By the third morning in the mansion, the quietness felt deliberate.
Victor left early, as usual. A crisp kiss to Elena's cheek. A brief glance in my direction that lingered a second too long, sharp enough to feel like a touch. Then he was gone, swallowed by meetings and phone calls and a world that didn't include me.
It wasn't what I'd expected.
I told myself I was relieved.
By noon, my mother called.
"Alyssa," she said gently, like my name was something fragile. "You can't keep delaying this. You promised you'd start therapy."
My head throbbed as I stared out the window at the manicured garden below. Everything here was too neat. Too controlled.
"I know," I muttered. "I will."
"When?" she pressed.
I sighed. "Today."
She didn't sound convinced, but she let it go. After we hung up, I lay back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling.
Therapy.
The word felt heavy. Necessary. Terrifying.
Then—uninvited, inevitable—Aaron crossed my mind
Aaron.
The name sat heavy in my chest as I rushed back into the guest room, shutting the door softly behind me like I was afraid the house itself might overhear. My heart was already racing. Too fast. Too loud.
He had left his number.
I remembered it suddenly, vividly—how he'd pressed the small white card into my palm before leaving the hospital, his fingers warm, steady, grounding. Call me when you're ready, he'd said, like he knew exactly how long it would take me to gather the courage.
I dropped onto the edge of the bed and dug into the jeans I'd worn from the hospital, my fingers clumsy with urgency. The card was there, folded once, creased from being handled too many times already. Relief washed through me, sharp and almost dizzying.
I didn't give myself time to overthink.
I dialed.
The line rang once. Twice.
"Hello?"
The sound of his voice made something in my chest loosen instantly.
"It's… it's me," I said, breathless without meaning to be.
There was a pause. Short. Charged.
"Alyssa," he said, and the smile was unmistakable in his voice. "I was hoping you'd call."
My throat tightened. "How did you—"
"I recognize your voice," he replied easily, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like it mattered.
That did something dangerous to me.
I told him where I was now. About the mansion. About the therapy. About how everything felt too big again, too fast, and how I was trying—really trying—not to spiral.
"I have an appointment today," Aaron said after listening quietly, "but I can come by tomorrow. We'll take things slow. On your terms."
Tomorrow.
A strange mix of relief and anticipation twisted low in my stomach.
"Thank you," I whispered.
"I'll see you tomorrow," he replied gently, and when the call ended, I stared at my phone for a long moment before finally setting it down.
That evening, I joined Elena and Victor for dinner.
The dining room was all soft light and polished surfaces, the kind of calm that felt curated. Elena chatted easily, talking about the company, about schedules, about plans that sounded distant and unimportant. Victor listened, occasionally adding something precise and measured, his attention split between her and whatever calculations lived constantly behind his eyes.
I picked at my food, my mind still lingering on Aaron's voice.
"I called my therapist today," I said suddenly, the words spilling out before I could stop them. "Aaron. He'll be coming over to help with my therapy."
The effect was immediate.
Victor's fist clenched against the table.
Not hard enough to draw attention—just enough for me to notice. His smile dropped. Completely. The warmth drained from his expression, replaced by something unreadable, sharp.
I frowned. Confused.
What does this man want?
The thought came unfiltered, edged with irritation. I was too tired to hide. I didn't even care enough to smooth my expression.
Victor inhaled slowly. When he spoke again, his voice was composed, formal. Cold.
"That's a good idea," Elena said before he could. She smiled at me warmly. "Of course he's welcome. The doors are open to him."
Victor choked slightly on his food.
He recovered quickly, lifting his glass, but the tension didn't fade. He set it down and turned his attention to me fully, his gaze suddenly assessing.
"You were applying to work at the company," he said, tone clipped. "Alongside Elena and me."
It wasn't a question.
I nodded, unsure why my chest felt tight. "Yes."
"I'll look into it," he said, already standing. "Excuse me."
He left the table without another glance.
Elena laughed softly. "Wow," she said, amused. "Isn't my husband just so sweet?"
My husband.
The words hit low and hard, twisting something unpleasant in my stomach. Jealousy flared before I could stop it—hot, sharp, irrational.
I forced a smile.
Elena dabbed her mouth with a napkin and rose as well, her tone gentle as she turned back to me. "How long will your therapy sessions last?"
"I'm not quite sure," I replied honestly. "Once my therapist gets here, we'll set the time according to his convenience."
She nodded thoughtfully. "That sounds reasonable."
As she walked away, the room felt too quiet.
Too heavy.
I sat there alone for a moment, my appetite gone, my thoughts spiraling in too many directions at once. Aaron was coming. Victor was unsettled. Elena remained blissfully unaware.
And somewhere deep inside me, beneath the guilt and confusion and fear—
Something was already bracing for impact.
The next day came faster than I expected.
Morning light filtered through the curtains in pale, uneven lines, brushing across the walls like something hesitant. The mansion felt unusually alive at dawn—soft voices downstairs, the clink of cutlery, Elena reminding Lily about school with the same gentle firmness she always used.
Then the front door closed.
A car engine started.
And the house fell quiet.
Elena had already dropped Lily off at school and headed to the office.
Victor didn't leave early today.
I knew because I heard him clearly during breakfast, standing beside Elena with his untouched coffee, saying he had some documents to organize regarding their partnership with the Buffers Company. He said he would come right after her. Calm. Unhurried. Certain.
By midmorning, the mansion felt hollow.
Too big. Too still.
It was just me, whoever remained of the house staff, and the echo of my own thoughts bouncing off marble walls. I retreated to the guest room, the door closing softly behind me, as if the house itself was trying not to disturb something.
I lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling, not expecting anything from the day. Not visitors. Not conversations.
Certainly not him.
He had ignored me since I returned from the hospital. No questions. No concern. No unnecessary presence. The absence felt deliberate, like a punishment I didn't understand.
I was halfway between waking and sleeping when it happened.
The door moved.
No knock.
No warning.
Just the sudden, violent sound of it being pushed open.
My body reacted before my mind did. I gasped and jerked upright, heart slamming so hard it stole my breath. Footsteps crossed the room fast—too fast for me to scream.
The room filled with the scent of cologne—familiar, unmistakable—just before a hand came down over my mouth.
Warm.
Firm.
Silencing.
My breath caught in my throat, panic flooding me in a sharp, blinding wave. I struggled, fingers clawing at the sheets, every sense screaming at once. The room spun, fear roaring in my ears.
Then a voice whispered close to my ear.
Low.
Controlled.
Familiar enough to be terrifying.
"Shhh," it said softly.
"It's me."