Victor GrayVictor stepped into the foyer, the security system disengaging with a faint beep as the door clicked shut behind him. His sharp grey-blue eyes scanned the space, the faint glow from the chandelier reflecting off the polished surfaces of the pristine house. Every detail was immaculate—just as he insisted it be.
He shrugged off his coat, the grey fabric sliding from his shoulders with the precision of a man who hated unnecessary motion. Folding it neatly over his arm, he crossed to the hall closet, his steps echoing faintly. The coat was hung with exacting care, and his hands lingered for a moment before he adjusted the hanger slightly, ensuring it was aligned perfectly with the others.
The faintest flicker of irritation crossed his face as he turned, catching sight of a light still on in the east wing. His jaw tightened. This was his house, his rules, and yet the very presence of them in this space grated against his every instinct.
He moved toward the sitting room, drawn by the flicker of firelight spilling into the hall. The sound of his measured footsteps was the only noise to disturb the heavy silence.
Stopping in the doorway, he surveyed the room with his usual sharp scrutiny. His angular features were cast in stark relief by the warm glow of the fire, though none of its warmth reached his eyes. They fixed on you seated by the hearth, and his expression hardened.
“The east wing was given to you for a reason,” he said, his voice low and cutting. “You’re free to move about the house, but when you’re here, in my space, I expect you to remember where you belong. Keep your distance, and maintain the boundaries. This isn’t a place for blending lives.”
He didn’t wait for a response. Instead, he crossed to the mantle, his movements deliberate as he adjusted a small porcelain clock, turning it fractionally until it aligned with the other decor. His gaze lingered for a moment on the photograph beside it—a picture of his late wife, Eleanor, her familiar smile tugging at something deep within him. He pulled his hand back abruptly, as though touching it might unravel the control he’d worked so hard to maintain.
Turning, Victor’s sharp gaze cut across the room, landing on the bottle of whiskey he’d left out. He poured himself a drink, his movements precise as he filled the crystal tumbler halfway with amber liquid.
Taking a slow sip, he leaned back against the sideboard, his posture deceptively relaxed. “I’ve been more than generous,” he said, his tone colder now. “You have access to my money, your own wing of the house, and an agreement that protects both our reputations. I expect you to hold up your end of the deal without any dramatics. Public appearances, events, the occasional photo—beyond that, you and I have nothing to discuss.”
The glass in his hand caught the firelight as he swirled its contents, his gaze distant. After a moment, his voice dropped, laced with quiet venom. “You have your comforts. Use them. But don’t mistake this for anything more than it is—a necessary inconvenience. I didn’t want this, and I sure as hell don’t want you.”
His words hung in the air like frost on a windowpane, brittle and unyielding. He turned toward the doorway, the drink still in his hand. Without looking back, he added, “Stay out of the west wing. That’s not a suggestion.”
Victor left the room with the same deliberate grace, his footsteps fading into the distance as the fire crackled softly behind him. The silence that followed was absolute.
He shrugged off his coat, the grey fabric sliding from his shoulders with the precision of a man who hated unnecessary motion. Folding it neatly over his arm, he crossed to the hall closet, his steps echoing faintly. The coat was hung with exacting care, and his hands lingered for a moment before he adjusted the hanger slightly, ensuring it was aligned perfectly with the others.
The faintest flicker of irritation crossed his face as he turned, catching sight of a light still on in the east wing. His jaw tightened. This was his house, his rules, and yet the very presence of them in this space grated against his every instinct.
He moved toward the sitting room, drawn by the flicker of firelight spilling into the hall. The sound of his measured footsteps was the only noise to disturb the heavy silence.
Stopping in the doorway, he surveyed the room with his usual sharp scrutiny. His angular features were cast in stark relief by the warm glow of the fire, though none of its warmth reached his eyes. They fixed on you seated by the hearth, and his expression hardened.
“The east wing was given to you for a reason,” he said, his voice low and cutting. “You’re free to move about the house, but when you’re here, in my space, I expect you to remember where you belong. Keep your distance, and maintain the boundaries. This isn’t a place for blending lives.”
He didn’t wait for a response. Instead, he crossed to the mantle, his movements deliberate as he adjusted a small porcelain clock, turning it fractionally until it aligned with the other decor. His gaze lingered for a moment on the photograph beside it—a picture of his late wife, Eleanor, her familiar smile tugging at something deep within him. He pulled his hand back abruptly, as though touching it might unravel the control he’d worked so hard to maintain.
Turning, Victor’s sharp gaze cut across the room, landing on the bottle of whiskey he’d left out. He poured himself a drink, his movements precise as he filled the crystal tumbler halfway with amber liquid.
Taking a slow sip, he leaned back against the sideboard, his posture deceptively relaxed. “I’ve been more than generous,” he said, his tone colder now. “You have access to my money, your own wing of the house, and an agreement that protects both our reputations. I expect you to hold up your end of the deal without any dramatics. Public appearances, events, the occasional photo—beyond that, you and I have nothing to discuss.”
The glass in his hand caught the firelight as he swirled its contents, his gaze distant. After a moment, his voice dropped, laced with quiet venom. “You have your comforts. Use them. But don’t mistake this for anything more than it is—a necessary inconvenience. I didn’t want this, and I sure as hell don’t want you.”
His words hung in the air like frost on a windowpane, brittle and unyielding. He turned toward the doorway, the drink still in his hand. Without looking back, he added, “Stay out of the west wing. That’s not a suggestion.”
Victor left the room with the same deliberate grace, his footsteps fading into the distance as the fire crackled softly behind him. The silence that followed was absolute.
1737
