The black envelope felt heavy, like it was made of lead instead of paper. I know your secret. Ava stared at the jagged, uneven handwriting until the words blurred. Did someone already know about the contract? Was it one of her father's creditors, or someone much more dangerous? She backed away from the door, her spine hitting the wood, and fumbled with the deadbolt. The lock was mangled, a jagged reminder that her privacy was gone.
Her phone buzzed on the laminate counter, the vibration sounding like a gunshot in the quiet room. Driver is downstairs. Five minutes.
"Five minutes," she whispered, looking around at the place she'd called home. "That's all I get."
She didn't have much to take. She shoved a few faded sweaters and her best-fitting jeans into a suitcase that had seen better decades. At the last second, she grabbed a framed photo of her mom and a battered copy of Jane Eyre. She couldn't help but feel the irony—the poor girl headed to a cold mansion to live with a man who had replaced his heart with a ledger.
When she stepped out of the building, a sleek black car was idling at the curb, its engine a low, expensive hum. A man in a dark suit took her bag without saying a word. As they pulled away, Ava looked back at her apartment. She expected to feel a pang of sadness, but there was only a strange, hollow sense of relief.
The Blackwood penthouse wasn't a home; it was a museum for someone who hated clutter. Everything was chrome, glass, and expensive white marble. It felt like living inside a diamond—beautiful, but freezing.
"Mr. Blackwood is in the library," the driver said, gesturing toward a pair of massive doors. "He's waiting for you to join him for dinner."
Ava smoothed her damp hair, feeling painfully out of place in her five-dollar floral dress. She pushed the doors open and found Ethan at the end of a long, dark table. He didn't look up from his tablet, a glass of red wine catching the light next to him.
"You're late," he said, his voice flat.
"My front door was kicked in, Ethan."
His fork stopped mid-air. He looked up then, his sharp gaze cutting through her. "Explain."
Ava walked over and dropped the black envelope onto the table. "I found this on my kitchen table. Someone was in my house."
Ethan picked up the envelope with two fingers, studying the scrawl. His face remained a mask, but his jaw tightened just enough for her to notice. A flicker of something dark passed behind his eyes before he tossed it aside.
"It's a prank," he said, returning to his meal. "Disgruntled neighbors, or a debt collector trying to get a rise out of you. I'll have my team look into it."
"A prank? They said they know my secret."
"Everyone has secrets, Ava. They're fishing for a reaction." He didn't even look up as he spoke. "Sit. Eat. You look like you're about to faint."
Ava sat, but the smell of the expensive food made her stomach turn. "Is this how it's going to be? I tell you someone broke into my home and you just... dismiss it?"
Ethan set his fork down and leaned forward, his presence filling the room. "In this house, I handle the security. You handle the silence. If there's a threat, I'll deal with it. Until then, stay focused. We have a gala tomorrow night. The city needs to see a happy couple."
"Tomorrow?" Ava shook her head. "I don't have a dress. I don't even know how to talk to people like you."
"A stylist will be here at eight sharp," Ethan said, dabbing his mouth with a silk napkin. "And as for what to say... tell them the truth. Tell them I swept you off your feet."
"That's a lie."
"Exactly." Ethan stood up, his tall frame casting a shadow over her. He walked around the table, stopping just behind her chair. He leaned down, his breath warm against her ear. "You've spent months pretending your life wasn't falling apart, Ava. You're a better actress than you think. This is no different."
He walked toward the door, pausing for only a second. "Your room is the third on the left. Stay there. I have work to do."
Ava couldn't sleep. The bed was too soft, and the silence of the penthouse felt heavy. Around 2:00 a.m., she gave up and decided to find the kitchen for a glass of water.
The hallway was bathed in the blue glow of the city lights. As she passed a door that was slightly cracked open, she heard it—a low, pained groan.
She knew she should keep walking. She knew the rules. But the sound was so raw that she couldn't move. She nudged the door open an inch.
It was a study, lit only by the dying embers in the fireplace. Ethan was slumped in a leather chair, his shirt unbuttoned, his head buried in his hands. He looked human for the first time—and completely broken.
"Not again," he hissed, his fingers clawing at his scalp. "Get out of my head."
Ava watched, her breath catching, as he reached for a bottle of scotch. His hand was shaking—the same hand that had been so steady when he signed away her freedom.
She moved to step back, but her foot snagged on the thick rug.
Ethan's head snapped up. The vulnerability vanished, replaced by a flash of pure, terrifying rage. In two strides, he was across the room, pinning her against the hallway wall before she could even gasp.
"I told you," he growled, his face inches from hers. His eyes were bloodshot, his voice a low snarl. "Do. Not. Wander."
His grip on her shoulders was bruising, his body heat radiating off him in the cold hall. Up close, she saw a thin, jagged scar running from his collarbone toward his neck, a white line against his tan skin.
"I just wanted water," Ava whispered, her heart thumping against her ribs. "You sounded like you were in pain."
Ethan's gaze dropped to her mouth, then back to her eyes. The air between them shifted, growing thick and suffocating. For a second, she thought he might kiss her. For a second, she thought he might snap.
Then, he let go as if he'd been burned.
"Go to bed, Ava," he said, his voice turning back to ice. "Spy on me again, and this whole deal is over. Understand?"
Ava didn't wait for him to change his mind. She turned and ran, locking her bedroom door with a trembling hand.
The next morning, Ava wakes up to a large gift box sitting on the foot of her bed. Inside is a stunning, blood-red silk dress and a small card in that same jagged handwriting: Red suits you. It hides the blood.