Ivy's POV
I hopped in, and the driver closed the door behind me. I looked out the window to see my colleagues exchanging confused glances. Honestly, I was even more confused than they were. Blackwood Enterprises? Urgent medical contract? What had I gotten myself into?
The car glided through the rain-slicked streets silently. I clutched my bag tightly, my mind racing with questions. Why me? How did they even find me? My phone buzzed in my coat pocket, but I ignored it — this was clearly a situation I had no control over.
The car stopped in front of tall, wrought-iron gates that opened without a sound. Morning mist curled along the driveway as we rolled in, the silence so heavy it made my heart beat louder in my chest. I still hadn't processed what had happened—one minute I was outside the hospital, and the next, someone had shown up asking if I was Dr. Ivy, ushering me into a sleek black car before I could even question it.
As we drove deeper into the estate, the world outside seemed to vanish behind walls of trimmed hedges and tall trees. Then the mansion appeared—massive, elegant, and pale against the faint morning light. The sun hadn't fully broken through the clouds yet, but the windows glowed faintly, like the house itself was awake and watching.
When the car stopped, the driver stepped out and opened my door.
"Dr. Ivy," he said evenly, "Mr. Blackwood is expecting you."
"Expecting me?" I blinked, gripping the strap of my bag. "There must be some mistake. I was supposed to report to—"
"Mr. Blackwood doesn't make mistakes," he said, his tone polite but firm.
Something in his voice silenced me. I stepped out, the gravel crunching softly under my shoes. The air smelled of rain and pine, sharp and clean. The front doors opened before we even reached them, and I was greeted by a butler whose expression was unreadable.
"Right this way, Dr. Ivy."
The butler's footsteps were soundless as he led me through the long corridor. My eyes trailed over the grand portraits and gold-edged mirrors that lined the walls—each one immaculate, untouched by time or dust. Everything here felt… sterile. Too perfect.
We stopped before a pair of tall, double doors.
"He's waiting," the butler said, bowing slightly before pushing them open.
The room beyond was vast, sunlight filtering through sheer curtains, casting long pale beams across polished marble. The faint crackle of a fireplace filled the silence. I stepped inside, my pulse quickening, the echo of my own heels sounding far too loud.
Then, I felt it—someone watching me.
At the top of the staircase stood a man, half-shadowed by the light streaming through the tall windows. He wore a black suit that fit too perfectly, every line deliberate, every movement controlled. Black gloves covered his hands, and a dark mask concealed the lower half of his face, leaving only his eyes visible—sharp, cold, and an impossible shade of grey.
For a moment, I forgot to breathe. Those eyes… they were both haunting and magnetic, like they could see right through every wall I'd ever built. Something in me flickered—familiarity where there should have been none.
"Dr. Ivy," his voice came low, smooth—calm enough to be unnerving. "You're earlier than expected."
I swallowed, trying to find my voice. "Mr. Blackwood, I presume?"
He descended the stairs, slow and deliberate, his gloved hand brushing the railing. "I've been expecting you," he said, the faintest curl in his tone—something unreadable, almost like amusement. His presence pressed against me, a subtle warmth in the air that made my skin prickle.
Though I'd never seen this man before, something about the way he looked at me made it feel like he already knew me.
He began walking toward me, each step unhurried yet deliberate, the air seeming to tighten around us. When he passed me, his scent—clean, expensive, with something darker beneath—lingered in the space between us.
"Come," he said simply, not looking back.
I followed, my own steps faltering as we moved down another corridor lined with tall windows and heavy velvet drapes. Morning light painted him in alternating stripes of shadow and gold. His figure towered above mine, composed and commanding, every movement too precise—too practiced.
He stopped before another door, opened it, and gestured for me to enter first.
The room was a study—modern, with dark mahogany shelves, books lined in exact symmetry, and a faint scent of paper and smoke. A single folder sat on the desk between us.
"This," he said, circling behind me until he stood two steps away, his voice smooth as silk but laced with quiet authority, "is your new contract."
I hesitated before sitting, scanning the document. It stated my duties clearly—personal medical oversight, constant availability, and… residency.
I looked up sharply. "I'm sorry, but—live here? That won't be necessary. I can visit daily—"
He cut me off, his tone cool, measured. "It isn't a request, Dr. Ivy."
I felt the weight of his gaze before I met it. The grey in his eyes seemed colder now, steady and unblinking, like a predator measuring its prey.
"I prefer my doctor close," he said simply. "In case of emergencies."
"You're asking me to move into your house," I said, my voice lower now, almost a whisper.
"I'm telling you." He slid the folder closer, tapping on the last page. "The details of my condition are there. Read carefully."
My eyes scanned the lines—episodes of severe chronic pain, nerve deterioration, and something else—classified, only for my eyes. Then the numbers below caught my attention.
I froze.
"That's… the salary?"
He nodded once. "Do you still wish to refuse?"
His tone was quiet, almost indifferent, but there was something darkly amused in his look now—like he already knew the answer.
My pulse thudded in my ears.
He leaned forward slightly, gloved fingers brushing the edge of the contract, his eyes never leaving mine. "Sign it, Dr. Ivy. You'll find that saying no to me isn't as simple as it sounds."
I stared down at the contract, words blurring. None of this made sense—my transfer, the personal request, the mansion—it all felt too deliberate.
I forced myself to speak, my voice quieter than I wanted it to be. "Why me?"
He didn't answer at first. He simply studied me, his gloved hands resting on the desk, his expression unreadable beneath the shadows cast by the morning light.
"I'm not the only specialist in the city," I pressed, trying to sound steady. "Surely you could've chosen someone with more experience—someone who actually wants to live under your roof."
For a heartbeat, silence filled the room. Then he exhaled, a slow, deliberate sound that almost resembled a laugh—but without humor.
His grey eyes found mine again. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet, measured, and chillingly certain:
"I didn't choose you for your experience, Dr. Ivy."
"Then why—?"
He leaned forward, eyes glinting with something unreadable. "Because you're the only one who can keep me alive."
The words dropped like shards of ice between us.
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. I didn't know what to ask first—how he knew me, what he meant, or why his tone sounded so certain, so final, like this had already been decided long before I ever stepped into his world.
He straightened, his gaze still locked on me. "You'll understand soon enough."
And before I could say another word, he turned and walked out of the room—leaving me staring at the contract, the echo of his voice, and the sinking feeling that I'd just signed my way into something I could never walk out of.