The logistics of becoming Cassian Wolfhart's personal assistant were handled with frightening efficiency. By the end of the day, before the adrenaline from accepting the position had even fully dissipated, a sleek black car was waiting to take me to his estate. My small apartment, with its chipped walls and worn furniture, felt a million miles away as the city lights blurred past the tinted windows. Reyna Lancaster, tech heiress and now live-in assistant to a billionaire, was fully inhabiting the role.
His estate was less a house and more a sprawling fortress disguised as a luxurious modern mansion. Gates, security cameras, and a long, winding driveway that felt designed to deter the uninvited. The car pulled up to a grand entrance, all clean lines and understated wealth. A woman in a crisp uniform opened the door, offering a polite, almost deferential smile.
"Welcome, Ms. Lancaster. Mr. Wolfhart is expecting you."
Inside, the house was vast and minimalist, filled with expensive art and uncomfortable-looking furniture. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered panoramic views of the manicured grounds and the distant city skyline. It was beautiful, sterile, and utterly devoid of warmth. It was, I realized with a jolt, a perfect reflection of the man who owned it.
The housekeeper—Eleanor, a stern-faced woman who looked like she'd seen it all—showed me to my room. Except it wasn't just a room. It was a suite, larger than my entire apartment, with its own living area, a walk-in closet, and a bathroom that featured a tub I could practically swim in. It felt less like accommodation for a personal assistant and more like a guest wing for someone important. Or someone to be kept under close watch.
"Mr. Wolfhart thought you would be more comfortable having your own space," Eleanor said, her tone flat and unreadable. "Though you are expected to be available whenever needed."
"Of course," I replied, forcing a smile. Available whenever needed. The words had a subtly ominous undertone in this house.
After Eleanor left, I walked over to the window, looking out at the dark grounds. Somewhere out there, Cassian was moving through his evening, unaware that the woman he'd invited into his home was planning his downfall. The weight of the deception pressed down on me, heavier than ever.
Later that evening, a soft knock on my door announced Eleanor again.
"Mr. Wolfhart requests your presence in his study, Ms. Lancaster."
His study was exactly what you'd expect: dark wood, leather armchairs, shelves lined with books that looked like they were more for show than for reading. Cassian was seated behind a large desk, a laptop open in front of him, the screen casting a blue glow on his face. He looked tired, the sharp edges of his features softened by weariness.
He gestured to one of the leather chairs facing him. "Have a seat, Reyna. Welcome to the lion's den."
A small smile touched my lips. "I prefer to think of myself as the unexpected visitor."
He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound. "Unexpected, certainly. But visitors usually leave."
"And I don't?"
"Not if you prove yourself... essential."
Essential. Another dangerous word. He leaned back in his chair, lacing his fingers behind his head.
"Eleanor showed you to your suite?"
"She did. It's... very generous, Mr. Wolfhart."
"Cassian," he corrected softly. "If you're going to be living here, we should dispense with the formalities. At least when we're alone."
Living here. The reality of it settled in. I was living in his house. Under his roof.
"Cassian," I repeated, testing the name. It felt foreign, yet oddly natural, on my tongue.
"Good." He nodded, his eyes holding mine. "Now, about your duties. Beyond the standard personal assistant tasks—scheduling, correspondence, managing travel—there will be things that require a higher degree of... discretion."
He paused, letting the word hang in the air. "Matters that cannot leave this house. Information that must be handled with absolute care."
He was talking about the secrets, the vulnerabilities I was here to expose. He was giving me the rope, perhaps even trusting me to tie the noose.
"I understand," I said, my voice steady. "Confidentiality is paramount."
"More than paramount. It is the foundation this empire is built on." His expression hardened slightly. "Betrayal, Reyna, is not tolerated."
It wasn't just a warning; it was a promise. A chilling reminder of the consequences if he ever discovered my true identity, my true purpose.
We talked for a while longer about the specifics of the role, his expectations, the intricate web of his business and personal life. He outlined upcoming events, key contacts, the delicate balance of power players he navigated daily. He spoke with a casual authority that was both commanding and unsettling. He was laying bare the architecture of his world, unknowingly giving me the blueprint to dismantle it.
As the hour grew late, a yawn escaped me, and I quickly covered my mouth.
"Apologies," I murmured. "Long day."
"It has been," he agreed, closing his laptop. "We'll start properly in the morning. For tonight, get settled in. Make yourself at home."
Make myself at home. The words echoed in the vast, silent study. This was not my home. It was my battleground.
He rose from his desk. "Come, I'll show you something."
He led me out of the study and down a long, art-lined corridor. My heart hammered against my ribs. Where was he taking me? Was this some kind of test?
He stopped outside a door near the far end of the hall. It looked similar to the one leading to my suite, but something about it felt different, more... personal.
He pushed it open. "This is my room."
My breath hitched. His room. Why was he showing me his room?
He stepped inside, and I followed, hesitant. It was less stark than the rest of the house, though still undeniably masculine. A large bed dominated the center, covered in dark, expensive-looking linens. There was a fireplace, a seating area, and a wall of windows that offered an even more spectacular view of the city lights.
"I had Eleanor prepare the adjoining suite for you," he said, gesturing towards a closed door on the far side of the room. "It made more sense, logistically. Quicker access in case something urgent comes up in the night."
My mind reeled. The adjoining suite. Separated only by a door. Quicker access.
And then I saw it. The bed.
It was massive, easily big enough for two people. And there was only one.
My eyes flicked from the bed to the adjoining door, then back to Cassian. He was watching me, his expression unreadable, a hint of something unsaid in his gaze.
The outline's cryptic note flashed in my mind: one bed, shared tension.
It wasn't a logistical arrangement. It was a deliberate choice. He had put me not just in his house, but in the suite directly connected to his. Close enough that a shared wall was all that separated us. Close enough that any sound, any movement, could potentially be heard. Close enough that the unspoken tension between us would be a constant, vibrating presence.
This wasn't just about work. It was about proximity. About control. About testing the boundaries of this dangerous, deceptive relationship we were building.
"Logistically," I repeated faintly, the word feeling hollow.
"Precisely," he said, his voice smooth as velvet. He walked over to the window, looking out at the city lights. "We're going to be spending a lot of time in close quarters, Reyna. It's best to be... efficient."
He turned back to me, and his eyes, dark and intense in the dim light, seemed to see right through me.
"Get some rest," he said. "Tomorrow, the real work begins."
I nodded, unable to form a coherent reply. The "one bed" wasn't the issue; the proximity was. The knowledge that he was just a door away, that the line between my carefully constructed lie and his unnerving reality was now thinner than ever.
I retreated to my adjoining suite, closing the door behind me with a soft click that sounded deafening in the silence. The luxurious room felt less like a sanctuary and more like a cage. I was in, deep inside the wolf's den, closer than I had ever anticipated.
And I was terrified I was going to get burned by the fire I had so deliberately walked into.
My first night in Cassian Wolfhart's home. And the tension was already a palpable thing, a silent scream in the close quarters of his carefully curated world.