Chapter 3

ELENA

My entire life fit into two bags.

Two.
Not even large ones — just a worn duffel that smelled faintly of detergent and an old hardshell suitcase with a dent in the corner from the time it fell down three flights of stairs during a move I didn’t want to remember.

I stared at the open suitcase on my mattress — if one could even call that lumpy rectangle a mattress — and tried not to feel the familiar squeeze in my chest. Most people I knew accumulated things: trophies, keepsakes, expensive shoes, sentimental birthday gifts.

I had… essentials.
Clothes. A pair of sensible flats. A book I bought from a used store for two dollars. My grandmother’s embroidered cleaning cloth. A mug with a chipped rim.

And dreams that didn’t fit anywhere.

The apartment buzzed with the constant hum of bad wiring and the refrigerator that sounded like it was trying to escape the building. The air smelled faintly of dust, and the curtains trembled every time a truck passed by outside.

I paced once, twice, then sat heavily on the edge of my mattress. The Springs groaned.

Tomorrow I would be waking up in a room that didn’t slant to the left. In a bed that didn’t creak when I breathed. In a place where marble floors stretched farther than my entire street.

The Voss Estate.

A shiver worked through me — part awe, part dread.

And part something else, something I really didn’t want to name.

The image rose unbidden: Alexander Voss behind his massive desk, sleeves rolled neatly at his wrists, the way the light caught the sharp planes of his face. The quiet force of his presence. The intensity of eyes that didn’t just look at me — they assessed, dissected, understood more than I ever said aloud.

Handsome wasn’t the right word.
Handsome was too soft.

He was… striking. Severe. Sculpted by power and certainty and rules carved into stone.

And I hated that I noticed.

I zipped the suitcase shut with a firm tug, as if I could close that thought inside it. I pulled on my coat — thin, not enough for the morning chill but all I had — and took one last look around the dim, cramped space.

The stain on the ceiling.
The chipped tiles.
The pile of instant ramen packets in the corner.
The life I’d scraped together one long shift at a time.

I whispered to myself, “Don’t look back.”

And I didn’t.

The cab ride to Silverwood Hills felt like traveling between worlds. My old neighborhood faded into smaller buildings and cracked sidewalks, replaced by manicured streets and iron gates that belonged in movies.

When the cab stopped in front of the estate, my breath caught. Even having seen it the day before, I wasn’t prepared. The morning sun cast a golden glow over the stone façade, making it look even larger, even more unreal.

I paid the driver — there went half of what I had left — and stepped out, gripping my bags tightly.

The gates opened automatically, and the driveway seemed even longer today, stretching like a path into another life.

By the time I reached the front steps, Thorne was already there, perfectly punctual, perfectly straight-backed.

“Ms. Stevens,” he said, giving a sharp nod. “You’re on time. Good.”

I swallowed. “Thank you.”

“I’ll have someone bring your belongings to the staff wing. You are to report to your room, review the introductory manual on your desk, and await further instruction.”

I nodded, still catching my breath from hauling my suitcase up the final steps.

But Thorne wasn’t done.

“And Mr. Voss has requested to see you shortly.”

My stomach dropped. “Me?”

Thorne blinked once. “Unless you know another Ms. Elena Stevens.”

Heat rushed to my cheeks. “No—yes—sorry. I just… wasn’t expecting that.”

“Mr. Voss would like to finalize your compensation package, outline expectations, and confirm your understanding of house protocol.”
A pause.
“And to… assess your readiness.”

Assess.
Of course. With him, every interaction was a test.

Thorne’s gaze sharpened slightly. “I would advise you to be calm.”

My laugh—I regretted it instantly—came out awkward and small. “Calm. Right. Easy.”

His mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “You’ll adjust.”

I wasn’t convinced.

My new room felt like a palace compared to my apartment — bright, clean, quiet. I set my bags down softly, almost reverently. The wardrobe had more space than I needed. The bed was neatly made, the sheets crisp and white.

My whole life suddenly felt too small to fill this room.

I sat on the edge of the mattress, letting the quiet settle around me. My fingers brushed the smooth blanket, the polished desk. Everything here spoke of care. Of standards. Of someone who expected perfection as naturally as breathing.

Someone like him.

I closed my eyes, inhaling slowly.

The study.
His voice.
His hands—steady, graceful, precise.
His face—cold, beautiful, dangerous.

I opened my eyes quickly, pushing the thought away.

Thorne said he wanted to “assess my readiness.”

Whatever that meant, I needed to look composed.

I needed to remember this job was survival. Not… whatever my brain was trying to make of it.

A soft knock startled me.

Thorne’s voice came through the door.
“Ms. Stevens. Mr. Voss will see you now.”

My heart thudded once, hard.

It was starting again.

My stomach dropped straight through the soles of my shoes.

Julian Thorne stood in the doorway—immaculate, composed, his hands clasped behind his back like he’d stepped out of a portrait rather than real life. His expression, as always, revealed nothing.

“Now?” I asked, hating the way my voice wavered.

“Yes,” he replied. “Mr. Voss prefers to handle employment matters promptly.”

Of course he did.

I smoothed my palms over my skirt, even though they were still slightly damp from nerves. Thorne’s eyes flicked down just enough to notice, but—as always—he said nothing.

“Please follow me,” he said.

The walk down the hallway felt like a procession to my own execution. The estate was silent at this hour, too silent. Every footstep echoed back at me, reminding me just how small I was inside this massive, immaculate world.

We reached the same corridor as yesterday—the one leading to his study—and my heart automatically picked up speed. The air here felt heavier, colder, like the walls themselves were bracing for his presence.

Thorne stopped in front of the large double doors and turned to face me.

And then—shockingly—his voice softened by a fraction.

“There is nothing to fear,” he said. “Just answer honestly.”

My brows lifted. “I’m not afraid.”

He raised one perfectly unimpressed brow.

“…Much,” I muttered.

A ghost of amusement flickered in his eyes—brief, almost human—before he knocked once on the door.

“Enter,” came the deep, steady voice from inside.

Alexander Voss.

The sound of it alone slid across my skin like cold water.

Thorne opened the door and stepped aside with a respectful bow of his head.

“Ms. Elena Stevens,” he announced.

I stepped inside before I could think better of it.

The study looked different today—larger somehow, darker, as if it sensed my uncertainty. Tall shelves climbed the walls, stuffed with books that probably cost more than my old apartment. The massive desk dominated the center, polished to a mirror sheen.

And behind it—

Alexander Voss.

He glanced up slowly, deliberately, the way someone might acknowledge a sound they’d already predicted. His gaze flicked over me once, calm and sharp and clinical.

“Ms. Stevens,” he said. “Sit.”

Not a greeting. Not a smile. Just an instruction.

My legs carried me to the chair before my brain caught up.

He rested his forearms on the desk, fingers steepled lightly, posture perfect and still. Even sitting, he radiated a power that felt… heavy. Like gravity bent around him differently.

His eyes—dark, unreadable—took me in again.

“You’ve settled into your quarters?” he asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“And?”

“It’s…” I swallowed. “Beautiful. Much more than I expected.”

A flicker of something sharp crossed his expression. “This position requires excellence. Comfortable staff perform better.”

I wasn’t sure if that was meant to reassure me, but it worked—just a little.

He continued before I could respond.

“I asked to see you regarding your compensation and expectations. Thorne will provide formal documentation later, but I prefer to deliver key points myself.”

He shifted a single sheet of paper toward me, though he didn’t slide it all the way. I had to lean forward to take it—another subtle test.

I tried to hide the tremble in my fingers.

His voice was controlled, precise.

“You will receive a weekly salary, live-in accommodation, meals, and access to staff amenities. In return, I expect absolute discretion, punctuality, and consistency.”

I nodded quickly. “Of course.”

He watched me too closely. “You understand that working here is not simply cleaning rooms?”

“Yes, sir.”

“This estate is a machine. Complex. Sensitive. One mistake causes friction.” His gaze locked onto mine. “I do not tolerate friction.”

My breath caught, but I held his stare.

“I’ll do everything I can to meet your standards,” I said.

His eyes narrowed, not in disapproval—more like calculation.

“You said something yesterday,” he said. “About a home being a sanctuary. About ‘effortless comfort.’”

Heat rushed to my cheeks. “Yes.”

“Do you believe that still? After stepping foot inside this house?”

I swallowed. “Yes, sir. Even more so.”

He leaned back slowly, as though weighing the truth in my answer.

Interesting—that same word flashed in his eyes again.

Then—

“Stand.”

I blinked. “Sir?”

His tone didn’t change. “Stand.”

I obeyed immediately.

He looked me over—not with desire, not with warmth—but with the same cold, assessing precision that he used for every part of his estate.

“You look nervous,” he said simply.

“I—only a little.”

“Fear is acceptable,” he replied. “Uncertainty is not.”

I tried to breathe evenly. “I understand.”

“You will learn quickly,” he said. “Or not at all.”

He stood too—slowly, unfolding to his full height—and suddenly the space between us felt dangerously small. He wasn’t touching me, not even close, but the air thickened with something sharp and electric.

His voice dropped half an octave.

“I expect your full dedication, Ms. Stevens.”

“You’ll have it.”

Another long, heavy pause.

Then he turned away, dismissing the moment entirely.

“Thorne,” he called.

The door opened instantly, like Julian had been waiting the entire time.

“Yes, sir,” he said.

“Show Ms. Stevens the orientation schedule.”

“Yes, sir.”

Alexander didn’t look at me again.

But I felt the weight of his attention anyway, like a hand pressed between my shoulder blades.

“Dismissed,” he said.

And that was that.

I followed Julian out on shaky legs, my mind spinning, my heart racing—

Because for the first time, I realized something terrifying:

Alexander Voss didn’t just intimidate me.

He fascinated me.