The estate wasn't a home. It was a fortress disguised as a palace.
High stone walls topped with electric fencing cut the property off from the world. The black iron gates were geometric, sharp, and imposing.
Lauren rolled down her window as a security guard stepped out of a booth nicer than her first apartment. He didn't smile. He checked her ID against a tablet, scanned her face, and nodded once.
"Drive straight up. Do not park on the grass."
The gates swung open silently.
The driveway was a ribbon of black asphalt lined with symmetrical cypress trees. At the end sat the mansion—a sprawling structure of dark stone and floor-to-ceiling glass perched on a cliff edge. It looked cold. It looked expensive. It looked lonely.
Lauren parked her modest sedan next to a black Aston Martin that cost more than her life's earnings.
She checked her reflection. Professional waves. Minimal makeup. Sharp black blazer. Armor.
She stepped out, the gravel crunching under her heels. She reached for her lipstick, but a sudden chill danced down her spine.
Eyes.
The sensation was visceral, a physical weight between her shoulder blades. Lauren froze, scanning the darkened windows of the house.
Nothing. Just the wind and the silence.
"Get a grip, Hayes."
She walked to the massive front door—dark wood, handle-less. She knocked.
Silence. Then, a mechanical click.
The door swung open.
A woman stood there. She looked like she belonged in a period drama—black dress, white apron, severe blonde bun. But her eyes were milky, unfocused, staring straight through Lauren's left shoulder.
Blind.
"Ms. Hayes," the maid said. Her voice was clipped, devoid of warmth.
"Yes. I have a nine o'clock with Mr. Knight." Lauren extended her hand, then dropped it, feeling foolish.
The maid didn't react. She turned, her movements fluid and practiced, navigating the space with unsettling precision.
"Follow me."
Lauren stepped inside. The door clicked shut behind her, sealing out the sunlight.
The interior was breathtakingly stark. Polished black marble floors reflected the high ceilings like a dark pool. The walls held violent abstract art—splashes of crimson and charcoal. No photos. No clutter. It smelled of cedar, old books, and something metallic.
The maid led her down a hallway that felt endless. She stopped at a set of double doors.
"Wait here."
She opened the doors, ushered Lauren into a dining room, and closed them.
Lauren stood alone.
A raw-edge wood table dominated the space, long enough to seat twenty. At the far end, a single place setting was laid out. Silver cutlery. Crystal glass.
One chair.
"Okay," Lauren whispered, the sound too loud in the empty room. "Creepy maid. Mausoleum house. Doing great."
Her phone buzzed. Josephine.
Jo: Is he weird? If he has plastic sheets on the furniture, run.
Lauren snorted softly, typing back.
Lauren: I'm in. It's minimalist billionaire chic. The maid hates me. Haven't seen him y—
"Ms. Hayes."
The voice came from everywhere and nowhere. Deep. Smooth. A velvet baritone that vibrated through the floorboards and straight into the soles of Lauren's feet.
Lauren gasped, spinning around, clutching her phone to her chest.
Grey Knight was standing by the window.
He hadn't been there a second ago. She was sure of it.
He was taller than the photos. Broader. He wore a charcoal suit that fit him like a second skin, the white shirt beneath unbuttoned at the collar, exposing a hint of tan skin. But it was his face that stole the air from her lungs.
He was beautiful in the way a thunderstorm is beautiful—striking, terrifying, and utterly ruinous. High cheekbones, a sharp jawline, and eyes of piercing steel-gray with a strange, heterochromatic ring in the center.
He wasn't looking at her. He was dissecting her.
He didn't smile. He didn't move to shake her hand. He stood with a stillness that was unnatural, his hands in his pockets, radiating a cold, palpable power that made the hair on Lauren's arms stand up.
"You're late," he said.
Lauren checked her watch. "It's 9:01."
"Exactly," Grey said. He took a step toward her. "I don't pay for approximations, Ms. Hayes. I pay for precision."
He stopped two feet in front of her. Close enough for her to smell him—sandalwood, rain, and something sharp, like ozone.
Lauren swallowed, fighting the urge to step back. She straightened her spine, meeting his gaze.
"And I don't usually make house calls for murder suspects, Mr. Knight. So consider us even."
Grey's eyes narrowed slightly. The silence stretched, heavy and electric. He looked at her mouth, then back to her eyes.
"Bold," he murmured, the word sounding like a threat. "Let's see if you're smart."
He turned and walked toward the table, expecting her to follow.
"Sit."
It wasn't an offer. It was a command.