Chapter 2 The House That Watches

The car is silent but your thoughts aren't,

they haven't stopped twisting since you closed that office door.

The man the paper the pen the voice that said you belonged to him

you hear it on loop like it was carved into your spine

you wonder if it was always there just waiting to be spoken aloud

rain begins to tap against the window soft at first then harder

the city blurs and stretches out behind you

as if it's retreating not you

you clutch your bag like it holds something worth protecting

it doesn't

just a sketchbook with half-drawn faces you never finished

a cracked phone with one bar of battery left

no charger no plan

and a contract that tastes like iron in your mouth

you think about what it said again

rules

permission

silence

you think about the way he said it starts now

not tomorrow

not when you're ready

now

the driver says nothing doesn't glance at you just drives straight through the storm like he's done this before

like delivering broken girls to men like adrian is part of the job

the gates are black wrought iron and twice your height

they creak open without a sound

which feels wrong

they should scream

the house is more like a manor or maybe a warning

all stone and glass and symmetry that makes your skin itch

when the car stops the engine dies so suddenly it feels intentional

you step out and the cold slaps you like you deserved it

you don't flinch

you walk toward the front door

you don't knock

it opens before you reach for the handle

a woman stands there pale slim hair in a knot so tight it looks painful

she's not old not young

not smiling

"you're late" she says

you're not

you don't argue

"i'm selena"

"i know"

she turns and walks away like you're expected to follow

you do

the inside is worse

not ugly not cold

perfect

every vase every mirror every shadow in the exact right place

you're being watched but there are no cameras

you just know

"your room's upstairs second door on the left" she says

no name no offer of help

just direction like you're luggage

you start climbing the stairs

your boots make no sound

everything in here is too soft too expensive too untouched

when you reach the room you pause

your hand on the doorknob

you expect resistance

but it opens

and inside

you see the first real thing in this whole house

your portrait

hanging above the fireplace

unfinished

beautiful

but unmistakably you

The room is drenched in quiet light, silver spilling in through tall windows and soaking into every surface. It's beautiful-but not in a comforting way. More like a stage, carefully dressed and curated for someone else's performance. For a girl who looks like you but isn't you anymore.

The walls are a muted gray, cold and unyielding, the kind of shade that makes everything inside feel still. The bed is large, larger than your apartment used to be, dressed in crisp linens and a throw blanket that looks like it costs more than your last year of rent.

But none of it matters.

Because the portrait above the fireplace is you.

Not exactly-the angle is too soft, too reverent, and the color of your eyes has been deepened, shadowed, made darker like they hold secrets you haven't spoken aloud-but it's you. Down to the tilt of your mouth and the sharpness of your jaw. Unfinished, yes, but unmistakable.

You don't remember posing for it.

You walk closer. The frame is gold. Not bright. Antique. A little tarnished. Like it's been waiting to hang here for years. Your fingers ache to touch it, to feel the canvas, the brushstrokes, the evidence of time spent seeing you. But you don't.

You hear her again-the housekeeper or assistant or handler, you don't know what to call her-speaking from somewhere down the hall.

"Dinner is at seven. The wardrobe is stocked. Do not leave your room without permission after dark."

You blink, turning toward the doorway. She's not there. Just her voice, trailing like perfume in a room long vacated.

You want to ask why.

You want to ask who painted the portrait. How long it's been here. What it means.

But you don't ask anything. Because deep down, you already know.

Adrian painted it.

And he painted it long before you met.

You sit on the edge of the bed but you don't lean back. The sheets are too smooth, untouched. This room is too clean. Too ready. Like someone knew you were coming months ago.

And the silence is heavy. Not empty-expectant. The kind of quiet that presses against your skin like fingers.

You glance at the mirror across from the fireplace. It's tall and framed in the same aged gold as the portrait, and when you look into it, you almost don't recognize yourself. Your eyes are wide, skin pale, lips parted like you're still waiting for your voice to return.

Taped to the corner of the glass is a single sheet of paper. White. Plain. Unfolded.

Rules.

Dress accordingly. You will find acceptable clothing in the closet.

Do not speak unless spoken to.

Do not ask about me.

Do not attempt to leave.

If I call, you answer. Immediately.

There's a sixth rule at the bottom, written in a darker hand.

You agreed.

You step back like the mirror burned you.

The closet opens easily. Inside: black dresses, silk robes, thin lace that isn't yours. Everything fits your body, not your life. You brush your fingers over the fabric. No tags. No prices. No freedom of choice.

You feel exposed, even clothed.

Still, you change. You dress in the soft black slip that hangs like ink against your skin. You tie your hair back. You sit again. This time at the edge of the vanity chair, back straight, hands in your lap.

Because you don't know what time it is. Because there are no clocks. Because every minute feels like a test.

You want to believe you're still in control. That this is a temporary thing. That you're just buying time to find your footing, your voice, your plan.

But in the mirror, all you see is a girl who already surrendered.

minutes later---

You hear his footsteps long before you see him.

It's the way the house reacts-subtly, like a shift in air pressure. The walls seem to lean in. The temperature dips. The silence no longer feels empty-it feels listening.

The door doesn't creak. Of course it doesn't. It swings open soundlessly, confidently, revealing the man who stood across from you just hours ago and changed your life with nothing more than a few words and a piece of paper.

Adrian.

He's not dressed like a man who works. Or maybe that's the point-power doesn't need to perform. His black shirt is unbuttoned just enough to draw the eye, his sleeves rolled neatly at the elbows, his watch gleaming like a subtle warning. He's taller in the doorway than he was behind the desk. Broader. Sharper.

You stand instinctively.

He says nothing.

He closes the door behind him, leans back against it, and just watches you for a full ten seconds. You can feel every one of them like a slow drag across your skin.

"You wore it," he says finally, voice like warm smoke.

You glance down. The black slip. The one he chose.

You don't answer.

He smiles-not with his mouth, but with his eyes. Amused. Knowing.

"Do you always follow orders this well, or just mine?"

Still, you don't speak.

His smile widens by a fraction. "Good girl."

The words are soft, but they land like a slap. Your breath hitches, and you hate the way your body responds. Not because you're weak. Because you weren't expecting it. The rush. The heat. The quiet bloom of shame and fascination curling somewhere low in your belly.

Adrian pushes off the door and walks into the room. Not quickly. He doesn't need to rush. The air parts for him.

He circles behind you, and you lose him in the mirror.

"Sit," he says, his voice landing right at the base of your spine.

You obey.

"Look at yourself."

You do.

And for a moment, you both watch her-the girl in the mirror, sitting perfectly still, breath shallow, eyes wide.

"She doesn't know what she is yet," he murmurs, fingers brushing the top of your shoulder. "But I do."

You want to ask what that means.

You want to ask what happens next.

But instead, you stay still.

And wait for him to tell you.

The silence stretches, taut and tense, like the pause between lightning and thunder. Adrian stands behind you, but his reflection owns the mirror now-tall, composed, a looming storm cloaked in tailored black. And when your eyes flick up to his, just for a second, he catches them. Holds them.

"I wonder," he says softly, "if you even understand what you signed."

You do. You don't.

You don't answer.

His gaze drops to your shoulders, your neck, the delicate tremor in your collarbone. Then, he kneels. You feel the shift in the air, the change in height-his shadow folding over your lap, his presence invading your breath.

And then he speaks again, not to you, but to the reflection.

"You think I chose you in that office?" he asks. "I've been building this room for three years."

The words hang there.

You blink slowly. Three years.

"You're lying," you whisper. But your voice lacks conviction. It shakes.

Adrian leans in until his mouth is near your ear, heat radiating from him like a second skin.

"You walked into my gallery with paint under your nails and defiance in your spine. I knew then."

He rises again-not hurried, never hurried-and rolls back the sleeve on his left arm. That's when you see it. Ink.

A tattoo coils down the inside of his forearm, black and sharp and beautifully brutal. It's not a delicate thing. It's layered. Lines intersecting, symbols you don't recognize woven into a pattern that feels ancient. Dangerous. Yours.

You stare.

And he watches you stare.

"You want to know what it means?" he asks.

You nod.

He doesn't tell you.

Instead, he begins to unbutton his shirt, slow and methodical, eyes never leaving yours in the mirror. With every button undone, more of him is revealed-tan skin over hard muscle, lean but powerful, a chest carved like marble and dusted with dark hair. His abs are sculpted, precise, almost cruel in their perfection. He looks like a man who was designed, not born.

The ink stretches higher. Across his chest. Over his ribs. A matching design, larger, more intricate. And in the center, hidden until now, a name.

Selena.

Your breath stops.

He watches your reaction, carefully, the way someone watches fire to see how fast it will spread.

"You belong to me," he says simply. "Not because of the contract. Because you always have."

You're trembling now.

He steps behind you again, hands resting lightly on your shoulders. You should move. But you don't.

"You're scared," he says, not as an accusation, but a truth.

"Yes," you whisper.

"And?"

You meet his eyes again. There's something magnetic there. Something terrifying.

"...and I don't want to leave."

The moment breaks something.

He tilts your head gently to the side, exposing your neck. His lips hover just above your skin. He doesn't touch you. Doesn't need to. The promise alone is a threat.

"I'm going to break you open, Selena," he murmurs. "And I'll be the one who decides what's left inside."

You close your eyes.

And when you open them, the girl in the mirror is gone.

Someone else is sitting in her place.