Chapter 2: The Debt and the Sale (Part 2)
That night, the family home was filled with a heavy silence. Her mother cried in the bathroom with the faucet running. Her brother pretended to study, but Emma caught his reflection in the hallway mirror: red-rimmed eyes and an open notebook on a blank page. She packed her own bags with the efficiency of someone who had already rehearsed her farewell a hundred times in her mind.
One suitcase.
Three pairs of jeans.
Five T-shirts.
Two coats.
A toothbrush.
The diary she had sworn never to open again.
And an old photograph of her father, folded in half and tucked into the inner pocket.
At seven fifty the following morning, a pristine black car, quietly menacing, pulled up in front of the house. The driver—a middle-aged man in a dark uniform with the expression of someone who had seen it all—opened the rear door without saying a word.
Emma kissed her mother on the forehead.
“Five years. I’ll be back.”
Her mother squeezed her hand a little too tightly.
“If things get bad… call us. We’ll find a way.”
“It won’t be bad,” Emma lied. “It’ll just be… work.”
Her brother gave her an awkward, one-armed hug.
“If the guy’s a monster, let me know. I’ll take a bus over there and… I don’t know. Do something.”
Emma laughed for the first time in twenty-four hours.
“Don’t worry. If he’s a monster, I’ll send you a picture.”
The car pulled away. The city faded behind them. The houses grew farther apart until they gave way to trees, then fields, then a dirt road that seemed to stretch on forever. Emma stared out the window the entire time, trying to memorize the landscape as if it were the last time she would ever see the “normal” world.
After nearly three hours, the car passed through a towering iron gate adorned with intricate scrollwork that resembled both vines and claws. The private road was lined with ancient trees so dense that sunlight barely managed to penetrate their branches. The air changed. It grew colder and damper, carrying the scent of wet earth and something sweet that Emma couldn’t quite identify.
The mansion appeared without warning, as though invisible hands had pushed it out of the forest.
It was enormous. Absurdly enormous. Dark gray stone, tall, narrow windows, a pointed roof, and a front staircase that seemed designed to intimidate anyone who dared to climb it. There were no flowers in the garden. Only neatly trimmed grass and shrubs pruned with military precision. Every second-floor window was concealed behind heavy curtains.
The car stopped at the foot of the staircase. The driver stepped out, opened the door, and spoke for the first time.
“Miss Craven. Mr. Ross expects you to enter through the main entrance. Your suitcase will be taken to your quarters.”
Emma swallowed hard.
“Quarters. How sophisticated. I was expecting ‘the servants’ room in the basement.’”
The driver didn’t laugh. He merely inclined his head and disappeared with her suitcase as if it weighed nothing.
Emma climbed the steps. Every footfall echoed. The front door was made of dark wood, with an iron knocker shaped like a wolf’s head. She hesitated for only a second before knocking.
The door swung open on its own.
There was no one on the other side. Only a wide corridor illuminated by wall sconces that cast a soft, golden glow. The floor was black-and-white marble arranged in a geometric pattern. Ancient tapestries and portraits of people with expressions far too stern to be friendly adorned the walls. The air smelled of furniture polish, aged wood, and a barely perceptible metallic tang.
Emma stepped inside. Her sneakers made a ridiculously loud noise in the absolute silence.
“Hello?” she called, her voice coming out thinner than she would have liked. “I’m the… the new one. Emma Craven. The one from the contract.”
Nothing.
She took a few more steps. The corridor opened into an immense entrance hall, where a spiral staircase climbed toward a shadowy second floor. In the center of the hall, a round table made of dark wood held a silver vase filled with white flowers that looked far too artificial to be real.
That was when she heard the voice.
Low. Calm. With a slight accent she couldn’t quite place—something between old-fashioned and excessively well-mannered.
“Punctual. Interesting.”
Emma spun around.
He stood at the top of the staircase.
Nicco Ross didn’t look a hundred and fifty years old. He looked like a man of thirty-five, well-lived, with wavy black hair slicked back, skin almost unnaturally pale beneath the golden light, and dark eyes that studied Emma as though she were a curious object someone had left in the middle of the room. He wore a long-sleeved black shirt buttoned up to the collar and dark trousers. No jewelry. No extravagance. Just the posture of someone who knew exactly how much space he occupied in the world.
He descended the stairs without haste. Every step was silent.
“Emma Craven,” he said, stopping at a polite distance. “Welcome to Ross Manor.”