The water lapped against Elena's shoulders as she floated, her hair spreading around her like dark silk on the surface. The sun was warm on her face, the sky an endless blue overhead, and for a long moment she let herself forget everything.
“This has been so nice.” Lisa floated on her back, eyes closed. "I'm pretending my phone doesn't exist today."
Elena smiled. "Can you actually do that?"
"Not really." Lisa laughed. "My boss threatened to chain me to my desk if another big client came in this month. Apparently, I'm the only one who can charm rich people."
"Sounds exhausting."
"It is. But no one's called yet, so today belongs to me."
"Okay," Lisa said, her voice carrying across the water. "I think I'm officially pruned. Let's head in before I turn into a raisin."
Elena righted herself, water streaming down her face, and blinked against the sun. Lisa was already wading toward the shore, her black hair dark and slicked against her head, her borrowed tank top clinging to her frame.
"Coming," Elena said, and pushed herself toward the bank.
The grass was cool under her feet as she stepped out, the breeze raising goosebumps on her wet skin. Lisa was already wrapping a towel around her shoulders, water dripping from her hair.
"That was exactly what I needed," Lisa said, toweling her hair with aggressive enthusiasm. "I forgot what it felt like to just—exist. No deadlines. No emails. No—" She stopped, her eyes flicking toward Elena, then away. "You know."
Elena wrung out her hair, the water dark on the grass. "Yeah. I know."
She grabbed her own towel—one of the thick white ones Presley had left on the bench near the dock—and pressed it to her face, inhaling the clean linen scent. When she pulled it away, her gaze drifted naturally toward the manor, following the line of the stone path that curved up the slope.
That's when she saw him.
Victor.
He was leaning against a low stone wall about thirty yards up the hill, tucked into the shadow of a smaller structure Elena had never seen before—a cottage, almost, built from the same weathered gray stone as the manor, with a dark slate roof and narrow windows that caught the afternoon light. A ledge of flat rock jutted out beside it, and Victor stood there like he owned the view, his arms crossed, his posture loose but alert.
Looking directly at them.
Elena's stomach tightened. He wasn't hiding. He wasn't pretending to watch. He was just standing there. Relaxed. Like monitoring her was part of his afternoon routine.
"What?" Lisa asked, catching her stillness. She followed Elena's gaze. "Oh. Is that the security guy?"
"Victor," Elena said. Her voice came out flatter than she intended.
"He's been watching us this whole time?" Lisa's voice had an edge now. "That's not creepy at all."
Elena shook her head, forcing herself to look away. "He's security. It's his job."
"His job is to watch you swim?"
"His job is to watch everything." Elena picked up her sandals from the bench, sliding them onto her damp feet. "Come on. Let's go inside."
She didn't look back at Victor as they walked up the path, but she felt his gaze on her back like a physical weight. Lisa was quiet beside her, which meant she was thinking, and that was never a good sign.
The manor's main hall was cool and dim after the bright sun, the familiar smell of old wood and dust settling around them. Elena's footsteps echoed on the polished floor as they crossed toward the staircase, water still dripping from the ends of her hair.
"I'm going to grab a quick shower," Elena said. "There should be clean towels in the—"
"Yeah, I remember." Lisa was already heading for the stairs. "I'll meet you in your room. I want to grab a pastry from Marta."
Elena went up to her room and showered quickly, the hot water washing away the lake's residue, and changed into a simple sundress—light blue, thin straps, nothing that felt like armor. She towel-dried her hair and left it loose, then made her way back to her room.
Lisa was already there, sitting on the edge of the bed, her old backpack open beside her. She was rifling through it with a furrowed brow, her movements sharp and searching.
"Everything okay?" Elena asked, closing the door behind her.
Lisa didn't look up. "Yeah. Just—" She pulled out a folded shirt, checked the pocket, and set it aside. "I feel like things are shifted around. In my bag."
Elena's heart gave a small, uneven beat. She kept her voice neutral. "Shifted how?"
"I don't know." Lisa opened the main compartment wider, her fingers moving through the contents with practiced efficiency. "I could have sworn I left my jeans on top, but they're at the bottom. And my toiletries bag is—" She stopped, pulling out a small zippered pouch. "It's zipped the wrong way. I always zip it toward the handle. It's zipped away."
Elena crossed to the vanity, sitting on the small stool, watching Lisa's hands move. "You think someone went through your stuff?"
Lisa's mouth pressed into a thin line. She looked up, met Elena's eyes, and then let out a breath. "No. Probably not. I'm just—edgy. After everything." She laughed, but it didn't reach her eyes. "My brain's still trying to figure out what was real and what was the drug. I probably just packed in a hurry and don't remember."
She zipped the duffel closed, then unzipped it again, pulling out her phone from a side pocket. The screen lit up as she turned it over, and Elena saw her expression shift—the slight furrow of her brow, the way her fingers tightened on the case.
"Shit."
Lisa pressed the phone to her ear, her eyes going distant as she listened. Voicemail, Elena guessed. The room was quiet except for the faint hum of the manor's old plumbing and the distant tick of a clock somewhere down the hall.
Lisa's jaw tightened. She listened for another long moment, then pulled the phone away, swearing again under her breath.
"I'm so sorry," she said, already closing her duffel with quick, decisive movements. "I have to go. Like—today. Now."
Elena stood. "What? Lisa, you said you were staying until tomorrow."
"I know. I know." Lisa was already shoving her toiletries into the bag, her movements frantic. "That was my boss. We have a new client—huge. Massive. They're flying in tonight about another job, and I need to be at the office at six AM tomorrow to prep."
"You're leaving right now?" Elena heard her own voice and hated how small it sounded.
Lisa stopped. She looked up, her eyes meeting Elena's, and something in her face softened. "Hey. I don't want to. You know that, right? It’s a long drive back to New Haven. I’m going to be driving almost half the night if I don’t leave now."
Elena nodded, because she did know. But knowing didn't stop the cold feeling spreading in her chest.
Lisa crossed the room in two steps and pulled Elena into a hug, her arms tight and warm, her hair still smelling faintly of lake water. "I'm sorry," she said again, her voice muffled against Elena's shoulder. "I'll come back. I promise. As soon as this pitch is done and this preppy rich kid is handled, I'll drive out again."
"It's fine," Elena said, and the lie tasted familiar on her tongue. "Work is work. I get it."
Lisa pulled back, her eyes searching Elena's face. "You sure?"
"I'm sure."
Lisa held her gaze for a moment longer, then nodded, turning back to her bag. "I need my car. I think its still out front or—does your boyfriend move it and lock it in some garage?"
"He's not my—" Elena stopped, shook her head. "It should still be in font, if not, ask Presley."
Lisa's eyebrows lifted. "Presley. The butler. Right." She zipped her duffel with finality. "You've got a whole staff. Fancy."
"It's not fancy. It's—" Elena didn't finish. She didn't know how to finish.
Lisa hefted her bag onto her shoulder. "Walk me down?"
They went down the stairs together, their footsteps echoing in the quiet hall. The manor felt different with Lisa leaving—larger, emptier, the shadows longer. Elena could feel the silence pressing in already.
Lisa turned to her, dropping the duffel to the floor. "Okay. Before I go." She stepped closer, her voice dropping. "I need you to be honest with me about one thing."
Elena's stomach tightened. "What?"
"Are you safe here?"
The question hung between them, simple and devastating. Elena opened her mouth, closed it. She thought about Liam's hands on her, the way he'd brought her to the edge of herself. She thought about the Eros, the bed, the crying maid. She thought about kneeling without being asked twice.
"I don't know," she said. The truth came out before she could stop it.
Lisa's jaw tightened. "That's not the answer I wanted."
"I think I am… The Manor seems to have great security, and nothing’s ever happened here." Well, aside being spanked. The thought quickly raced into her mind, and she pushed it away.
Lisa was quiet for a long moment. Then she pulled Elena into another hug, fiercer this time. "You call me. Any time. If you need me, I'll come. I don't care what time it is or what client I'm pitching. You call, I come."
Elena nodded against her shoulder, her throat tight. "I will."
Lisa pulled back, her eyes bright. "Promise me."
"I promise."
Lisa held her gaze for a beat, then nodded, picking up her duffel. "Alright. I'm going to go sell my soul to the corporate overlords. Text me when you wake up tomorrow. I don't care if it's early."
"I will."
Lisa walked toward the front door, her sandals slapping against the stone floor. She paused at the threshold, looking back over her shoulder. "Elena."
"Yeah?"
"Whatever you're not telling me—when you're ready, I'll be here to hear it."
Then she was gone, the heavy door swinging shut behind her, the click of the latch loud in the sudden silence.
Elena stood in the empty hall, the manor settling around her like a held breath. She could hear the grandfather clock ticking in the study, the distant clatter of pots from the kitchen, and the sound of a car engine starting outside.
She didn't move until the sound faded entirely.
"Miss Rossi."
She turned. Presley stood a few feet away, his hands clasped behind his back.
"Yes?" she said.
"I take it Miss Chen has departed?"
"She just left. Work emergency. A big client." Elena's voice felt hollow in the quiet hall. "She said to tell you thank you for the hospitality."
Presley's eyebrows lifted a fraction—barely enough to register, but she caught it. Surprise, or something close to it. "I see. I had anticipated she might stay through tomorrow. Everything was prepared for another evening."
"Things change."
"Indeed, they do." He paused, his gaze steady on her. "Dinner will be served in approximately twenty minutes, Miss Rossi. In the dining hall tonight—Marta has prepared a roast with seasonal vegetables."
"Thank you, Presley."
He gave a small nod, then turned and walked down the corridor, his footsteps precise and unhurried on the stone floor. The sound faded, and then there was only the ticking of the grandfather clock and the distant murmur of the house settling around her.
Elena watched Presley disappear down the corridor before making her way toward the dining hall.
She wrapped her arms around herself, the thin straps of her sundress doing nothing against the chill that had settled into the air. The late afternoon sun was still bright through the high windows, casting long rectangles of gold across the floor, but it felt distant. Like the manor was already preparing for the evening, pulling its warmth inward.
She's gone.
The thought settled in her chest like a stone. Lisa was driving back to New Haven, back to her life, her job, her own apartment with the neighbor who played bad pop music at all hours. A real life. A life Elena had signed away three years of her own to protect her brother.
She forced her feet toward the dining hall.
The dining hall was empty when she arrived, the table set for two. A spot still set for Lisa—with a linen napkin folded into a neat triangle, a water glass catching the light, a small vase with a few flowers decorating the table.
Elena stood in the doorway, staring at the empty chair across from her.
For one, she thought. Just me now.
She sat down, the chair scraping softly against the floor. The silence was so complete she could hear her own breathing, the rustle of her dress as she shifted, the faint creak of the old wood settling.
A door swung open from the kitchen, and Marta emerged carrying a tray. Her face split into a smile when she saw Elena, then flickered with surprise as her eyes scanned the room.
"Just you tonight, dear?" Marta set the tray down, revealing a covered dish that smelled of rosemary and garlic. "Where's your friend? The chatty one with the colorful hair."
"She had to leave, her work called." Elena heard the flatness in her own voice and tried to smooth it. "Some big client, so she couldn't stay."
Marta's expression softened. She pulled out the chair beside Elena and sat down uninvited, her hands folding on the tablecloth. "That's a shame. I liked her. She had a wild spark about her."
"She does."
"And she made you laugh." Marta's voice was gentle, probing without pressure. "I heard you two out by the lake earlier. Carrying on like old friends."
"We are old friends. Since elementary school."
"That's good. That's rare." Marta reached out and patted Elena's hand, her palm warm and calloused. "You hold onto that, Miss Rossi. Friends like that don't come along every day."
Elena's throat tightened. "I know."
Marta studied her for a moment longer, then pushed back from the table with a grunt. "Well. You eat. This roast is best hot, and I didn't spend four hours braising it for you to pick at it cold."
A laugh escaped Elena before she could stop it—small, surprised, genuine. "Yes, ma'am."
Marta's eyes crinkled. She was halfway to the kitchen when a young woman in an apron appeared in the doorway, her face flushed.
"Marta? The pantry—the delivery came early and we need to—"
"Coming, coming." Marta waved a hand, already moving. She threw a last look over her shoulder at Elena. "You finish that plate. I'll know if you don't."
The door swung shut behind her, and Elena was alone again.
She lifted the cover off the dish, steam rising in a fragrant cloud. Roasted beef, carrots glazed with honey, and potatoes browned and crispy at the edges. Her stomach rumbled despite herself. She picked up her fork and ate, mechanically at first, then with more appetite than she'd expected. The food was good—Marta always cooked like she was feeding an army—and the warmth of it settled into her bones, chasing away some of the cold that had taken root.
She ate slowly, letting the meal stretch, postponing the moment when she would have to decide what to do with herself. The dining hall's tall windows faced west, and the light shifted from gold to amber as the sun began its descent. Dust motes floated in the beams, lazy and unhurried.
When her plate was clean, Elena stared across the empty dining room. The grandfather clock chimed the half-hour.
I can't stay here.
She pushed back her chair.
The thought pushed her to her feet. She carried her plate to the kitchen, but the door was cracked, and she could hear Marta's voice raised in good-natured exasperation over something about the produce delivery. She left the plate on the counter near the door and slipped back into the hall.
The front door was still within sight, the late afternoon light pooling on the stone floor. She thought about going to her room, but the walls felt too close, the ceiling too low. She thought about the library, but the books would feel like company she wasn't ready for.
She pushed open the front door and stepped outside.
The air was cooler now, the heat of the day bleeding out into the long shadows. The lake was still visible from the top of the steps, a sheet of dark blue glass between the trees, the surface barely rippling. The path curved down toward it, the same path she'd walked with Lisa that morning, but her feet didn't carry her that way.
Her gaze drifted to the left, following the line of the stone wall where she'd seen Victor earlier. The cottage was still there, half-hidden in the trees, its dark slate roof almost invisible against the canopy. The afternoon light caught one of its narrow windows, throwing a brief, bright flash before it passed.
She hadn't noticed it before. Not really. Not beyond the moment of seeing Victor leaning against the wall beside it. But now, standing alone in the cooling air, she felt a pull toward it. Something about its isolation, its quiet presence tucked away from the manor's grandeur. It looked older than the main house, somehow. More weathered. More lived-in.
Her feet moved before she made a conscious decision, carrying her along a narrow path she hadn't noticed earlier—a stone walkway that curved around the edge of the lawn and disappeared into the trees. The grass was longer here, untrimmed, brushing against her bare legs. The sound of the manor faded behind her, replaced by the rustle of leaves and the distant call of a bird.
The cottage emerged from the trees as she rounded a bend, and she saw it properly for the first time. It was small—two rooms, maybe three—built from the same gray stone as the manor but aged differently, the mortar cracked and darkened, moss growing in the seams. A low chimney rose from the roof, a thin thread of smoke curling into the still air. The windows were narrow and dark, but a soft light glowed behind one of them, warm and domestic.
A garden bed ran along the front of the cottage, dark soil turned and planted with neat rows of green—herbs, maybe, or vegetables. And there, kneeling beside it, his sleeves rolled to his elbows and his hands dark with earth, was Victor.
Elena stopped at the edge of the path, suddenly uncertain. She hadn't thought about what she would say. She hadn't thought about whether she should be here at all.
But Victor didn't turn around. His hands kept moving, tucking a small plant into the soil, patting the earth around its base with practiced care. His voice came low and even, carrying across the small clearing without effort.
"Can I help you with something, Miss Rossi?"
She started slightly. He still hadn't looked at her. She cleared her throat, feeling foolish. "I didn't mean to interrupt. I was just—walking."
"You're not interrupting." He reached for another plant, a small sprout with dark green leaves, and set it into the hole he'd prepared. His hands were steady, careful. "The path is open to you if you need, though I can’t say I get many visitors here."
She took a step closer, then another. The garden bed was more extensive than she'd first thought—rows of tomatoes, basil, something that might have been thyme, the air fragrant with crushed leaves and damp earth. The cottage looked different up close, less abandoned than she'd assumed. The windows were clean, the door painted a deep forest green that had been recently maintained.
"Do you live here?" she asked.
Victor's hands paused, just for a moment. Then he resumed his work, pressing the soil firmly around the new plant. "I do."
"I didn't know anyone lived out here. I thought it was a storage shed or something."
"It's not."
She waited for him to elaborate. He didn't. He reached for another plant, his movements efficient, his attention fixed on the soil.
"How long have you lived here?"
"Long enough."
The answer was smooth, practiced—the kind of deflection that closed a door without seeming to. Elena felt the shape of it, the deliberate vagueness, and something in her pressed against it.
"That's not really an answer."
Victor's hands stilled again. This time he sat back on his heels, and finally—finally—he turned his head to look at her.
His eyes were dark, unreadable, his face calm and neutral. The afternoon light caught the sharp lines of his jaw, the broad set of his shoulders. He was younger than she'd first assumed—early twenties, maybe, though there was something old in his gaze, something that had seen more than his years should carry.
"It's the answer I have," he said. "The cottage is a guest home. In payment of my service, I live here."
"But how long—"
"Miss Rossi." His voice was gentle, but final. "I'm happy to help you with anything you need. If you want a tour of the grounds, I can arrange that. If you have questions about security, I can answer them. But the cottage is my home, and my history with it isn't part of your contract with Mr. Thorn."
The words landed cleanly, not harsh but immovable. Elena felt the edge of them, the boundary he'd drawn, and she knew—with the same certainty she knew Liam's moods—that pushing further would only make the wall higher. She knew it was time to change the topic.
She stood there for a long moment, watching him work. His broad hands, more accustomed to carrying weapons than tending gardens, handled each small plant with remarkable care. He loosened the soil with his fingers before settling another young tomato into place, gently pressing the earth around its roots as though even that simple act deserved patience.
"I didn't picture you gardening," she admitted.
Victor's eyes remained on the garden, though the corner of his mouth lifted almost imperceptibly.
"I imagine there are a lot of things about me you haven't pictured."
She stepped a little closer, taking in the neat rows of vegetables and herbs stretching along the side of the cottage. Basil, rosemary, thyme, tomatoes, peppers—everything was carefully spaced, each plant healthy and thriving.
"Do you grow all of this yourself?"
"I do."
"It looks like a lot of work."
"It is."
"Worth it?"
Victor reached down and pinched away a yellowing leaf from one of the tomato plants before answering; the faintest hint of amusement appeared to cross his face. He rolled it between his fingers for a moment before letting it fall into a small bucket beside him.
"The funny thing about gardens," he said quietly, "is that most of the work is invisible."
Elena frowned slightly.
He gestured toward the rows with a dirt-stained hand.
"You don't notice the mornings spent watering before the sun gets too hot. You don't see the roots stretching beneath the soil, or the days when nothing seems to change at all." He paused to straighten a small wooden stake supporting one of the younger plants. "Most people only notice the day it blooms."
Elena found herself looking across the garden differently now. The herbs swayed gently in the afternoon breeze, alive because of countless small moments no one would ever witness.
Victor glanced up at her then, his expression calm and unreadable.
"People aren't that different," he said.
Elena was quiet for a moment, letting the words settle.
"No," she said at last, softer now. "I suppose they aren't."
The words hung over the little garden, carried away by the rustling leaves.
After a moment, Elena asked quietly, "So... all the invisible work matters more than the flower?"
Victor smiled—not broadly, but enough that it softened the hard lines of his face.
"The flower is only proof the work mattered."
He knelt again, brushing another handful of earth around the base of a young pepper plant.
"People admire what they can see," he continued. "The harvest. The blossoms. The finished thing." His hand rested lightly against the dark soil. "Very few ever appreciate what it took to get there."
Elena's gaze drifted toward the manor rising above the trees. From here it looked peaceful, almost welcoming in the late afternoon light. She wondered how much of it had been built on work no one ever noticed.
"I guess that makes it easy to overlook people."
Victor nodded once.
"It happens every day."
She watched him settle another plant into the earth.
"And yet you still do the work."
He brushed the dirt from his palms and looked out across the little garden.
"If something is worth protecting," he said quietly, "it doesn't matter who notices."
For reasons she couldn't explain, the words lingered with her long after he returned to tending the rows in silence.
"Victor?"
He paused, his hands resting on the dark soil. "Yes?"
"Why were you watching us? At the lake?"
He was quiet for a moment. Then he reached for a trowel, turning the earth in a neat, precise motion. "Because that's my job, Miss Rossi. To watch. To make sure nothing happens that shouldn't."
"And did it?" She heard the edge in her own voice. "Something that shouldn't have happened?"
Victor straightened, setting down the trowel. He rose to his feet in one smooth motion, brushing the dirt from his hands onto his trousers. For a long moment, he just looked at her, his face unreadable in the fading light.
"I just saw two women having fun," he said. "I don’t see all, but I’ll do everything I can to keep people safe here."
He held her gaze, and she felt the weight of what he wasn't saying settle between them.
"If that’s all, Miss Rossi," he said. "I would like to get back to my garden."
He turned back to his garden, lowering himself to his knees, his hands finding the soil again. The dismissal was clear, and this time, Elena took it.
She walked back up the path, the trees closing behind her, the cottage disappearing into the shadows. The manor rose ahead of her, gray and solid, its windows beginning to glow with warm light as evening settled over the grounds.
She paused at the top of the steps and glanced back toward the trees.
The cottage had already disappeared into the evening shadows, hidden beneath the thick canopy. Somewhere beyond them, Victor was likely still kneeling in the garden, tending his plants as the last light faded.
For a moment, she envied him.
He had his own corner of the estate. A place that belonged to him.
The manor rose before her, its tall windows glowing warmly against the gathering dusk. From the outside, it almost looked welcoming.
Almost.
Elena climbed the steps and pushed through the heavy front doors. The familiar scent of polished wood and old stone settled around her, followed by the distant murmur of voices from the kitchen. Someone laughed, and just as quickly the sound faded, swallowed by the size of the house.
She slipped her phone from her pocket as she crossed the hall. Looking at the day and time. Saturday, 8:42 P.M. Surprised to see the message.
Work continues tomorrow. Study 9 A.M. - Thorn.
Why would he need us to work on a Sunday?
CURRENT END OF CONTENT - DO NOT READ PAST THIS PART PLEASE.