Morning slid in thin threads through the pines. Rain clung to branches, dripping onto the asphalt below. Mara Quinn pressed her forehead to the cab window. The air smelled of wet earth, salt, and something faintly floral she couldn't place. Somewhere below, the ocean whispered against the cliff.
Her hands rested in her lap, fingers twisted together. She didn't know the man who lived at the top. She only knew Mrs. North had trusted her. That was enough to make her stomach coil with unease.
The villa appeared suddenly as they crested the hill. Light struck the glass walls and bounced in shards across stone and marble. The house seemed to float above the cliffs, impossibly white, alive with reflected sky.
The cab stopped at the gate. Mrs. North was already waiting, umbrella in hand. She leaned toward the car as Mara stepped out, rain speckling her gray hair.
"He is in the atrium," she said. Her voice carried respect, careful and measured.
Mara followed, boots crunching on gravel. The air inside smelled faintly of salt, cedar, and polished marble. Every step echoed. The house felt aware, listening.
Mara followed, boots crunching on gravel. The air inside smelled faintly of salt, cedar, and polished marble. Every step echoed. The house felt aware, listening. Sunlight poured through the glass walls, pooling in liquid patches on the marble floors. Shadows of palms stretched and bent with the light.
A corridor stretched before them. Black-and-white photographs lined the walls: parties, premieres, smiles frozen in sequins and champagne. One woman appeared in almost every photo. Adriana Vale. Her gaze seemed alive, almost too knowing. Mara paused, heart tightening. She remembered the audition, the hallway at the studio, a tall man whose eyes had barely glanced her way. Perhaps this was the same house, the same man.
Her stomach tightened. Men like him always carried that quiet certainty. The kind that filled rooms and left no space for anyone else. She'd seen it behind casting tables, in restaurant corners, in promises that sounded like opportunity but ended in smoke.
The corridor opened into the atrium. Glass walls rose from floor to ceiling, framing the ocean. Waves hissed against rocks below. Light moved across the marble like liquid fire. The faint smell of lavender and citrus carried over from somewhere. Tall plants rose from white pots, leaves glossy, bending toward the light. Furniture, pale and minimalist, waited as if for guests who never arrived.
A man stood at the edge of the atrium. Broad shoulders, straight posture, but something in the slump of his back whispered exhaustion. His hair caught the light, dusted with gray. Mara's chest tightened. It was him. He had the same quiet authority as the photographs, yet altered by years of grief. What was his name again?
Mrs. North cleared her throat. "This is Mara Quinn. She helped me last night. She will stay to assist with small things."
The man turned, slow and deliberate. Gray eyes scanned her, sharp, calculating, weighing every gesture, every hesitation.
"You can cook?" His voice was low, flat, unyielding.
"Yes," Mara said, chest tightening.
"Clean?"
"Yes."
"Fine."
There was no warmth. Only quiet authority. Mara felt herself resisting fascination, reminding herself of the men she'd known before. Powerful, polished, promising the world, then taking pieces of it in ways that left scars.
Mrs. North lingered. "He is a good man. Not used to new faces. But the house will be better for it."
Mara's eyes wandered over the atrium. A grand piano rested in a corner, its keys gleaming faintly. A crystal decanter sat on a table, dusty but intact. Somewhere, faintly, she imagined laughter, music, and applause. The echoes of a life once loud and bright. She wondered if he missed it all, if it haunted him, or if he walked among ghosts now.
The villa was breathtaking. And heavy. She could feel it in the quiet, in the smell of polish, in the way the sunlight fractured across the floor.
Later, Mara moved carefully through the atrium, dusting, arranging, trying not to disturb the rhythm of the house. He remained near the window, leather-bound book in hand, half in shadow. He was tall, composed, magnetic without trying. She forced herself not to look too long, not to linger in thoughts she had learned to fear. Fascination, intrigue, temptation.
"You've done this before," he said suddenly.
"Cleaning?" Mara asked, startled.
"Trying not to be seen."
She said nothing.
He glanced at her. For a fraction of a second, she thought she saw recognition. Or maybe amusement. Then he looked away. "Noise keeps people company. Silence tells the truth."
Mara lingered, watching his tall, retreating shadow until it disappeared around the corner. She felt the quiet authority he left behind. A chilly, absolute silence that seemed to press against her skin.
As she finally turned to leave, she paused. The music she'd heard earlier was no longer faint. It swelled slightly, the clear tones of a low cello ringing out from somewhere deep inside the structure. But woven into the sound, she distinctly heard a whisper. Not the woman's voice from her dream, but its echo. It carried the same chilling, otherworldly quality, yet was laced with a tone of cold, possessive authority that instantly made her think of Elias Vale.
It said: "He won't protect you from the deep, little actress. Run to him before the sea takes you."
Mara's breath hitched. A wave of primal fear crashed over her, but it wasn't just the ghost. It was the cold, familiar terror of being trapped by a powerful man who viewed her as a possession. Elias Vale, with his quiet, absolute authority, was just another producer with a new kind of currency.
Madness. That's what it was. Her own mind, cracked by financial stress. She was a practical actress from Chicago, not a character in some tragic Hollywood horror film.
The fear was terrifying, but the thought of running, of letting another man's power dictate her exit, was worse.
I'm not running.
She stared at the spot where Elias's shadow had vanished. She wasn't staying for the money alone; she was staying out of defiance. She would get her advance, and she would leave on her own terms.