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The car pulled up at 11:47 PM.
I checked my phone twice because that felt deliberate. Who moves someone in before midnight? The driver didn't speak, just opened the door to a private underground garage that smelled like concrete and cold air. My two suitcases looked stupid sitting in the trunk of a car that probably cost more than my last year's rent.
"Ms. Rowe." A woman in a gray suit appeared from nowhere. No smile. "I'm Claire. I'll show you up."
I followed her into an elevator with no buttons. She pressed her palm to a black panel and the doors closed. My stomach dropped as we shot upward. I counted the seconds. Twenty-three floors, maybe more. When the doors opened, we weren't in a hallway.
We were inside.
The penthouse stretched out in front of me like something from a magazine I'd never buy. Floor-to-ceiling windows showing the city lights. Dark wood floors. Furniture that looked expensive because it didn't try. Everything was clean. Too clean. Like no one actually lived here.
"Your room is down the left corridor, second door." Claire set my suitcases down without a sound. "Mr. Ash requests you do not enter his office or the east wing. The kitchen is stocked. Your duties begin tomorrow at sunset."
Sunset. Not morning. Sunset.
"Where is he?" I asked.
"Mr. Ash keeps his own hours." She handed me a keycard. Black, no logo. "This opens your room and the elevator. Nowhere else. Do you have questions?"
I had about forty questions. I went with the easy one. "What time is sunset?"
"Tomorrow, 5:43 PM." She turned toward the elevator. "I suggest you rest. And Ms. Rowe—"
I waited.
"Stay in your room after midnight."
The elevator doors closed before I could ask why.
I stood there in the silent penthouse and felt the hair on my arms stand up. The city lights outside didn't make it feel less empty. I pulled my suitcases down the left corridor, wheels too loud on the wood, and found my room.
It was bigger than my last apartment.
King bed. Attached bathroom with a tub I could drown in. A desk by the window. Closet already lined with hangers, all facing the same direction. I locked the door and sat on the bed and pulled up my sleeve.
The contract was still there. Thin red lines like someone had drawn them with a needle, spelling out words I'd signed an hour ago. *Contracted. Bound. Property of Lucien Ash.*
I rubbed at it. The lines didn't smudge. My skin felt normal. No raised edges, no heat. Just red ink that shouldn't be under my skin but was.
My phone buzzed. A text from my mom. *Did you find something?*
I stared at it. What was I supposed to say? Yeah, Mom, I took a job that branded me and I'm not allowed to leave the building. I turned the phone off and shoved it in my bag.
I lasted twenty minutes before I got curious.
The penthouse was too quiet. No hum of a fridge, no air conditioning kicking on, no neighbors through the walls. I opened my door and listened. Nothing. Just my own breathing and the faint sound of the city outside, muffled by glass that probably cost more per square foot than I'd made in a month.
I told myself I was just looking. Just getting familiar with the space. That's normal, right? You move somewhere new, you explore.
The kitchen was spotless. I opened the fridge. Rows of bottled water, plain yogurt, pre-cut fruit in glass containers. A shelf of meals in black boxes with dates written on them in neat handwriting. Today's date. Tomorrow's. The day after. Someone had planned this down to the day.
I checked the freezer. More black boxes. And in the back, behind a bag of ice, three dark glass bottles with no labels.
I pulled one out. Heavy. Cold. The liquid inside didn't slosh like water. Thicker. I held it up to the light.
It looked red.
"I wouldn't open that if I were you."
I dropped the bottle. It hit the floor and didn't break, just rolled across the tile until it stopped at someone's shoe. Black leather. Polished.
I looked up.
Lucien Ash stood in the kitchen doorway, and I realized I hadn't actually seen him before. Not really. The office had been dim, all those papers and shadows. Here, under the pendant lights, I could see him clearly.
He looked like money. Dark hair, sharp jaw, the kind of bone structure that didn't need good lighting. White shirt with the sleeves rolled up. No tie. He should've looked relaxed. He didn't. He looked like he was deciding something.
And his mouth—
There was something dark at the corner of his lip. Red-black. He noticed me staring and wiped it away with his thumb, slow, like he had all the time in the world.
"You're supposed to be in your room," he said.
His voice was different than I remembered. Quieter. Lower. It didn't match the size of the space.
"It's 11:58," I said. My heart was kicking against my ribs. "Not midnight yet."
His eyes flicked to the clock on the wall. Then back to me. They were pale gray in the office. Here they looked darker. Almost black. Trick of the light, maybe.
"Claire gave you instructions."
"She gave me a curfew." I straightened up, trying to look like I belonged here. Like I wasn't scared. "I'm twenty-six. I don't do curfews."
"You do now." He bent down, picked up the bottle I'd dropped, and set it on the counter between us. His hand was steady. Mine weren't. "This isn't a dorm, Ms. Rowe. It's a contract. You agreed to terms."
"Terms that didn't mention curfews or locked wings or—" I gestured at the bottle. "Whatever that is."
"That," he said softly, "is none of your concern."
I should've left it. Should've nodded and gone back to my room and minded my own business like a smart person who wanted to keep her six-figure job. But my mouth had other plans.
"Was it Vivian's concern?"
The air changed. I felt it before I saw his face shift. Something cold rolled through the kitchen, prickling the back of my neck. Lucien went very still.
"Where did you hear that name?"
"Contract paperwork." My voice came out steadier than I felt. "I had to sign for her keys. Her room. Her NDA. What happened to her?"
"She left."
"Or she found out what you keep in the freezer."
He smiled. It wasn't a nice smile. It was the kind of smile that made you realize you'd miscalculated something important.
"You're clever," he said. "That's going to be a problem."
He moved and suddenly he was closer, and I didn't see him cross the space. One second he was by the counter. The next he was in front of me, close enough that I could smell something sharp and metallic under expensive cologne.
"Go back to your room, Evelyn."
He'd never used my first name before.
"What are you?" I whispered.
His eyes locked on mine. Up close they weren't black. They were dark gray ringed in something lighter, something that caught the light wrong. Reflective. Like an animal's.
"I'm the man who pays you enough not to ask questions." His voice dropped lower. Softer. "And if you're smart, you'll start earning that money right now by walking away."
I should've listened. Every instinct I had was screaming at me to move, to run, to get back behind a door that locked. But my legs weren't working. And part of me—the stupid part, the part that signed a contract with red ink that burned—wanted to see what he'd do if I stayed.
"What if I don't?" I asked.
Something flickered in his expression. Surprise, maybe. Or hunger. It was gone before I could name it.
"Then you'll find out why the last girl left."
He stepped back. The cold feeling lifted. I could breathe again. He picked up the bottle, walked to the freezer, and put it back where I'd found it. When he turned around, his face was smooth again. Controlled. The red was gone from his mouth.
"It's midnight, Ms. Rowe. You're in violation of your contract." He walked past me toward the dark hallway. "I'll forgive it this once. Don't make me regret hiring someone curious."
He disappeared into the shadows of the east wing. I heard a door close. A lock turn.
I stood in the kitchen under the pendant lights and counted to ten, then twenty, then thirty. My hands were shaking. I walked back to my room on legs that felt like water, locked the door, shoved the desk chair under the handle, and sat on the bed.
The red lines on my wrist itched.
I pulled up my sleeve and froze.
New words were rising under my skin, letter by letter, written in the same thin red ink. I watched them form, my throat closing up.
*Don't let him smell your blood.*
I stared at my wrist until my vision blurred. The words didn't fade. Didn't smudge. They sat there on my skin like a warning or a threat or a promise.
Somewhere in the penthouse, a clock struck twelve-fifteen. I didn't sleep. I sat there with my back against the headboard and my sleeve pulled down and tried to figure out how much money it would take to make me stay until morning.
The answer should've been none. But I didn't pack my bags. I didn't call a cab. I sat there and waited for the sun to come up, and I hated myself a little for it.
Because the truth was, I wanted to know what he was. And what I'd just signed myself into.
And that was going to get me killed.