Chapter 1

POPPY POV.

I never knew silence could feel so heavy until I stood before the mansion.

Stone walls stretched up like a fortress, windows gleaming with the reflection of a grey, tired sky. The iron gates shut behind me with a sound that felt final. No one had spoken since the driver dropped me off no goodbye, no welcome, just the crunch of gravel fading as the car disappeared down the road.

My fingers tightened around the handle of my suitcase.

The front door stood ajar, a dark mouth waiting.

Just a job, I reminded myself.

A live-in maid position. Simple. Keep your head down, clean what they ask, collect the pay. It was good money too good but I wasn’t in a place to ask questions. Rent was due, my phone was dying, and my hometown had started to feel like a cage.

So I said yes. No hesitation. No details.

Still… the air around this place felt wrong. Cold.

I stepped inside.

The door shut behind me with a quiet thud that sounded too much like a lock.

It was beautiful — the kind of beauty that feels sacred and untouchable. Dark wood panels polished to a mirror shine. A chandelier that glittered like frozen light. The air smelled faintly of wax and old perfume. Everything looked perfectly kept, yet unlived in… like walking into someone’s memory.

“Hello?” My voice barely carried.

No reply.

Only the faint ticking of a clock I couldn’t see.

I walked deeper, the sound of my boots echoing across marble.

The staircase was grand enough to make me pause — the kind you see in stories where girls in gowns meet their fate halfway down. Velvet curtains. Gold-framed mirrors. Doors that all stayed shut.

But it didn’t feel empty. I couldn’t explain it — just that prickle on the back of my neck.

Like eyes.

And then I saw it — a camera. Small, almost hidden in the corner, a tiny red light blinking. Watching.

Straight at me.

Heat crawled up my skin. I tugged my skirt a little lower, wishing I’d worn something looser. But I’d needed to look professional. Put-together. Desperate, maybe, but still trying.

I pushed the thought away and kept walking. The mansion went on forever — silent halls, untouched rooms, tables laid with wine glasses for guests who never came.

Then I saw her.

A woman stood by the dining hall doorway, dressed entirely in black. Her posture was strict, her face carved into calm.

“You must be Poppy,” she said, her tone flat as marble.

“Yes,” I managed. “I’m here for—”

“Your room is upstairs. East wing. You’ll clean where you’re told. You will not ask questions. And you will never go near the west wing.”

“The west wing?” I asked before I could stop myself.

Her eyes flickered not with anger, just… warning.

“Don’t wander. Don’t speak unless spoken to. And do not disturb the master.”

The way she said it the master sent a strange pulse through my chest. It wasn’t respect. It was fear. Or something close.

“Who. . .” I started, but her look shut me up. Sharp. Final.

So I nodded. I didn’t have the luxury of being curious.

But I was.

I followed her upstairs in silence, the feeling of unseen eyes clinging to my back. Who was he?

Who watched from behind those tiny red lights?

When morning came, the quiet still hadn’t lifted. No birds, no wind. Just the hum of electricity and the slow tick of invisible clocks.

I woke before sunrise, heart pounding for no reason. The bed was too soft, the air too still. Every sound the shift of the sheets, the faint creak of the floor made me think someone was standing just outside my door.

But there was no one.

Just a slip of paper under the door. Typed. No name.

Clean the east hallway mirrors, Dust the piano room and change the sheets in Guest Room Three, Do not enter the west wing. Stay in your assigned areas no questions.

I didn’t need a signature to know who it was from.

Him.

The master.

His presence filled the house like smoke faint, constant, impossible to escape. His cologne lingered in the hallways, that deep, musky kind that clings to the air. Sometimes I thought I heard footsteps. Sometimes the lights dimmed just as I entered a room. The cameras blinked a little faster when I passed.

He was watching.

And somehow… that knowledge didn’t just scare me.

It stirred something else. Something I didn’t want to name.

By mid-morning, I was in the piano room. It was like stepping into a photograph still and perfect. The piano gleamed beneath the sunlight spilling through tall windows, and a vase of roses sat on the lid, their edges wilted but still elegant.

I worked quietly, afraid to break the silence.

Then I saw the mirror tall, angled toward the piano. Toward me.

And above the door, another camera.

Once I noticed it, I couldn’t stop feeling it.

The invisible weight of attention tracing the line of my neck, my hands, the way my blouse stretched when I reached for the shelf.

My reflection caught me off guard flushed cheeks, parted lips, a flicker of curiosity that looked too close to desire.

I turned away, ashamed.

What was wrong with me?

I finished the room and moved through the guest quarters, each one as empty as the last. No one lived here, not really. The place was too clean, too staged. Like a house built to hide something.

I told myself I’d go back to my room, but my steps slowed when I reached the end of the east corridor.

The carpet changed there deeper color, softer underfoot.

And beyond it… the west wing.

The hallway stretched out like a secret.

And at its end, a pair of dark double doors. Closed. Waiting.

My heart picked up. I should’ve turned around.

Instead, I stepped forward.

Each step echoed softly, the hum of another camera above me.

Was he watching me now?

Did he want me to stop… or keep going?

I reached out fingers hovering over the polished brass handle and froze. I didn’t touch it. I swear I didn’t. But I wanted to. God, I wanted to.

Then came a sound. Barely a whisper. A voice, low and smooth, right behind me.

“Do you always touch what isn’t yours?”

I spun around, heart in my throat but the hallway was empty.

Still, I didn’t wait to find out.

I ran.

And I didn’t have to look back to know.

He saw.