  After the seemingly endless dinner, we returned to the formal living room. The conversation had shifted to politics, a topic that effectively excluded me and Ethan. Everyone else seemed engrossed.

  "Mom," I said, seizing the opportunity, "could I show Ethan around the house?"

  "Yes, of course, dear," she replied, thankfully without question. It was the only plan I could conjure. Ethan followed me quietly as we slipped away, unnoticed by the others. Arthur's eyes followed us for a moment, a flicker of something unreadable in their depths, but Mom said something to him, and he turned his attention back to her.

  "So," I whispered once we were out of earshot, my palms already damp, "what's next? I'm sweating bullets in this ridiculous outfit."

  "Don't worry. You head to his room; I'll take the office. If anyone comes, I'll just pretend to be looking at the books while you're in the washroom. Perfect alibi, considering the office doesn't have one," he explained, his logic oddly comforting in this bizarre situation.

  "Why would I use a couple's bedroom washroom when there's a guest one?" I pointed out, the absurdity of the plan hitting me.

  "Oh, right. Well, there are only two washrooms anyway. Just say it's an emergency. Look, if we get caught, we need to be quick," he urged, his voice laced with a nervous energy.

  "Fine. Let's go," I agreed, a strange mix of apprehension and excitement churning within me.

  We crept up the grand staircase, each step creaking softly under our weight. Why was I doing this? It felt reckless, foolish, yet undeniably… interesting. We stuck to the plan. I slipped into Arthur's bedroom. It was exactly as I'd imagined – sterile, impeccably tidy, with brown sheets, a solitary lamp on the nightstand, a large desk positioned by the window, and huge, impersonal portraits adorning the walls. A large TV screen dominated the space opposite the bed. Okay, focus. I started with the desk. Only four drawers. Easy enough. I rifled through each one, my heart pounding in my chest. I hoped Ethan was having better luck in the office.

  Ten minutes. Nothing. We needed to get out of here. The silence of the house felt suddenly menacing. Just as I was about to lose hope, my fingers brushed against a slim, olive green book tucked away in the back of the last drawer. A diary? Please, please don't be a grocery list. I opened it, my breath catching in my throat. The first page made my heart stop, then pound with a frantic energy. What the hell?

  I didn't want Ethan to see this. What would he think? I hesitated, my fingers hovering over the page, about to slip it back into the drawer, when I saw him standing behind me, his face mirroring my shock. I hadn't even heard him enter. I was terrible at this. What if it was Arthur? This was bad. He gently took the book from my trembling hands, his eyes scanning the page briefly, as if searching for a hidden key.

  "I searched there," he said, his gaze fixed on mine, "there's nothing, so I came here."

  "Oh," was the only sound I could manage, a strangled whisper. Worry gnawed at me.

  "Let's take this with us," he stated, his voice low and firm.

  I didn't argue, just nodded, my mind racing. He tucked the diary inside his t-shirt, concealing it against his chest, and we slipped silently out of the room, back down the stairs, and into the relatively public space of the living room. We didn't speak a word, not even to each other. If anyone was watching, we were undoubtedly the prime suspects in some unspoken crime. I could feel beads of sweat trickling down my back. I thought I saw Arthur glance our way, his expression unreadable, before he subtly adjusted the thermostat, the sudden chill in the air doing little to calm my racing pulse. I couldn't keep up this charade.

  "Mom," I finally managed, my voice trembling slightly, "I'm really sleepy. I think we should head home."

  "Yeah, sure, honey," she replied, her gaze lingering on Ethan for a moment, "I hope Ethan drives you safe home, just like he brought you here." Her tone held a pointed emphasis.

  "Of course, Mrs. Hawthorne," Ethan replied smoothly, without missing a beat.

  He stood, retrieved our coats, and we made our escape. I waited for him to speak once we were outside, the cool night air a welcome relief. I knew he wouldn't stay silent for long.

  "I can't believe he wrote that," Ethan said finally, his voice a low murmur as we walked towards his bike.

  "Yes," I echoed, the words feeling inadequate, "I didn't expect that. Not at all."

  Arthur's words echoed in my mind, stark and unsettling: I LOVE ELIZA.

  Why? Scrawled on the first page of a diary labeled 2007. He would have been nine years old. It felt absurd, impossible. Ethan wasn't angry, wasn't jealous. He was thinking the same thing I was – was that entry truly from childhood? Had he mislabeled the year? Or was this some bizarre misunderstanding? Could it even be his diary? The whole thing felt surreal, like something ripped from the pages of a badly written novel.

  Oh God, things had just become incredibly complicated.