The rain hadn't stopped in three days.
It was the kind of rain that swallowed sound, turned roads to rivers, and made everything feel just a little heavier — including Calla Rowan's heartbeat as she stared up at the mansion gates. The Vayne Estate looked less like a home and more like a fortress wrapped in fog. Ivy-covered stone walls stretched out in both directions, tall iron gates rising from the ground like teeth.
Calla clutched her folder against her chest — résumé, ID, and the strange job offer she'd received by email three nights ago.
Live-in assistant. 500k monthly. Private estate. Non-disclosure mandatory. Interview: Friday, 2PM. Vayne Industries.
She needed the money. Badly. Her rent was overdue, her mother's hospital bill was hanging like a guillotine over her head, and her university dreams had shriveled with her last rejection letter.
She pressed the intercom button. Her fingers trembled.
A crackle. Then a voice — low, smooth, unreadable. Male.
"Name?"
"Calla Rowan."
A pause.
The gates hissed open without another word.
Her cab driver glanced nervously at the trees as she stepped out. "You sure about this, miss?"
"No," she whispered. "But I'm doing it anyway."
The estate was enormous — a sprawling gothic manor, dark wood and stone, with towering windows and claw-like spires reaching toward the sky. She walked up the gravel path, the sound of her boots swallowed by the rain. A maid opened the door before she could knock.
"You're late," the woman said, eyes scanning her from head to toe. "Follow me."
The warmth of the inside hit her like a punch — scented wood, soft lighting, polished floors. It didn't feel like a house. It felt like a temple. Sacred. Controlled.
Calla was led down a hall of portraits — grim-faced men, women in black veils, and one unsettling painting of a silver-eyed wolf with blood on its fangs.
At the end of the hallway was a set of double doors. The maid knocked once, opened them, and gestured her inside.
She stepped in.
And saw him.
Elias Vayne.
He didn't look like a billionaire.
No tailored suit. No warm smile. Just a dark sweater stretched across broad shoulders, black pants, and a stormy presence that made the room feel ten degrees colder.
He didn't rise from his chair. Didn't offer his hand.
Just stared.
"You're early," he said.
She frowned. "Your maid said I was late."
His lips twitched — not quite a smile.
"Test one: You don't fold under contradiction." He motioned to the chair across from him. "Sit."
She sat, spine straight. "I didn't come here to play games."
"Good." His voice was low, commanding. "Then let's not."
For a moment, silence. Then he picked up her résumé.
"No prior personal assistant experience. No references. And yet you applied to work for one of the most private CEOs in the country."
"I'm a fast learner," she said. "And I follow rules."
"Rules," he repeated, tapping the folder. "You have a tendency to question them, Ms. Rowan. Three expulsions, two fights, and a suspended scholarship."
Her jaw tightened. "I fight for people I care about."
His eyes met hers, and something shifted. Interest? Amusement?
Or hunger?
"Tell me why you want this job."
"Because I need the money."
"Honest," he said softly. "Rare."
He stood.
Calla stood too — instinct, not decision.
Elias Vayne was taller than she thought. Easily over six foot, built like someone who trained for war, not board meetings. He stepped closer. Not enough to be inappropriate — just enough for her to feel his presence against her skin.
"You'll live here. Work odd hours. You'll be given full access to the house — except the west wing. That area is forbidden. Understood?"
"Yes."
He leaned in just slightly. "If you break that rule, I'll know."
The way he said it — not a threat. A fact.
Her breath caught, but she didn't flinch. "Understood."
He looked at her for one long moment, then nodded.
"You're hired. Ivy will show you to your room."
The doors opened, and a woman stepped in.
Calla felt her stomach drop.
Tall. Elegant. Eyes like knives. Lips painted deep red. She wore a black silk blouse tucked into slacks like she was walking a runway instead of a hallway.
"Ivy Blackwood," the woman said coolly. "I'm Mr. Vayne's Beta."
"Assistant?" Calla guessed.
Ivy smirked. "Something like that."
She led Calla through winding halls, speaking in clipped tones. "You'll wake at six. Breakfast is private. Do not knock on Mr. Vayne's door unless summoned. Do not enter the forest. And do not, under any circumstances, question what you see at night."
Calla slowed her steps. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me," Ivy said, her heels clicking. "This house has… rules. Girls who last here are the ones who don't ask questions."
"What happened to the ones who did?"
Ivy paused. Looked at her.
Then smiled.
"They left. Some more intact than others."
Calla's room was on the third floor. Large. Soft bed. Big windows that looked out into a forest so dense it looked like another world. Fog licked the ground like a living thing.
She was alone.
But it didn't feel like it.
That night, Calla lay awake in bed, staring at the ceiling. Rain tapped the windows like fingers.
Then she heard it.
A howl.
Long. Low. Piercing.
Not from the estate.
From the forest.
She sat up.
Another howl answered.
And another.
They were close.
Too close.
She rushed to the window and looked out.
Movement. A shape — large, fast, shadowy — running through the trees.
Then it stopped.
Turned.
Two glowing silver eyes locked with hers from the edge of the woods.
A blink.
Gone.
Calla backed away from the glass, heart hammering.
She didn't believe in monsters.
But something out there just looked straight into her soul.
And it had a predator's patience.