Elena stepped out of the car, her small suitcase in hand, and felt a chill run down her spine. Alexander's mansion loomed ahead, glass and steel gleaming in the morning sun, every line sharp and imposing. This was not a home—it was a fortress, a monument to power and precision. The air itself seemed heavier here, filled with unspoken rules.
A tall, impeccably dressed man approached with measured steps. His suit was perfectly tailored, shoes polished to a shine that reflected the light.
"Miss Morgan," he said with a polite bow of his head. "I am Thomas, Mr. King's butler. Welcome."
Elena managed a faint nod, her voice caught in her throat. There was something about Thomas that left her uneasy. His posture was military-like, his presence commanding yet quiet, and his sharp eyes observed her without revealing anything in return. She sensed instantly that in this house, nothing was casual—nothing was ever allowed to go unobserved.
"Follow me," Thomas said, and she obeyed without question.
The mansion's interior was breathtaking, almost suffocating in its grandeur. High ceilings stretched above her, gleaming chandeliers casting reflections across the polished marble floors. Every corridor seemed endless, lined with silent portraits and carefully chosen art pieces that screamed of wealth but lacked warmth.
As they walked, Thomas explained in clipped, precise tones:
"Breakfast will be served at eight a.m. sharp, lunch at one p.m., and dinner at seven p.m. You are expected to attend unless Mr. King instructs otherwise. Tardiness will not be tolerated."
Elena nodded, clutching her bag tighter.
"Dress code is formal unless otherwise instructed," he continued, turning a corner with effortless grace. "Casual wear is permitted only in your private quarters. No exceptions."
"Yes, Sir," Elena whispered, her throat tight.
"You will not enter any restricted areas without explicit permission. You will be informed of these areas in due time. For now, avoid the west wing unless called upon."
Her mind raced. Restricted areas? Why? What was he hiding in a house like this? But she swallowed her questions and merely nodded again.
"Address Mr. King as 'Sir' unless instructed otherwise. Personal devices are permitted, but no photos, recordings, or unauthorized communication in common areas."
Elena felt her stomach drop. It was like stepping into a gilded cage. Every movement, every word—monitored and dictated.
Finally, Thomas stopped at a large oak door at the end of a quiet hallway. He turned, his expression still unreadable.
"This is your room," he said. "Your belongings have been arranged as requested. Breakfast will be in thirty minutes. Mr. King may summon you at any time. Do not be late. Do not keep him waiting."
He opened the door, revealing a spacious, elegant bedroom. Floor-to-ceiling windows let in streams of golden light. Neutral tones and soft furnishings created a sense of calm, but it was the calculated kind of calm—too perfect, too precise. Nothing here felt personal.
"This will be your room," Thomas repeated, his voice steady. "If you require anything, call me. I will be in the household office."
And then he was gone, footsteps fading into the silence of the corridor.
Elena placed her suitcase on the bed and sank down beside it, her chest tight. One year. One year of this world, this man's rules, this suffocating life she hadn't chosen. Her fingers trembled as she unzipped the suitcase, arranging her belongings on the dresser. The sight of her own clothes—simple dresses, worn jeans, a few sweaters—looked almost out of place in the pristine luxury of the mansion.
She sat there, staring at the window, trying to gather courage.
A sharp knock at the door jolted her back to reality.
"Miss Morgan," Thomas's voice called. "Mr. King requests your presence in his office."
Elena's pulse quickened. Already? She glanced at the clock—barely twenty minutes had passed. Straightening her dress and quickly smoothing down her hair, she took a deep breath and opened the door.
Thomas was waiting, his posture stiff as ever. Without a word, he led her down the long, silent hallway. The mansion was so vast, Elena felt small, her every footstep echoing. Her heart pounded harder with every step, dread curling in her stomach.
Finally, Thomas stopped before a massive set of double doors. He opened one, stepping aside. "Mr. King is expecting you."
Elena entered.
The office was vast, lined with shelves of books and walls of glass that overlooked the estate. At the far end sat Alexander King behind a desk of dark wood, his presence filling the room even before he spoke. His tailored suit was sharp, his posture unyielding, his dark eyes fixed on her as though he could read every thought racing through her mind.
He didn't rise. He didn't smile.
"Sit," Alexander said, his voice low but commanding, gesturing to the chair opposite him.
Elena obeyed, her knees weak.
"I trust you have familiarized yourself with the rules Thomas has outlined?" His tone was calm, precise, yet it carried a sharp edge that made her throat dry.
"Yes, Sir," Elena replied softly.
"Good," he said, leaning back slightly, steepling his fingers. "This house runs on order. I don't tolerate disobedience. The house has a rhythm, Miss Morgan—you will follow it. Fail, and there will be consequences."
Elena swallowed hard, her voice barely audible. "I understand, Sir."
He studied her for a long moment, his gaze heavy, unreadable. She shifted slightly under the intensity of his eyes, but Alexander noticed every movement. His silence was suffocating, as if he was testing how long she could endure it.
"This is a business arrangement," he finally said. "You will obey, and in return, I will honor my part of the contract. That is all."
Her chest tightened. "Yes, Sir."
He leaned back further in his chair, a hint of disdain flickering across his expression. "Do not mistake this for anything else. Whatever… romantic illusions you might entertain, discard them now. You are here because of necessity. Nothing more."
The words stung, though Elena had expected nothing less. She lowered her gaze, nodding.
"Good," Alexander said simply. "You may go."
Relief washed through her, though it was tinged with a strange disappointment. She rose quickly, bowing her head slightly before turning toward the door.
As she reached for the handle, his voice cut through the silence.
"Miss Morgan."
She froze, glancing back.
"Do not keep me waiting again. When I summon you, you come immediately. Understood?"
"Yes, Sir," she whispered.
His eyes lingered on her for a beat longer before he shifted his attention back to the papers on his desk, dismissing her as though she were nothing more than a temporary detail in his perfectly ordered life.
Elena stepped back into the hallway, her legs unsteady. The weight of his presence clung to her even after the door closed behind her.
One year, she thought again. One year to navigate his rules, his control, his unrelenting coldness. One year to survive Alexander King.
And deep down, she already knew—surviving him would be far harder than she had ever imagined. In