Samantha’s POV
The mansion looked like it had been pulled out of someone else's life.
I stood at the gate, staring up at its dark stone walls and towering columns. Wrought iron twisted like thorns above, barbed wire coiled along the edges, and little black cameras blinked like silent eyes. The air around the place felt… hushed. Like even the wind knew better than to speak here.
My fingers clutched the massage table handle tighter. Each step forward felt less like a walk and more like a sacrifice.
No innocent man lives like this.
It wasn’t just the rumors whispering in my ear anymore—it was the energy. The kind of bone-deep stillness you only find in places built on secrets.
The front door swung open before I could raise my hand to knock. A man stood there—early thirties, charming in a sharp, almost disarming way. Suit crisp, smile crooked.
“You must be Samantha,” he said, and something in his tone told me he already knew everything about me.
He took the table from my hands before I could say a word. “I’m Aaron. Business partner. Not husband, don’t worry.”
I let out a nervous laugh, grateful for the kindness in his voice. His presence felt like the only warm thing in this entire place.
He led me through a hallway lined with antique paintings and thick shadows. The house was stunning—ornate, expensive, but closed off. Aloof. Like the furniture had been arranged by ghosts and no one ever sat in the chairs. Everything gleamed, but nothing lived.
“Thanks,” I murmured when we reached a dim side room.
Aaron turned to me, one brow raised. “Just so you’re not caught off guard… he can be a little temperamental. My advice? Don’t take it personally. Just do your thing.”
I nodded, even though my throat had gone dry. “Got it.”
He gave me a half-smile before slipping out and shutting the door behind him.
Alone, I exhaled and tried to collect myself.
The room was pristine. Cold. Stark white walls, polished floors, blackout curtains drawn tight. I laid out the sheets, unfolded my supplies, unpacked my kit. Everything felt normal, methodical—until one of the oil bottles slipped from my hand and rolled across the floor with a soft clink.
I dropped to my knees to retrieve it, muttering under my breath.
And then I felt it.
That prickling chill, crawling across the back of my neck. A pressure. Like a storm had entered the room behind me without making a sound.
I turned.
And froze.
He stood there, dripping from the shower, a towel slung low on his hips. Hair damp, chest carved with muscle. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just… watched me. And not the way men on the street watched. No, this gaze was colder. Heavier. Like he could see through me.
I straightened slowly, heat creeping up my neck. “I’m Samantha,” I began, flustered. “Your—”
“You’re three minutes late.”
The words cut like ice. Clipped. Commanding.
And then, without warning, he dropped the towel.
Just like that.
The breath caught in my chest. I whipped my head away, pretending to fuss with the table, cheeks burning.
He walked past me, each step deliberate, his presence too large for the room. He lay down on the table like it was a throne and I was the servant sent to attend him.
I swallowed hard.
This isn’t real. It felt like something out of a dream. Or maybe a nightmare.
And suddenly, it struck me—this whole situation, this house, him— I felt like Belle standing in the Beast’s castle, except there were no talking clocks or enchanted roses. Just a girl with broken dreams and too many bills, facing a man who could devour her whole.
But unlike the fairytale… I didn’t think the monster wanted to be saved.