Chapter 5 The Mansion Built with Chains

I signed it.

The pen felt heavier than it should have-like I was sealing something permanent in ink. Maybe I was.

Damon's contract was bulletproof. Flawless. Ruthless.

But I didn't walk into his world empty-handed.

I added my own clause.

Micah would not be taken across state lines without my consent. No overnight visits without me present. And no media exposure. Ever.

I expected Damon to push back.

He didn't.

His lawyers returned the updated document with one note written in his own hand at the bottom:

"Fine. But come live where I can protect you."

It wasn't a plea.

It was a move.

Calculated. Deliberate.

And effective.

The estate was nothing like I imagined.

I'd seen pictures online-of course I had. Damon Blackwood's Westchester property had once been profiled in Forbes: thirty acres, seven bedrooms, three floors, a vineyard, and a helipad.

But nothing prepared me for the feeling.

The gates alone looked like they belonged to a royal fortress. Inside, a winding driveway carved through meticulously trimmed trees, leading to a home that was more cathedral than house-arched windows, gray stone, towering walls that whispered secrets.

Micah's eyes widened as we pulled up in the black SUV Damon sent.

"Is this a castle?"

I smiled faintly. "Something like that."

He grinned. "Do knights live here?"

I didn't answer.

Because in a place like this, the only people who wore armor were the ones with something to hide.

Damon wasn't there when we arrived.

A woman greeted us at the steps-mid-50s, French accent, firm handshake.

"Mrs. Voclain," she said. "House manager. Mr. Blackwood asked me to show you everything."

She didn't smile.

But she wasn't rude either.

Just... measured.

Like she'd been trained to handle delicate things without letting them break.

The room assigned to Micah was twice the size of our old apartment. Blue walls. Bookshelves. A telescope. Toys still in boxes.

"Did he buy all this?" I asked, eyeing the untouched gift bags.

Mrs. Voclain nodded. "Last week. He had them shipped in."

I didn't know whether to be impressed or unsettled.

Probably both.

My room-sorry, our room-was at the far end of the hall.

Dark wood floors. Cream walls. Gold-trimmed curtains. A king-sized bed with black silk sheets.

I stood in the doorway for a long moment, unsure whether to step inside or run.

This wasn't a home.

It was a deal.

And I was part of the fine print.

Damon arrived after sundown.

The SUV lights flared as it pulled into the circular driveway. I watched from the upstairs window, heart hammering. I hadn't seen him since the night of his call.

Not face-to-face.

Now he was here.

And I was under his roof.

When the door opened, he didn't rush inside. He didn't call out. He just walked in like he'd never left-like I was the one who'd been absent all along.

He found me in the kitchen.

Micah was asleep upstairs. Mrs. Voclain had retired to her quarters. The house was silent.

He stepped into the light. Charcoal suit. Tie loosened. Hair slightly damp, like he'd driven with the windows down.

His eyes landed on me. Then the room. Then back to me.

"You came," he said.

"I signed."

He leaned on the counter. "That's not what I asked."

"I came because I had no better option."

"Still," he murmured, "you're here."

I hated how the sound of his voice still slipped under my skin.

"What happens now?" I asked.

He reached into his coat and pulled out a small black envelope. "These are access cards. For the gate. The safe. The upper wing."

"Upper wing?"

He gestured vaguely. "The east side. My study, office, library."

I narrowed my eyes. "And you're just giving me that access?"

"I don't keep secrets in my own house."

That was a lie.

I felt it in my bones.

Still, I took the card.

He watched me carefully, like he was trying to read what I wasn't saying.

"You're not a prisoner here, Liana."

"Then why does it feel like one?"

He didn't flinch. But he didn't argue either.

The next morning, I walked Micah to the garden behind the house. A nanny trailed behind us-Damon's arrangement.

"Just a precaution," he'd said. "In case you ever need help."

I wasn't sure if he meant it as support or surveillance.

The gardens were breathtaking-fountains, trimmed hedges, marble benches, stone paths winding through orchids and wisteria. Micah called it a "magic forest."

He wasn't wrong.

This place felt like it was built to hide things. To bury the truth in luxury.

Later that afternoon, I wandered.

I wasn't snooping.

Not exactly.

I was just... trying to breathe.

The east wing was eerily quiet. Books lined the walls-real books, not the kind for show. Law. History. Economics. A few novels buried deep.

Then I found the study.

I stood in the doorway for a long time before stepping in.

Damon's presence was everywhere-mahogany desk, glass paperweights, black leather chair, a decanter half-full on the shelf behind his chair.

And a drawer slightly ajar.

I told myself not to look.

But I did.

Inside: folders. Stacks. Names on tabs. Printed reports.

One caught my eye.

"Liana Cruz – Subject File (Confidential)."

My breath froze.

I pulled it out. Pages. Surveillance photos. A full timeline of the last three years.

Where I worked. Where I lived. Hospital bills. Micah's preschool. My fake name on old leases. My original one on employment forms.

He'd known.

Long before the gala.

He'd known where I was.

And he waited.

A sick chill slid down my spine.

This wasn't just interest.

This was strategy.

I heard a voice behind me.

"Did you find what you were looking for?"

I spun.

Damon stood in the doorway.

He wasn't surprised.

He wasn't angry.

He was calm.

Too calm.

"I-" I started.

He stepped inside, slowly, gaze locked on mine. "You think I didn't know you'd come here eventually?"

I held the file like it might shield me. "You've been tracking me."

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because I had to be sure you were safe."

"No," I snapped. "You wanted control. Power. Insurance."

His voice dropped. "I wanted to know why you left without a word. Why you disappeared. Why I never got the chance to-"

"To what?" I challenged. "Claim me? Keep me in a penthouse like a secret?"

His eyes flared. "No."

But the silence said otherwise.

"You didn't even ask if I was okay," I whispered. "That night, three years ago... I disappeared. And you didn't come looking. Until now."

"I wasn't ready."

I laughed bitterly. "And now you are? Now that you can write a contract and offer blood money to make it right?"

"I didn't offer you money."

"You offered me a cage."

He stepped forward. "No. I offered you a choice."

My hands trembled. "You say that, but every move you make is control dressed as protection."

He said nothing.

Because he knew I was right.

I held the file to my chest and walked past him.

But before I left the room, I turned.

"Tell me, Damon. What else is in your house that I don't know about?"

His reply was soft. But deadly.

"What makes you think you've seen everything?"