Chapter 5 5

The drive to the mansion felt long.

Zaya sat quietly in the backseat, watching the world blur past her window, Tristan cuddled beside her, humming a tune.

Killian didn't say a word the whole ride. His fingers had been glued to his phone, typing away, taking urgent calls in hushed, clipped tones.

They finally pulled into the estate, and Zaya's mouth parted slightly.

Gates taller than her apartment building slowly creaked open.

The driveway was paved with stone, lined with perfectly trimmed hedges, glowing garden lights, and a freaking fountain in the center.

The house-or more like castle-rose like something straight out of a billionaire fairytale.

Welcome to Killian Wolfe Mansion, she read the golden sign near the entrance as the car crawled in.

She barely had time to take it all in when the car stopped. Killian stepped out first, tall and cold, his jaw tight.

But just before his foot hit the marble steps, his phone buzzed again. He glanced at the screen-his expression changing to businesslike-and lifted a hand, signaling the maids.

They'd been standing at the entrance, staring at Zaya like she was a UFO that had landed in the driveway.

And who could blame them?

No woman had entered the Wolfe mansion in years. Not one. The only visitors ever were his mother and grandmother-both of whom only came to see Tristan.

Killian Wolfe wasn't the womanizing type.

He was barely the human type.

Most staff had only seen him from afar. Others swore he was just a ghost with a black card. So seeing Zaya-standing there, looking lost in ripped jeans and oversized hoodie-sent whispers flying through the air.

Killian didn't explain. He never did.

He just motioned to the maids with a cold nod before taking the call and walking off into the shadows of the hallway.

"Take her to the guest room," one of the maids whispered to another.

But little Tristan had his plans.

He tugged the nearest maid's apron and leaned in with a cheeky grin. "Take her to Daddy's room," he whispered. "She's my mommy now."

The maid blinked.

"What?"

"Daddy said she's coming with us," Tristan added, eyes wide and hopeful. "He agreed. So, take her to his room. Please."

The other maids shared glances. Confused and hesitant.

No one ever said no to Tristan. Ever.

Unless they wanted to lose their job.

And working at the Wolfe mansion? That was like hitting the jackpot. You didn't risk it. Not for anything.

So they nodded slowly and whispered to Zaya, "Come with us."

One of the maids gently led Tristan down a hallway, whispering something about snacks and bath time, while Zaya was taken in the opposite direction.

"This way, ma'am," the maid said politely.

Zaya followed, eyes roaming over every expensive piece of art and shiny surface. She felt like she was walking through a Pinterest board on billionaire steroids.

The maid opened a door and stepped aside.

"Here you go. You can settle in here for the night."

Zaya stepped in-and stopped.

Holy. Sh*t.

Her jaw dropped.

It was massive. Like, movie-scene-level massive. Velvet armchairs. A fireplace that probably cost more than her old apartment. Warm, low lighting. A sleek walk-in closet. And the bed? The bed was huge, cloud-like, and called her name louder than any man ever had.

She tossed herself on it.

"Omg boom shakala yes, God," she muttered, bouncing a little and wrapping herself in the softness. "What the actual f*ck..."

This was supposed to be a guest room?

She sat up, wide-eyed. "How the hell does a guest room look like this?" she whispered to herself.

Fred would've passed out seeing this. He used to sketch dream rooms on napkins during lunch breaks, dreaming of ceiling lights like these, soft headboards, those stupid smart curtains that close with a remote.

This was exactly what he used to talk about.

She ran her hand across the comforter, swallowing the lump in her throat.

"Ohh..." she sighed, peeling off her clothes like they were weighted with the whole day's madness. Her eyes caught the closet, its doors slightly ajar like it had been waiting for her.

"Wow..." she whispered, stepping toward it. A perfect row of crisp white shirts. All lined up like soldiers. She ran her hand along them slowly.

Fred used to wear these. Always slightly wrinkled because he hated ironing, but he'd collect white shirts like some men collected watches. Her chest tightened.

Without thinking, she pulled one out, oversized and smelling expensive-like cedarwood and a man who had never worried about bills.

She slipped it on, rolled up the sleeves, and buttoned it halfway. Then she crawled onto the bed and wrapped herself in the blanket like a burrito.

Finally. Peace.

Until-click.

The door creaked open. Her eyes widened.

No no no-please don't be who I think it is.

She didn't dare move-she held her breath.

She heard footsteps.

Quiet and heavy footsteps, and then she heard him sigh.

"Long day," his voice muttered-deep, casual and unaware.

Zaya's heart skipped five beats. I'm so dead. I'm actually going to die.

She peeked under the edge of the blanket just in time to see Killian shrug out of his tux jacket. Then the shirt.

Her stomach dipped.

What the-? The man was built like he'd been sculpted out of marble and billionaire stress. His abs flexed as he tossed his shirt aside.

Tattoos crept up his ribs and collarbone-dark, clean lines, hints of cities and coordinates and... pain?

Zaya smacked her hand over her mouth, burying herself deeper under the blanket like it could erase her from existence.

I'm not here. I'm invisible. This is a dream. I'm going to wake up in my shoebox apartment with a leaky tap and cockroach roommate.

What was she even doing in his bed? Oh right-Tristan. That little devil had probably sent her in here on purpose.

I'm gonna kill him. I'm gonna hug him and then kill him.

She didn't know if she was more embarrassed or terrified-or weirdly... intrigued. Either way, she wasn't coming out. Not unless the mansion caught fire.