Presley led her down the hallway, his footsteps silent against the marble floor. Elena followed, her heels clicking in a rhythm that felt too loud in the quiet space. The walls were lined with paintings she didn't recognize — landscapes, mostly, deep greens and muted browns that belonged to a world far from the one she'd left behind this morning.
"This floor houses the study, your room, and a few other spaces," Presley said, his voice carrying that same measured calm as before. "Mr. Thorn prefers the first floor’s for his private quarters down the east wing. You'll rarely find him up here unless he's working."
Elena nodded, keeping her eyes forward. She didn't want to seem like she was casing the place, even though she was. Every door, every corner, every window — she cataloged them without meaning to. Old habit. The kind you pick up when you've lived in a sketchy apartment for too long.
They passed a doorway with tall oak doors, both sides open. Presley paused, gesturing inside. "The library. Mr. Thorn keeps an extensive collection. You're welcome to use it whenever you like."
Elena glanced in. Rows of bookshelves stretched from floor to ceiling, dark wood and soft lighting. A large lantern sat cold at the far end, flanked by leather armchairs that looked like they'd been there for decades. She could smell the old paper. She wanted to stop, to run her fingers along the spines, but Presley was already moving again.
"Maybe later," she said, more to herself than him.
The hallway turned a short distance past the library, revealing a shorter corridor. A single door sat before her, plain wood, no different from the others they'd passed. Presley stopped in front of it.
“This will be your room, Miss. If you need anything for me, just ring one of these bells in the home." He gestures to little bells sitting on a table in the corner of the hallway. "I'll leave you to settle in. If you need anything, just give the bell a ring.
Elena stoped to think about the bell. Its simple silver sitting on a small table in the corner next to her door. Why not use a phone? Trying to think no more of it, she stepped past him, through the doorway, and stopped.
The room was massive. A bed dominated the center — king-sized, at least, with a dark wooden frame and white linens that looked impossibly soft. It sat on a rug so thick and wide it swallowed half the marble floor beneath it. A lighter marble than the one in the hallway, cold and polished, but here it felt warmer, softened by the rug and the afternoon light streaming through a window that took up most of the far wall.
She walked toward it, her heels muffled on the rug. The view stole her breath.
The lake stretched out below, gray-blue and endless, catching the late sun in ripples of gold. A wooden patio extended from the window — she could see it now, leading to the edge of a small cliff that dropped into the water below. The same cliff she'd noticed from the study, but closer now. More real.
"Jesus," she breathed.
Elena turned, taking in the rest of the room. A wardrobe, dark wood, large enough to hold more clothes than she owned. A desk with a computer station — monitor, keyboard, a sleek tower she didn't recognize the brand of. A leather office chair sat behind it, swiveled slightly, as if someone had just stepped away.
And then the bathroom.
An archway with no door led into it, the space beyond visible from where she stood. White tile. A tub that could easily fit two almost three of her, comfortable and deep. A glass-walled shower took up the space just past the tub, also a large spacing. Her gaze slid across the long counter beneath a mirror that stretched the length of the wall, and a closed door she assumed led to the toilet.
She walked into the bathroom, her fingers brushing the edge of the tub. The porcelain was cool, smooth. She imagined sinking into hot water at the end of a long day — if she'd ever have a normal day again.
She turned back, crossing to the toilet door. It was solid wood, with a simple lock. She turned it, hearing the bolt slide into place. At least this had a door. That was something.
Stepping back into the bedroom, she stood alone in the middle of the room, surrounded by luxury that made it hard for her to remember this was her new cage. She looked at the bed, the desk, the view — all of it beautiful, but none of it was truly hers.
A soft knock at the door pulled her from the thought. Three quiet raps, deliberate, then silence.
Elena blinked, crossing to the door. She turned the handle. It opened.
A short woman stood there—maybe fifty, with steel-gray hair pulled tight into a bun and a face that looked like it had never wasted time on smiles. She carried a leather bag in one hand and a large envelope in the other, and before Elena could speak, she stepped inside like she owned the room.
"Good. You're still dressed." The woman set her bag on the bed with a soft thud. "I'm Mrs. Crane. Mr. Thorn sent me to get your measurements."
Elena's mouth opened, closed. "My—measurements?"
"For your work uniforms." Mrs. Crane pulled a measuring tape from her bag and gave it a sharp snap. "You'll need a full wardrobe. Meetings, events, dinners. Can't have you showing up in whatever that is." She gestured vaguely at Elena's maroon dress. "Now, arms out. Let's get started."
"Wait—" Elena took a half-step back. "What work uniforms? I just signed the contract. I don't even know what I'll be doing."
Mrs. Crane didn't look up from her bag, where she was now pulling out a small notebook and pen. "Look, Mr. Thorn has ordered an appointment of myservices at today and this is what he requests. Now, please let me do my job. The more you cooperate, the quicker I can be out of here." She clicked the pen. "Arms out."
Elena's jaw tightened. "I have questions."
"And I have a schedule." Mrs. Crane met her eyes for the first time—flat, unimpressed. "Arms out, Miss Rossi. The sooner I finish, the sooner you can ask your questions somewhere else."
Elena hesitated. The woman wasn't going to leave until she got what she came for. She let out a breath and raised her arms to her sides.
"Good." Mrs. Crane stepped forward, the tape measure cold as it wrapped around Elena's waist. "Hold still. Don't breathe in."
Elena stood rigid, the woman's hands efficient and impersonal—touching her hipbones, her ribs, the curve of her neck. She noted each number in her notebook without comment, then moved on.
"What kind of uniforms are these?" Elena tried again. "Business suits? Dresses?"
"You'll see when they're ready." The tape circled her chest, snug beneath her breasts. "Mr. Thorn likes a clean, polished look. Nothing too flashy. I'll be going through my selection once I know what fits."
"And where will I be wearing them?"
"Wherever he sends you." Mrs. Crane pulled the tape tighter. "Breathe out."
Elena complied, the fabric of her dress pressing against her skin. The woman's hands were warm now, leaving traces of heat wherever they touched. It wasn't uncomfortable, but it was invasive—the way she lifted Elena's arm to measure her sleeve length, the way she pressed the tape against her inner thigh for the inseam.
"Does Mr. Thorn always send someone to measure new employees?" Elena asked, her voice sharper than she intended.
Mrs. Crane paused, notebook in hand. "He doesn’t have ‘new employees.’ He normally requests my services to help adjust his suits," She resumed writing. "You’re the first person aside from Mr. Thorn that he has hired me to do this for. "
Elena swallowed. "What?"
"Young Lady." Mrs. Crane's eyes flicked up. "If you wish to know more than that. Ask him. I am simply following a client’s request, and you would learn that it is best not to make a man like Mr. Thorn unhappy."
She circled behind Elena, and the tape wrapped around her hips. "Now turn—slowly—let me get your waist properly."
Elena turned, her hands balling into fists at her sides. The woman's efficiency was almost insulting—no small talk, no explanation, just numbers and orders. She wanted to demand more answers, but the woman's tone made it clear she was just the messenger.
"How long will this take?" Elena asked.
"Ten minutes. Fifteen if you keep talking."
Elena shut her mouth.
Mrs. Crane worked in silence for a few minutes, taking measurements of her shoulders, waist, hips, inseam, neck circumference, and wrist. She had Elena raise her arms, lower them, turn, face away, stand still. Each command was delivered in the same flat tone, and Elena obeyed, feeling like a mannequin on a department store floor.
When the woman finished, she packed her tape and notebook into the leather bag without a word. She then grabs out a tablet and starts typing in a bunch of commands.
"The uniforms will be up here shortly," Mrs. Crane said without turning. "You'll have three sets to start. More will arrive by the end of the week. Mr. Thorn expects you to wear them during all working hours."
"And what are working hours?"
Mrs. Crane glanced over her shoulder, a flicker of something—amusement? warning?—in her eyes. "Whenever Mr. Thorn says they are."
She then picked up her bag and stepped through the door. The door clicked shut behind her.
Not even two minutes later, the knock came before Elena could fully process being alone again. Sharp. Three raps. The same rhythm as before.
She turned, her pulse quickening. The door swung open before she could cross to it.
Mrs. Crane stood there, same steel-gray bun, same flat expression. Behind her, a man—tall, silent, carrying an armload of fabric that draped over his hands like some dead creature. He didn't meet Elena's eyes.
"The uniforms," Mrs. Crane said, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. "As promised."
The man followed, his footsteps heavy on the marble. He crossed to the wardrobe without a word, and Elena watched as he began to move—efficient, practiced. He pulled hangers from inside the wardrobe, slid them through the shoulders of dark fabric, and hung them in neat rows.
Elena's breath caught.
Three white buttoned blouses, with black pencil skirts. The fabric caught the light, smooth and expensive, and she could already feel them against her skin—stiff, confining, wrong.
The man pulled another garment from his armload. A dress, deep burgundy, with a neckline that plunged lower than anything she'd ever worn. He hung it next to the suits.
"These are your work uniforms," Mrs. Crane said, her voice flat. "Mr. Thorn selected the styles himself. You'll find everything fits the measurements I took."
Elena's mouth opened. Closed. She watched the man move to the dresser, pulling open drawers with the same mechanical efficiency. He reached into the bag at his side—she hadn't noticed it before, a large black duffel—and pulled out handfuls of fabric that made her stomach drop.
Panties and bras. Lace, all of it. Black, deep red, a pale cream that looked almost white in the dim light. Delicate straps, sheer panels, embroidery that traced patterns she couldn't follow. He placed them in the drawers, folding them with a care that felt obscene.
Elena's hands curled into fists at her sides.
"Those are—"
"Your undergarments," Mrs. Crane said, not looking at her. "Mr. Thorn was specific about the materials. Silk and lace as he requested."
Elena stared at the open drawer. The lace seemed to pulse, delicate and intimate, each piece chosen by a man she'd met once. A man who'd watched her sign away her life. A man who now knew the size of her waist, her hips, her chest.
The man continued his work, pulling out nightgowns now—two of them, both short, both silk, one black and one the same pale cream. He laid them in the drawer beside the bras, smoothing the fabric flat.
Then jeans. A few pairs, dark wash, simple. Shorts, also dark. T-shirts, plain, soft-looking cotton. A single pair of sneakers, white, untouched.
The contrast was dizzying. The suits, severe and professional. The lingerie, intimate and deliberate. And then, almost as an afterthought, clothes she might have worn on a normal day—if she still had normal days.
"These are what I currently have in your sizes in my van," Mrs. Crane said. "They'll do for now. More will arrive by the end of the week, as I said."
Elena's voice came out rough. "Who chose the—the underwear?"
Mrs. Crane's eyes flicked to her. "Like I said before, Mr. Thorn."
"Why?"
"He didn't share his reasons with me." The woman's tone made it clear the conversation was over. She turned, gesturing to the man, who had finished his work and now stood by the wardrobe, hands empty. "We're done here.”
"Wait—"
But Mrs. Crane was already walking, the man falling into step behind her. She paused at the door, glancing back just once.
“I will not answer any more of your questions, girl.”
"Mrs. Crane—"
The door clicked shut in her face.
Elena stood alone in the center of the room, surrounded by the evidence of her new life. The suits hung in the wardrobe like spectators. The drawers gaped open, spilling lace and silk into the light. The nightgowns lay smooth and waiting.
She walked to the dresser on legs that felt numb. Her hand reached out, almost of its own accord, and touched the edge of a bra—black lace, delicate, the cups thin enough to see through. She pulled her hand back like she'd been burned.
"Jesus," she whispered.
She crossed to the wardrobe and pulled one of the blouses from its hanger. The fabric was soft, expensive, and cut to fit her shoulders and waist perfectly. She held it up, feeling the weight of it, the shape of it. A uniform. A cage made of wool and silk.
She hung it back up, her hands trembling.