The entrance to the Delacort estate didn't just welcome you; it demanded your submission.
As the massive front doors swung open, I was met with a blast of cool, pressurized air that smelled of beeswax and expensive lilies. My breath caught in my throat. I had spent twenty years in a house where the floorboards groaned under every step and the wallpaper was peeling like sunburned skin. This was another world entirely.
The foyer was a cathedral of white marble, polished to such a high gloss that I could see my own distorted, terrified reflection beneath my feet. Above us, a chandelier the size of a small car hung from a domed ceiling, thousands of crystal prisms catching the afternoon light and scattering it like diamonds across the walls.
Then, there were the stairs.
A twin staircase of dark, carved wood swept upward in a grand, symmetrical curve, meeting at a landing that looked down over the hall like a judge's bench. It was a display of pure, unadulterated opulence. Power made physical.
I stood there, clutching the strap of my frayed bag, a sudden, sharp ache blooming in my chest. My mother had lived here. She had walked these floors in silk heels while I was scrubbing mud off my boots in the countryside. She had slept under these high, gilded ceilings while I shivered under three moth-eaten blankets in a room that smelled of damp earth.
I wasn't envious—envy required a desire to possess what someone else had, and I didn't want this cold, sterile museum. I was just... hollowed out by the contrast. We were the same blood, but our lives had been lived on different planets.
"Stop staring, Sophie," Zeus's voice cut through my thoughts, low and resonant. "It's only stone and glass."
"I... I've never seen anything like it," I whispered, my voice sounding tiny and frail against the vastness of the hall. I looked at the towering staircase, my heart sinking. "Do I have to climb all of those?"
Zeus didn't answer. He simply placed a hand on the small of my back—a light touch, barely there, yet it felt like a brand. He guided me past the grand stairs toward a discrete alcove paneled in dark walnut. He pressed a button, and a set of brushed-gold doors slid open silently.
An elevator. Even the stairs were just for show, a performance of wealth for guests who would never be invited to the private floors.
"The stairs are for those who wish to be seen," Zeus murmured as we stepped into the small, mirrored cabin. "We are going where the world cannot follow."
The doors closed, and for a moment, I was trapped in a box of mirrors with him. The scent of his cedarwood cologne was overwhelming in the confined space. I kept my eyes on my shoes, feeling the slight pull of gravity as we ascended.
The elevator slowed and opened into a wide, carpeted hallway. Waiting there was a woman in a crisp, charcoal-grey uniform. She looked to be in her fifties, her grey hair pulled back into a bun so tight it seemed to stretch the skin of her temples. Her hands were folded perfectly in front of her, but as her eyes flicked to Zeus, I saw a microscopic tremor in her fingers.
"Welcome home, Mr. Delacort," she said, her voice practiced and neutral.
"This is Sophie," Zeus said, stepping out and leaving me to follow like a stray shadow. "She will be staying in the West Suite. Ensure it is prepared according to the specifications I provided last week."
The maid's eyes shifted to me. There was no warmth in her gaze—only a flicker of something that looked like pity, gone as quickly as it appeared.
"Of course, sir. Everything is ready."
Zeus turned to me then. The hallway was brightly lit, but he seemed to carry his own shadows with him.
"This is Martha. She manages the staff. If you need anything, you ask her. If you wish to go anywhere, you ask me."
He stepped closer, his presence looming over me once more, effectively erasing the sprawling mansion around us until he was the only thing I could see.
"Go with her, Sophie. Bathe. Change. I'll expect you in the dining room at eight o'clock sharp. Do not be late. First impressions are the only ones that matter on Olympus."
The heavy elevator doors hissed shut, leaving me alone with the woman named Martha. The silence of the hallway was different from the car; it was thick, padded by carpets so deep my feet felt like they were sinking into moss.
"This way, Miss Sophie," Martha said. Her voice was thin, like parchment paper.
She led me to a set of double doors at the end of the West Wing. When she pushed them open, I stopped dead. It wasn't a room; it was a sanctuary of white marble and frosted glass. In the center of the adjoining bath, a tub the size of a small boat sat carved from a single block of stone. Steam already curled off the surface of the water, smelling of expensive, clinical salts.
"Mr. Delacort is very particular about hygiene," Martha said, her face a mask of professional neutrality. "He has requested that I assist you. The city air is... unsuitable for his house."
My face heated. "Assist me? I can wash myself, thank you."
Martha didn't flinch. She simply walked to the edge of the tub and began testing the temperature with a silver thermometer. "I have my orders, Miss. In this house, we do not deviate from the schedule. It would be better for both of us if you simply complied."
The way she said both of us sent a chill through me. She wasn't just being a maid; she was a warden. I felt a wave of helplessness wash over me. My privacy, the last thing I had brought from the countryside, was being stripped away before I'd even unpacked a bag.
I undressed with shaking hands, feeling her clinical gaze on my back, cataloging the prominent bones of my spine, the paleness of my skin. When I stepped into the water, it was almost painfully hot, as if Zeus wanted to boil the past right off my skin.
Martha moved with practiced efficiency, scrubbing my hair with a scentless, heavy lather. She didn't speak. She just worked, her touch firm and devoid of any maternal warmth. By the time she handed me a towel—thick, white, and smelling of ozone—I felt raw. New. And utterly exposed.
"Now," Martha said, gesturing toward the bedroom. "The wardrobe."
I followed her, clutching the towel to my chest. The bedroom was a sea of cream silks and gold leaf, but my eyes went straight to the massive, walk-in closet. The doors were already open.
I gasped.
My few possessions—my drab navy skirts, my knitted sweaters, my worn-out flats—were gone. In their place stood rows of dresses that looked like they belonged in a period drama. There was no denim. No cotton. Only lace, silk, and velvet.
The colors were muted: bone-white, dusty rose, dove-grey. Many had high, Victorian collars edged in delicate lace; others had layers of tulle that would flare out like a bell. They were beautiful, breathtakingly so, but as I touched a sleeve of white silk, I realized the horror of it.
"These... these are for me?" I whispered.
"Mr. Delacort curated this collection himself," Martha replied, pulling a dress from a hanger. It was a pale, cream lace with a high neck and a row of tiny pearl buttons running down the back. "He believes a woman's attire should reflect her station. And your station, Miss Sophie, is his ward."
I looked at the dress. It was the clothes of a girl, a doll, a creature to be looked at but never touched by the grime of the real world.
"I'm twenty," I said, my voice trembling. "I don't wear lace collars and Mary Janes."
"You do now," Martha said, holding the dress out. "Eight o'clock, Miss. He is already waiting in the dining room. And Mr. Delacort does not like to be kept waiting by anything he has already paid for."
I looked at the reflection of the girl in the mirror—damp hair, wide eyes, trapped in a room of gold—and realized the 'Steps' had truly begun.
Martha paused with her hand on the heavy brass handle of the bedroom door. She didn't turn around immediately, and for a second, the only sound was the rhythmic ticking of a grandfather clock somewhere deep in the hallway.
"Martha?" I prompted, my voice small as I clutched the cream lace of the dress against my chest. "What is he like? My mother... she never really talked about him. Just that he was 'powerful.' But who is he, really?"
Martha turned slowly. The overhead light caught the deep lines around her mouth, making her expression look like it had been carved into grey stone. She didn't look at me; she looked past me, toward the high, arched window where the sun was beginning to dip behind the jagged peaks of the mountains.
"Mr. Delacort is not a man who can be 'known,' Miss Sophie," she said, her voice dropping to a dry whisper. "He is a man who is obeyed. There is a difference."
"That's not an answer," I whispered, a cold spike of anxiety hitting my stomach.
"It is the only answer that will keep you safe," Martha replied. She took a step back toward the door, her eyes finally snapping to mine. They were flat, devoid of the pity I thought I'd seen earlier. "Some men build houses to live in. Mr. Delacort builds worlds to rule. He has a memory like an iron trap—he remembers every word spoken in his presence, every look given, every debt owed."
She paused, her fingers tightening on the door handle.
"He doesn't like things that are broken, Miss. But he likes things that are pliant. If you are smart, you will be like the willow. You will bend whenever the wind blows from his direction. Because in this house, the wind only ever blows one way."
"And if I don't bend?" I asked, my chin trembling.
Martha offered a ghost of a smile—one that didn't reach her eyes and felt more like a warning than a comfort.
"The mountain doesn't break, child. It just waits for the storm to dash itself against the rocks until there's nothing left but spray."
The door clicked shut, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the silent, opulent room. I was alone with the lace, the silk, and the terrifying realization that I hadn't just moved into a mansion.
I had entered an ecosystem where Zeus Delacort was the sun, the gravity, and the predator at the top of the food chain.