I couldn’t process how smoothly the takeover happened. Barely ten a.m. and four uniformed movers were already boxing my life into anonymous crates. A short while later, I was already strapped into the plush, silent interior of a black SUV, a burly, unsmiling driver at the wheel and a stoic bodyguard in the passenger seat, transporting me into my new, surreal existence.

The bodyguard, exited the car before me, an imposing sentinel, then opened my door with a soft click and gestured towards the house with a sweep of his hand. It was a sprawling, two-story structure, framed by meticulously manicured lawns both front and back. The property was set deep in the woods, swallowed by a dense canopy of trees, and from what I could tell, we really didn’t have a lot of neighbors—just endless, whispering green. The building itself was a modern villa, a minimalist cube of concrete and gigantic glass panels that reflected the azure sky. It was like a car showroom, to be honest. Soulless, lifeless, a sterile landscape of gray and white concrete.

The bodyguard followed me into the cavernous entryway, the echo of our footsteps unnerving in the vast space. He handed me a weighty set of keys – for the car, for the house – his expression as blank as the concrete walls. “The room with the white door on the second floor is your personal room, sir. You are free to use the facilities of the house however you wish. Mr. Blake will join you in the evening for dinner.”

Dinner? Am I supposed to cook in this glass mausoleum? The thought was so stupid I almost laughed.

Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.

“Mr. Blake has a butler, but you can dismiss him or hire new help if you wish, sir.”

A butler. Who still has a live-in butler in the 21st century? Ah yes, nobility. As much as he takes the high road, preaching about freedom and disownment, he’s still fundamentally a noble. My lips curled into a faint, sarcastic smile. “I will discuss this with my husband

.”

The word felt foreign and strangely intimate on my tongue. It wasn’t entirely good, nor entirely bad, just… jarring. The bodyguard merely offered a curt nod.

I walked to my designated room, the silence of the massive house pressing in around me. The second floor felt like a labyrinth of empty spaces: an office, two more bedrooms, two more bathrooms, and then—the door.

The locked door from the contract, its metal door standing out against the pale walls.

Wouldn’t you be curious? Wouldn’t you want to peek inside, just a little?

I tiptoed my way down the hallway, my footsteps muffled by the thick pile carpet, my eyes darting, scanning for any tell-tale gleam of a lens. And there they were: two security cameras, placed to monitor the key access points around the enigmatic door. Prick knew that I would sniff around. He absolutely knew. The realization chafed.

I ducked into my designated room. Generous square footage, zero soul. A platform bed, one minimalist desk, empty closet, nothing on the walls. The ensuite gleamed—chrome, white marble, the vibe of an airport lounge. I dropped the keys on the bare mattress; the clink echoed longer than it should.