The mansion loomed before me, its towering gates almost mocking my every step. The Blackwood estate was nothing short of a palace—marble floors, crystal chandeliers, and gold-trimmed everything. I hated it. The beauty was suffocating, and the silence... unnerving.
I'd only been working here for a few months, but already, I knew every corner of the place. The smell of fresh linen in the hallways. The soft hum of the air conditioning that kept everything perfectly cool. But most of all, I knew Dylan's room. The one I had to clean every week.
It was always the same. A few stray clothes on the floor, his bed made just so, the books scattered across his desk as if he'd left in a rush. But today, it was different. The room felt… wrong. Like something was off.
I reached for the door handle, my hand trembling, and pushed it open.
And there he was—standing by the window, staring out at the horizon. His usual smug expression was replaced by something colder, darker. His back was to me, but I could feel his awareness of my presence, like he could hear my every breath.
"You're late," he said without turning. His voice was low, almost a whisper.
I swallowed hard. "I—I'm sorry. I lost track of time."
"Don't make excuses," he snapped, turning sharply to face me. His gaze locked onto mine, and for a moment, I felt trapped. His eyes weren't just cold—they were calculating. Every part of me screamed to run, but my feet wouldn't move.
There was a silence, thick with tension. And then, in a move I didn't expect, Dylan crossed the room toward me. His steps were slow, deliberate, like he was savoring my discomfort.
"You think you're clever, hiding in the shadows," he said softly, his lips curling into that devilish smirk I hated so much. "But you're not. Everyone knows. Everyone can see."
I tried to speak, but my voice caught in my throat.
"You're not one of them," he said, his tone suddenly serious. "You're nothing like them."
I didn't understand what he meant—was he mocking me? Or did he see something I hadn't realized? Before I could respond, he stepped even closer, almost close enough to touch.
I couldn't breathe. The distance between us felt suffocating, and for a brief second, I felt a spark of something—a strange, dangerous pull. But I immediately pushed it away. This was Dylan Blackwood. He was nothing but trouble.
"I don't need you here," he said softly, but there was a fire in his eyes. "But I won't make you leave, not yet."
And just like that, the moment passed. He turned away again, walking back toward the window.
I stood there, unsure of what had just happened.
Was he playing me? Or was I starting to see a side of him no one else saw?
turned quickly, ready to leave, but his voice stopped me mid-step.
"Next time," he said without looking back, "knock first."
It wasn't a suggestion—it was a command.
I walked out of his room with my heart racing, my hands shaking against the cleaning tray. The moment the door closed behind me, I leaned against the wall, trying to calm the storm inside me.
What was that?
Why did he speak to me like that? Like he knew something I didn't. Like he saw through me. I hated how he made me feel—small, exposed… and worst of all, curious.
I didn't come here to feel.
I came to survive.
"Girl," Miss Anne's voice snapped me out of my spiral. She was standing at the end of the hallway, arms crossed. "You don't get paid to daydream. The guest rooms need dusting."
I nodded quickly and walked away without another word.
But even as I moved on to the next room, feather duster in hand and mask of indifference back in place, I could feel it.
That moment.
That tension.
The crack in Dylan Blackwood's perfect, untouchable world—just wide enough for me to see through.
Or maybe... just wide enough for him to pull me into it.
DYLAN'S ROOM
She closed the door behind her, and still… I didn't move.
Isla.
Even her name sounded soft.
Too soft for this house. Too soft for me.
I turned slowly, eyes settling on the spot where she'd stood, clutching that tray like it was armor. But she didn't have any armor—not really. She had that quiet defiance, the kind that tried to hide in silence. That thought she could survive by becoming invisible.
She had no idea who I was.
They all thought they did—teachers, classmates, even my parents. The boy with the face of an angel and the mind of a devil. The rich heir who didn't care. They were half right.
But Isla…
She looked at me like she wasn't afraid. No one did that.
That wasn't bravery. That was stupid.
I let out a dry chuckle and walked to my desk, shoving aside the textbooks and grabbing the silver lighter from the drawer. The flame snapped to life with a familiar hiss.
I stared into it.
I didn't know why she got under my skin so easily. Maybe it was because she didn't try to impress me. Maybe it was because when she looked at me, it wasn't with admiration or fear.
It was with… pity.
And I hated that.
I hated her for thinking she could exist in my space and not feel the consequences.
But more than that, I hated myself for remembering the way her lips trembled when I got too close. The way she didn't flinch.
She didn't belong here. She didn't belong anywhere near me.
But now that I'd seen her, really seen her, I couldn't unsee it.
And I wouldn't let her walk away untouched.
The flame flickered once, then died beneath my fingers.
I smiled to myself in the silence of my room.
She thinks she can walk in and out of my world like she doesn't matter.
But now she does.
And I don't let things go once I've decided they're mine.