The rain hammered against the floor-to-ceiling windows like bullets, each drop exploding into a thousand fragments before sliding down the glass. Ella Winters clutched her briefcase tighter and tried not to think about how the fifteen-minute drive up the winding cliff road had felt like a death sentence.
The mansion loomed ahead through the storm, all sharp angles and cold glass, perched on the edge of San Francisco's coastline like it was daring the ocean to try and claim it. No warmth leaked from its windows. No signs of life except for the single light burning in what looked like an office on the third floor.
Ella's phone buzzed against her thigh. Another text from the hospital.
Final notice. Payment required within 48 hours or treatment will be discontinued.
She didn't need to check the amount. Eighty-seven thousand, four hundred and twenty-three dollars. The number had burned itself into her memory three weeks ago when Dr. Martinez had handed her the estimate with that apologetic smile doctors practiced in medical school.
"Experimental treatment," he'd said, like that explained the price tag that would've bought her a house anywhere else in the country. "But it's your father's best chance."
Best chance. Ella laughed, but there was no humor in it. The sound echoed in her Honda Civic's cramped interior as she parked behind a sleek black Mercedes that probably cost more than she made in two years.
The rain soaked through her blazer in the ten steps between her car and the front door. She'd dressed carefully tonight—her best suit, the one she saved for court appearances in front of judges who decided her clients' fates. The navy fabric was supposed to project confidence and competence. Instead, it just made her feel like she was wearing a costume.
The doorbell played a melody she didn't recognize. Classical, probably. Rich people loved their classical music.
The door opened before the last note faded.
"Ms. Winters." The woman who greeted her looked like she'd stepped out of a magazine. Tall, silver-haired, wearing a dress that cost more than Ella's rent. "Mr. Wolfram is expecting you."
Ella followed her through corridors lined with artwork that belonged in museums. Everything was pristine, cold, calculated. The kind of place where you were afraid to breathe too hard in case you disturbed something priceless.
They stopped outside a heavy wooden door. The woman knocked once, waited for a response Ella couldn't hear, then opened it.
"Ms. Winters, sir."
"Thank you, Catherine. That will be all."
The voice was low, controlled. It carried the kind of authority that came from never having to repeat yourself. Ella stepped inside, and the door clicked shut behind her.
The office was massive. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined two walls, filled with leather-bound volumes that looked like they'd never been opened. A fireplace crackled in the corner, casting dancing shadows across Persian rugs that probably cost more than her law school tuition.
And behind the mahogany desk that dominated the center of the room sat Kaelan Wolfram.
Ella had researched him, of course. You didn't agree to meet a complete stranger in his clifftop mansion without doing your homework. But the photos online hadn't captured the presence he commanded. He was younger than she'd expected—maybe mid-thirties—with dark hair and eyes the color of storm clouds. He wore a charcoal suit that had been tailored to within an inch of its life, but somehow he made it look effortless.
"Please, sit." He gestured to the chair across from his desk. "I imagine you're wondering why I asked you here."
Ella remained standing. It was a trick she'd learned in law school—never give up the psychological advantage of height if you could help it. "Your assistant said you had a business proposition. Something that required immediate legal representation."
His mouth twitched. Almost a smile. "Direct. I appreciate that in a lawyer."
"Time is money, Mr. Wolfram. Both of which I'm short on at the moment."
That wasn't supposed to slip out. Ella cursed herself silently. The first rule of negotiation was never reveal your desperation. But three weeks of hospital visits and sleepless nights had worn her defenses thin.
If Wolfram noticed her slip, he didn't show it. Instead, he opened a folder on his desk and pulled out a thick document. "I need a personal legal advisor. Someone brilliant, discreet, and..." He paused, studying her face. "Someone who understands that certain situations require unconventional solutions."
"Unconventional how?"
"The kind where asking too many questions can be hazardous to one's health."
A chill ran down Ella's spine that had nothing to do with her rain-soaked clothes. "Mr. Wolfram, if you're asking me to do anything illegal—"
"Nothing illegal. Morally ambiguous, perhaps. But you'll find the law is often more flexible than people believe." He slid the document across the desk. "Three years. Exclusive representation. Complete discretion guaranteed."
Ella picked up the contract. The first number she saw made her knees weak.
Two hundred thousand dollars. Per year.
She tried to keep her expression neutral, but her hands were shaking. Six hundred thousand total. Enough to pay for her father's treatment and have money left over. Enough to stop the calls from debt collectors and the sleepless nights spent calculating interest rates.
"This is..." She cleared her throat. "This is quite generous."
"I believe in paying for the best."
Ella forced herself to focus on the fine print. It was what made her a good lawyer—the ability to see past the big numbers to the devil hiding in the details. And there were a lot of details.
"Exclusive representation means I couldn't take any other clients?"
"None."
"And this clause here—" She pointed to a paragraph buried on page three. "Complete availability. That's rather vague."
"When I call, you answer. Day or night. Whatever the situation requires."
"And if I refuse?"
For the first time since she'd entered the room, Wolfram smiled. It was a predator's smile, all sharp edges and hidden teeth. "Let's just say that would be... inadvisable."
Warning bells were going off in Ella's head. Everything about this screamed danger. The isolated location, the vague contract terms, the implied threats. A smart lawyer would walk away.
But a smart lawyer wouldn't have let her father's medical bills spiral this far out of control.
"There's one more thing," Wolfram said. He opened his desk drawer and pulled out an ornate fountain pen. The metal looked ancient, etched with symbols Ella didn't recognize. "This contract requires a blood signature."
"Excuse me?"
"A tradition of mine. It ensures absolute commitment from both parties."
Ella stared at the pen. "You're joking."
"I never joke about business, Ms. Winters."
This was insane. Blood signatures belonged in horror movies and medieval documents, not modern legal contracts. She should leave. Walk out right now and find another way to save her father.
Except there was no other way. She'd exhausted every option, called in every favor. This was her last shot.
"It's just a symbolic gesture," Wolfram continued, his voice silk-smooth. "A drop of blood, nothing more. Surely a small price for your father's life?"
The words hit like a physical blow. "How do you—"
"I make it my business to know about potential employees. David Winters, age fifty-eight, admitted to UCSF Medical Center three weeks ago with stage four pancreatic cancer. Experimental treatment available, but insurance won't cover it. Prognosis without treatment..." He shrugged. "I believe you know the answer to that."
Ella's hands clenched into fists. "You bastard."
"I'm a businessman, Ms. Winters. I identify needs and fulfill them. You need money. I need legal representation. It's a mutually beneficial arrangement."
"And if I say no?"
"Then you're free to leave. But we both know you won't." He leaned back in his chair, completely relaxed. "Because you're not the type of person who gives up when someone she loves is dying."
The rain continued its assault on the windows. Somewhere in the distance, thunder rumbled like an angry god. Ella thought about her father, pale and fragile in his hospital bed, asking her not to worry about the money. She thought about the house she'd have to sell, the debt that would follow her for decades.
She thought about having options.
"One drop of blood?" she asked.
"One drop."
Wolfram held out the pen. The metal was warm against her palm, almost alive. Ella pressed the tip to her index finger and winced as it pierced the skin. A single drop of blood welled up, dark red in the firelight.
She signed her name at the bottom of the contract, the blood mixing with the ink to create something that looked almost black.
The moment her signature was complete, the storm outside seemed to pause. The rain stopped hammering the windows. The thunder fell silent.
And from somewhere in the darkness beyond the glass came a sound that made every instinct in Ella's body scream danger.
A howl. Long, mournful, and definitely not human.
She jerked her head up to find Wolfram watching her with those storm-gray eyes, his expression unreadable.
"Welcome to my world, Ms. Winters," he said, and his smile revealed teeth that seemed just a little too sharp. "I have a feeling you're going to find it... illuminating."