Chapter 2 A Stranger's Mansion

The ride was very long, almost eerily silent, broken only by the occasional sound of tires gliding through puddles. Rain poured on the tinted windows, changing the city's chaos into a distant sound. Xochi sat stiffly, her hands folded on her lap, fingernails digging into her palms. She hadn't spoken a word since stepping into the car. Neither had the man beside her-the driver who introduced himself with a single phrase and hadn't looked at her since.

Mademoiselle Xochi. Your husband awaits.

Husband.

The word echoed in her skull like a harsh joke.

She pressed her forehead lightly to the window, watching the city blur past-tall buildings, flashing bright signs, people rushing beneath umbrellas. All of it slipping away. Her old life was being erased with each passing minute.

When the car finally slowed, her stomach twisted. They passed through iron gates guarded by men in black, their faces blank, expressions unreadable. Past the gates, the world shifted.

This wasn't the city anymore. This was a different universe.

The mansion stood ahead, tall and cold, all sharp angles and glass. It wasn't beautiful-it was intimidating. Elegant in the way a knife was elegant. A modern fortress in the hills, surrounded by trimmed hedges and towering trees.

As the car pulled to a stop, Xochi felt her heart hammering against her ribs. The driver exited first and opened her door with robotic precision.

She stepped out into the rain.

It hit her like needles, cold and clean, soaking her shoulders in seconds. She barely noticed. Her eyes were fixed on the massive double doors ahead-black wood, carved with silver vines. They looked heavy, final.

The driver led her up the stone steps without a word. She moved like a ghost behind him, every footstep muffled by the rain.

The door opened before they reached it.

A woman stood in the doorway. Tall, chubby, severe. Not a maid-her posture said otherwise. Her eyes flicked over Xochi, sharp and assessing.

"You're late," the woman said flatly.

Xochi blinked. "I-I didn't know I was expected at a specific time."

The woman didn't respond. She stepped aside.

"Come in. I'm Madame Rousseau. House manager."

Xochi entered cautiously, leaving wet footprints on the polished floor. The insides was just as cold as the outside-wide halls, tall ceilings, clean lines. Everything smelled lightly of lemon and neatness.

There were no family photos. No personal touches. Just art pieces she didn't recognize and furniture that looked too expensive.

"Follow me," Madame Rousseau said, turning sharply.

They passed room after room-study, lounge, music room. Everything sharp, smooth, empty.

"He's waiting in the atrium," the woman said over her shoulder.

Xochi's pulse moved sharply, quietly. He.

Chris Moreau.

The man she was now legally bound to.

They stopped in front of towering glass doors. Madame Rousseau pushed them open and gestured inside.

Xochi stepped forward.

The atrium was vast, with a skylight overhead and a sleek fountain in the center, its soft pours, the only sound. Tall indoor trees lined the walls, their leaves shaking quietly in the breeze from unseen vents.

And there he was.

Chris Moreau stood by the fountain, dressed in black pants and a gray shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows. He had the kind of presence that pulled at the air around him-cold, commanding, impossible to ignore.

He didn't turn when she entered. Just kept staring at the water like he was alone.

Madame Rousseau disappeared behind her, leaving them in the silence.

Xochi swallowed hard. "Mr. Moreau?"

He finally turned.

His eyes met hers-dark, unreadable, the color of burnt amber, dissecting every move with hawk like precision . Not cruel, distant. Empty in a way that made her chest ache.

"You're earlier than I expected," he said, voice quiet but firm.

She blinked. "I was told I was late."

He didn't reply. Instead, he studied her, like she was a business proposal he wasn't quite convinced about.

"You're smaller than... your photo," he murmured.

She flushed, straightening her posture. "I wasn't aware I was being measured."

Chris tilted his head slightly, as if that amused him, but his face remained neutral.

"This isn't a marriage," he said abruptly. "It's a contract. Let's not pretend otherwise."

The words stung, even if she had expected them. She nodded and smiled "I understand."

"Good. Then understand this too-your duties are simple. Stay out of trouble, keep to your side of the house, and don't embarrass me in public."

She opened her mouth, then closed it. There was nothing to say that wouldn't sound pathetic.

Chris stepped closer, but not too close. His gaze flicked over her again, more calculating this time.

"You'll be provided with everything you need. You'll have staff. Freedom... within boundaries. And a weekly allowance."

Xochi felt like a charity case. A stray he had adopted for tax benefits.

"I don't want your money," she whispered.

Chris arched an eyebrow. "You'll take it."

The silence between them tightened, stretched thin.

"I'm not your enemy," she said suddenly. "I didn't choose this either."

He looked at her, really looked this time. Something flickered in his eyes. Surprise? Disgust? She couldn't tell.

"No," he said. "But you signed. That means you're mine now."

Her breath caught.

He turned away, walking toward the doors. "Madame Rousseau will show you to your room. Don't get in my way."

And with that, he was gone.

Xochi stood there, frozen, her fists clenched at her sides.

She wasn't sure if she wanted to cry or scream.

The atrium felt colder now.

The mansion-bigger, emptier.

This is my life now, she thought. This stranger. This house. This prison.

She barely noticed Madame Rousseau's return.

"Follow me," the woman said.

They moved through silent hallways until they reached a wing Xochi hadn't seen. Her room was beautiful-massive windows, soft lighting, a walk-in closet. A bathroom that looked like it belonged in a five-star hotel.

But it didn't feel like hers.

It felt like a cage.

As Madame Rousseau left her alone, Xochi sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the pale walls.

Everything was perfect.

And nothing was real.

She buried her face in her hands, willing herself not to cry.

Then, she heard it.

Footsteps.

Outside her door.

Slow. Measured.

They stopped.

And then-one soft knock.

She stood, heart racing.

But when she opened the door... there was no one there.

Just a single, black envelope on the floor.

No name. No seal.

Just one line on the front:

You don't belong here.