♛ Three loud knocks jolted me out of my much-needed sleep. Groaning with annoyance, I sat up in bed, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. The voice that followed the knocks was unfamiliar, and it took a moment for me to register the words.

"Who is it?" I asked, my voice laced with grogginess and irritation.

"It's Marta, Mrs. Ferrara. I am Sir Warren's housekeeper while he's away. I was asked to come in and help you settle in. What would you like to have for breakfast?" came the response.

Mrs. Ferrara. The words echoed in my mind, causing a sense of unease to settle over me. Was that to be my new identity? Vanya Ferrara. It didn't sound particularly pleasant, and the weight of the title bore down on me.

Letting out a sigh, I pushed the thoughts aside and forced myself out of bed. I made my way to the bedroom door and swung it open, revealing a petite woman standing outside, her smile warm and welcoming. She appeared to be in her late forties, her eyes twinkling with kindness.

"Good morning, Mrs. Ferrara," she greeted me with a respectful tone.

"Vanya is fine," I corrected her, not yet comfortable with the idea of being addressed by that name. "And I can handle my own breakfast, thank you, Marta."

"Nonsense, Ma'am," Marta chuckled, her voice filled with a sense of genuine care. "It's my job to ensure your comfort. Just let me know what you feel like having today. Mr. Ferrara absolutely loves my scrambled eggs with avocado on toast. Would you like that as well?"

I shrugged, not particularly craving anything specific. "Yeah, that sounds alright," I replied dismissively. With a curt nod, Marta made her way back downstairs, leaving me alone in the room once again.

Closing the door behind me, I made my way to the bathroom and splashed cold water on my face, hoping to shake off the lingering drowsiness. Glancing at my empty closet, I decided to stick with my only other option other than these pjs—my old clothes.

Once I had dressed, I headed downstairs, my steps echoing through the quiet hallways.

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Once downstairs, I followed the sound of clattering dishes to the kitchen where Marta was busy preparing breakfast. The counter was already adorned with freshly cut cucumbers and a jug of orange juice. I wasted no time and grabbed a glass, gulping down the refreshing juice to quench my thirst. As I walked over to the fridge to retrieve my ice water, I closed the door only to be startled by a figure standing behind it. It was Rocco, but in the role of my newly-assigned bodyguard, it seemed.

"Jeez, man, you scared me," I exclaimed, my heart still racing from the sudden fright. I returned to the kitchen counter, and Rocco followed closely behind.

Rocco's voice resonated in his unusual monotone as he began briefing me on the day's plans, "once you're done with breakfast, you'll be meeting with your personal dresser today."

Interrupting his speech, I gestured toward the empty stool beside me and asked, "Where's your plate? Join me for breakfast. We usually eat together as a family at my place."

Rocco's response was curt, "I don't eat here. I eat with the men, downstairs in our quarters."

Feeling a sense of camaraderie, I decided to extend an invitation. "Well, maybe that's when Warren is here. How about you join me for breakfast now? We usually all eat breakfast together in our family, starting the day together."

When he didn't respond, frustrated by his detachment, I sighed and reluctantly accepted his refusal, "fine, just... sit down then? It's weird having you stand around and breathe down my neck like there's a constant threat."

This time, Rocco complied and took a seat on the stool next to mine. I poured him a glass of orange juice, and he nodded in appreciation before continuing his previous monotonous speech.

"As I was saying," Rocco resumed, "you'll meet with your personal dresser, who will take your measurements and assist you in finding your style. They will return this evening with clothes and accessories based on your preferences."

I couldn't help but question the arrangement, "why can't I just go to the mall and pick my own clothes? Better yet, let me go home and pack my old clothes to bring here."

Rocco's response was firm and unwavering, "I'm afraid you can't leave the residence without Sir Warren's orders for now. And visiting your family is certainly not an option at the moment."

I sighed, realizing the limited options available to me, "worth a shot, I guess," I muttered, resigned to my current circumstances. I finished the rest of my breakfast, appreciating Marta's culinary skills. The aroma and flavors were indeed delightful, living up to Warren's preferences, as she had told me.

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Just as I finished my meal, the main door flung open, and the sound of clicking heels echoed through the house. A stunning blonde girl entered my line of sight, carrying a small Gucci bag on her arm. Her entire appearance was impeccably put together, leading me to believe that she must be the personal dresser Rocco mentioned.

However, she wore a perplexed expression on her face. Before she could approach us, Rocco quickly rose from his seat and walked over to her, guiding her away from the kitchen while engaging in a hushed conversation. Intrigued, I thanked Marta for the meal and followed their path, making my way to the living room where the girl had settled on the couch. Rocco's voice trailed off as he noticed my presence, and the girl turned her gaze towards me, raising an eyebrow in curiosity.

"Hi," I spoke first, approaching the girl who stood up to face me.

"Um, this is..." Rocco began, but the girl cut him off, introducing herself, "I'm Winona, your personal dresser," she said, extending her hand for a handshake.

"Nice to meet you," I replied, shaking her hand. "I'm Vanya. Thank you for being here."

She nodded, and we both took our seats on opposite ends of the couch. Curiosity got the better of me, and I couldn't help but ask, "Don't mind me asking, but aren't you a bit too young to be working as a professional dresser already? I mean, you look like you're still in your teenage years."

Winona chuckled, her laughter filling the room. "Yes, I'm 17, but you see, you shouldn't wait to pursue a path you know you're meant for. Fashion is mine, so besides studying fashion designing, I work part-time as a professional dresser. It's sort of like my internship, I guess."

"That's impressive, really," I replied, genuinely fascinated. "At 17, I had no clue what I wanted to do, so I let my younger brother pick my career path from a spinning wheel of choices we both wrote down."

She smiled slightly at my response before pulling out her phone and opening Pinterest. "Well then, let's get to work, shall we?"

I nodded in agreement, and together we began scrolling through outfit ideas, discussing my style preferences. Winona gradually narrowed down my preferences and took my measurements, explaining that she would send me some outfit options later for me to try on and provide feedback on any necessary adjustments.

As we delved deeper into the process, I couldn't help but feel a glimmer of excitement amidst the chaos of my current situation. Perhaps this newfound collaboration with Winona could serve as a creative outlet and a means of self-expression in this unfamiliar world I now found myself in.