Chapter One: The Interview
The rain hadn't stopped in two days.
Elena Monroe pressed her palm against the cold glass of the city bus window, watching as droplets chased each other down the pane in erratic patterns. Gray clouds loomed overhead, swallowing what little daylight remained. The kind of weather that made everything feel heavier—your clothes, your thoughts, your memories.
She adjusted the strap of her worn leather bag on her shoulder and sighed. Her boots were damp, her coat smelled like wet wool, and her stomach rumbled from skipping lunch. Again.
"Last stop!"
The bus driver's gruff voice jolted her from her thoughts. She stood, gave him a polite nod, and stepped off into the storm. Rain pelted her cheeks like icy needles, and she tugged her hood tighter around her face.
The Blackwood estate wasn't visible from the road.
The address she'd been given led her to a high iron gate, shrouded by ivy and an imposing stone wall. She buzzed the intercom.
Nothing.
She buzzed again, longer this time. Just when she thought she'd be standing in the rain forever, a voice crackled through the speaker.
"Name?"
"Elena Monroe. I'm here for the assistant position."
A pause.
The gates creaked open with a reluctant groan.
The path beyond was a winding gravel road lined with trees that arched over like bony sentinels. She walked quickly, ignoring the way her soaked socks squished in her boots. The estate emerged from the fog like a castle from a fairy tale—if the fairy tale had been written by Edgar Allan Poe.
It was massive, old, and beautiful in a way that made your skin crawl. Ivy clung to the stone walls. Tall, arched windows stared down like accusing eyes. A single light burned above the heavy double doors.
Elena climbed the steps and raised her hand to knock. Before her fist could connect, the door opened.
A woman in a black dress and tight bun stood there, eyes assessing.
"Miss Monroe?"
"Yes."
"Follow me."
She was led through a dimly lit foyer, the heels of the woman's shoes tapping sharply against the marble floor. Elena's steps were quieter, her worn boots squeaking slightly with every step.
The house smelled of old wood, lavender, and something darker—smoke or spice. The walls were lined with paintings, their subjects grim and stormy. Her own reflection in the polished surfaces looked small and out of place.
They stopped in front of a tall door with black iron hinges.
"Wait here. He'll see you shortly."
The woman disappeared down the hall, leaving Elena alone.
She tried to smooth her damp hair and patted her coat, hoping it didn't look as miserable as it felt. She should've borrowed an umbrella. Or worn makeup. Or just stayed home and accepted that people like her didn't get jobs like this.
But she needed this job.
Desperately.
Her fingers tightened around the strap of her bag as the door creaked open from the inside.
A man stood in the doorway.
Tall.
Unnervingly tall.
He was dressed in black—black slacks, black shirt, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing ink swirling up his arms like smoke. His hair was dark and slightly tousled, his jaw sharp, his expression unreadable.
But it was his eyes that caught her.
Cold. Piercing. A storm behind glass.
He looked at her like he already knew every secret she had and was bored by them.
"Miss Monroe. Come in."
His voice was smooth, deep, and carried an accent she couldn't place.
She stepped into the study. It was warm, the fire crackling in the hearth a welcome contrast to the chill in her bones. Books lined the walls, some so old the leather bindings were cracked. A desk sat at the far end, but he didn't sit. He leaned against it, arms crossed, watching her.
"You're late."
She blinked. "I—uh, I took the bus. The rain—"
"No excuses."
She swallowed hard. "I'm sorry."
He walked past her, slow, like a predator testing its prey.
"Why did you apply for this job?"
"I need work. I'm good at organizing, scheduling, I—"
"You're avoiding the question."
She turned to face him. "I need the money."
He smirked. "Honest. That's rare."
He walked to the fireplace and stared into the flames for a moment. "This isn't a nine-to-five job. You'll live on the estate. There's no cell service. No internet. Your time is mine. Understand?"
Elena's heart thudded. "I understand."
"Do you?"
He turned slowly, his gaze pinning her to the spot.
"What's your full name?"
"Elena Rose Monroe."
"Age?"
"Twenty-four."
"Family?"
She hesitated. "None."
Something flickered in his eyes. Satisfaction?
"You'll start tonight. I'll have Marla show you to your room. Dinner is at eight. You'll sit at the table, not eat in the kitchen. I want to get to know who I'm working with."
She nodded. "Yes, sir."
He tilted his head, amused. "Call me Lucien."
He stepped closer. Too close. She could smell his cologne—dark, expensive, intoxicating.
"One last thing, Elena. Don't go into the west wing. Ever."
Her breath caught. "Why not?"
His smile didn't reach his eyes.
"Because some doors shouldn't be opened. Not even by the curious."
A shiver ran down her spine.
He turned away, dismissing her without a word.
She stepped out into the hall, where Marla waited without expression.
"Come. I'll take you to your room."
As Elena followed the woman up the grand staircase, her thoughts spun like a whirlwind. She should leave. She should run. This place was a trap. A gilded, gothic trap.
But then she remembered the eviction notice on her apartment door. The bills she couldn't pay. The job offers she hadn't gotten.
No. She couldn't afford to be afraid.
Even if Lucien Blackwood felt like danger personified. Even if his chains weren't made of metal, but of whispered promises and veiled threats.
She was already tangled.
And part of her—the broken, desperate part—wasn't sure she wanted to escape