Chapter 7 #2
And I hated myself more for needing the quiet—because if he talked, if he acknowledged any of this, I might shatter completely.
The SUV rolled to a stop before a slope of stone steps that vanished into shadows cast by the house above. Glass walls rose behind them, tall enough to make the sky look small. I opened the door before Gideon could reach for it. Cold air cut across my face, sharp enough to keep me moving.
He walked ahead without speaking.
The house loomed over us, angles and edges and light spilling along the stone like it wanted to guide me somewhere I didn’t want to go. Water trickled along a narrow channel cut into the steps, a quiet thread of sound that should’ve been soothing.
It wasn’t.
I reached the top and froze.
“You built a museum,” I murmured.
The corner of his mouth twitched, almost a smile. “Come inside.”
I stepped over the threshold and felt myself shrink.
The front hall stretched wide and bright, framed by walls of glass that revealed the black lake beyond.
A suspended staircase hung to my left, more art than structure.
Sculptures lined a floating shelf to my right—sharp metal, smooth stone, pieces that didn’t match except in their intent to intimidate.
My fingers curled around my coat collar.
This isn’t a home. It’s a statement.
The words pulsed in my chest as Gideon stepped past me, his footsteps soft against polished concrete. He shrugged out of his jacket and draped it over a chair that probably cost more than a month’s rent.
“You’ll get used to it,” he said.
“I doubt that.”
He turned at that, eyes sweeping over me slowly, taking in the suitcase, the stiff set of my shoulders, the way I hovered near the door as if it might still open for me.
I didn’t move.
The house breathed cold around me, silent and sure of its owner.
And I stood there feeling swallowed whole.
Gideon walked ahead, hands loose at his sides, steps quiet on the concrete floor. His voice carried through the open space, steady and even, like he recited terms on a contract.
“This is the kitchen.”
He gestured toward a long slab of marble that ran beneath a window facing the lake. Stainless appliances gleamed under recessed lights. Everything looked unused. My reflection caught in the glass door of the fridge—small, pale, out of place.
His words floated toward me, detached from the air that held them.
“Stocked yesterday. You can request whatever you want delivered.”
Delivered. Like supplies.
My pulse thudded once, heavy.
Gideon didn’t pause to check if I followed. He moved to the adjoining room, a shift of his hand guiding me along.
“Living areas.”
A sunken lounge spread across the floor in wide, low cushions arranged around a stone fireplace.
Floor-to-ceiling windows wrapped the space, showing nothing but the dark lake and the night pressing down on it.
The glass reflected Gideon’s silhouette, tall and unmoving.
Mine hovered behind his, faint as a ghost.
My boots scuffed the edge of a rug. The sound cracked through the quiet and vanished too fast. Everything swallowed noise here.
He kept walking, pace unhurried.
“There are extra spaces upstairs. Workrooms. Storage. You’ll figure out what you need.”
I barely heard him. His voice stretched in my mind, thin and remote, like sound carried underwater.
We reached a long hallway lined with closed doors. Soft lights glowed along the floor, guiding a path forward. Each door looked identical—smooth wood, silver handle, no labels. A row of choices none of which felt like mine.
He opened the first door on the left.
“Guest room.”
A large bed. Crisp bedding. A window that framed more dark water. The room smelled faintly of cedar and cleaning product. No personal touches. No warmth. A place built for occupancy, not living.
He stepped aside so I could look in. His presence filled the hall even when he didn’t move, then continued down the hall, opening another door.
“Second guest room.”
Another bed. Another window. Another echo of nothing.
My ribs tightened.
Gideon’s voice carried down the hall as he opened a third.
“And this one has its own bath.”
I almost laughed. The sound stuck in my throat.
He waited at the end of the corridor, one hand resting lightly against the wall. Not blocking. Not inviting. Just standing there like he already knew I’d follow because the house left me nowhere else to go.
The hallway hummed with quiet. My breath bounced back at me, faint and hollow.
He spoke again, level as before.
“You’ll settle in. It takes time.”
His eyes held mine for a moment.
Not unkind.
Not warm.
A steady, unreadable calculation.
I couldn’t tell if he studied me or the silence I carried.
The house felt too wide. Too bright. Too calm.
Every word he offered seemed to echo long after he finished speaking.
The last door waited at the end of the hall, wider than the others, set a little deeper into the wall.
A small camera perched above it, tucked into the shadow like an eyelash.
I pretended not to notice. Same as the one hidden near the staircase.
Same as the one angled toward the kitchen.
Little black eyes watching every step I took.
Gideon pressed his thumb to a panel beside the frame. The lock clicked too smoothly, too soft to be accidental. Every door in this house moved like it was grateful to obey him. My pulse climbed as he pushed it open.
I followed because stopping meant standing alone in the hallway with the cameras and the silence and the truth tightening around my throat.
We stepped inside.
The room stretched wide and clean, air colder than the rest of the house.
A wall of glass looked out across the lake, black water swallowing the moon.
The windows didn’t have handles. At least none I could see.
I lifted a hand, curled my fingers around the invisible seam where the pane met the frame, and pushed.
It held firm. I pushed harder. It didn’t budge.
My stomach sank.
I didn’t belong here.
Worse—
He knew it.
The bed dominated the center of the room. Not against a wall. Not tucked into a corner. Centered, like a display. Like an altar. Smooth charcoal sheets, thick frame, everything sharp-edged and intentional. A place designed for a purpose the contract spelled out in ink I could still taste.
I stopped walking.
My chest tightened, breath catching halfway up my throat. The carpet felt too soft under my boots, too quiet under my weight. This wasn’t some hypothetical future. This wasn’t paperwork on a counter or words spoken in a locked bookstore.
This was where the contract lived.
Gideon stepped past me, hands sliding into his pockets as if we were standing in a hotel suite instead of the room that stole the rest of my choices.
He looked at the bed once. Then at me. “This is ours.”
Not yours.
Not mine.
Ours.
The word hit harder than the lock clicking shut behind us.