Olivia wasn't sure what woke her.
At first, she thought it was the shift of the blanket sliding from her shoulder, the soft hum of the heating vents, or maybe even a dream slipping away before she could catch it.
But then she heard it—a low murmur. Voices.
They weren't coming from her room.
They weren't even from the hallway.
They were deeper, resonating faintly through the stillness, like a current running beneath the quiet.
She turned her head toward the balcony doors. The moonlight spilled in silver pools across the floor, bathing the edges of the curtains. A thin breeze whispered through the gap where the heavy drapes didn't quite meet, carrying the faint scent of rain and something else—something metallic.
She sat up slowly, trying to decide whether she was imagining things.
Then it came again.
Not the wind. Not the hum of the house.
Voices. Low, clipped, urgent.
Her heartbeat quickened, a sharp thud she could feel in her fingertips.
The words weren't in English. The consonants were hard, slicing cleanly through the air, the syllables short and deliberate. It wasn't a language she recognized, but the tone—the tone was unmistakable. Commanding. Cautious. Dangerous.
For a long moment, she sat frozen, listening.
She told herself it was none of her business. She told herself that this was Raymond's house, and whatever went on here wasn't hers to question. She told herself to lie back down, close her eyes, and forget she had heard anything at all.
But curiosity, that old traitor, wouldn't let her go.
She slid her legs over the side of the bed and slipped her feet into the soft slippers waiting on the rug. The carpet muffled her movements, but she still moved like the floor might betray her with a single creak.
The voices came again—clearer now. She could make out two distinct male tones, maybe three. One was low and deliberate, the kind of voice that carried weight even when hushed. Another was sharper, almost impatient.
She moved to the bedroom door, resting her palm against the cool brass handle. Slowly, carefully, she pressed it down. The latch gave way with a small click.
The hallway was darker than she expected, the single sconce halfway down casting a thin golden beam across the runner rug. Everything else was wrapped in shadow.
She stepped out, her pulse loud in her ears.
As she moved forward, the air seemed to change. It wasn't just the dim light—it was the way the silence wrapped around the voices, making them sound both distant and dangerously close.
She reached the curve of the staircase and paused. The wrought-iron banister was cold under her fingers.
Peering down, she saw the source.
The foyer below was swallowed in darkness except for the faint spill of light from the dining room. There, standing partly in the shadows, were three men.
Two were strangers, their suits perfectly tailored and utterly unremarkable—except for the way they stood, as if ready to move at a moment's notice. The kind of stillness that wasn't still at all.
The third man was Raymond.
Even from here, she could sense the difference in him. The relaxed charm he wore so easily at dinner was gone. His shoulders were squared, his chin tilted slightly in a way that gave him an edge of authority. His eyes were harder, colder.
One of the strangers handed him a black folder—slim, matte, the kind of thing that didn't belong to ordinary business.
Raymond took it without a word, flipping it open with a fluid motion. The light from the dining room caught the sharp line of his jaw, the way his gaze scanned whatever was inside with rapid precision.
Then he snapped it shut. The sound was soft, but it cut through the silence like a door slamming.
More words in that foreign language followed. The rhythm was tense—like chess moves exchanged in quick succession. Raymond replied in the same tongue, his voice lower, but edged with something that made the other men straighten slightly.
It was then that his gaze lifted.
Straight to her.
For one paralyzing second, they just stared at each other. She couldn't read his expression—there was no smirk, no softening in his eyes. Just something… unreadable. Heavy.
Her body screamed at her to move, but her legs felt rooted.
Finally, Raymond's lips pressed into the faintest line, and he turned back to the men as if nothing had happened.
She took that moment to retreat, step by step, careful not to make a sound.
When she reached her room again, she shut the door softly, leaning her back against it.
She stared into the darkness, trying to slow her breathing.
She didn't know what was in that folder. She didn't know who those men were.
But she knew one thing— Raymond Greg wasn't just a man with a mysterious charm.
He was something else entirely.
And she had just been seen.