8. Chapter 8
8
Bella
“ W ell, call me crazy,” I mutter to myself, “but that is not what I expected.”
I stop dead in my tracks, staring up at the towering structure at the top of the hill. My boots squelch on the rain-soaked path, water pooling around my feet like the universe is just dying to add insult to injury. I tilt my head, blinking through the rain, but the building doesn’t change. It’s not some creepy, crumbling Gothic monstrosity like I’d been imagining. No gargoyles. No boarded windows. No ominous clouds swirling overhead.
Instead, it looks… expensive. Like, Jeff Bezos decided to cosplay as Dracula expensive.
The mansion sprawls like it knows it doesn’t have to try. Stone and glass. Sleek, modern lines married to something old and timeless. The kind of architecture that makes you feel poor just for looking at it. An infinity pool shimmers at the edge, reflecting the misty trees like some kind of enchanted mirror.
“This,” I say, pointing at the house as if it can hear me, “is so much worse.”
Because now it’s not just a creepy house in the middle of nowhere. Now it’s a creepy house in the middle of nowhere that someone clearly takes care of. No sagging roof, no overgrown lawn, no broken windows. Just pristine, glossy perfection, perched like a jewel on the edge of the hillside.
I glance behind me. The winding path is barely visible in the mist, the woods pressing in on either side like they’re alive and plotting my demise. Another crack of thunder splits the air, and I flinch. The rain picks up again, cold and relentless, and suddenly, the glowing lights spilling out from the mansion’s massive windows look a lot more appealing.
I stop in front of the door, craning my neck to take in its sheer size. It’s absurd, really—massive and imposing, the kind of door that looks like it belongs on the cover of a fantasy novel, complete with dragons etched into the brass. I half-expect it to laugh at me for daring to approach.
“Alright, let’s see what kind of secrets you’re hiding,” I mutter, wiping my damp hand on my jeans before gripping the cold, ornate handle. I give it a tentative push, expecting resistance, maybe even a lock. Instead, the door swings open so easily it feels wrong, like I’ve just been invited to my own kidnapping.
I step back instinctively, my heart thudding as the door creaks ominously on its hinges. The sound crawls up my spine, and for a moment, I just stand there, frozen. Rain drips from the ends of my hair, splattering onto the stone steps, and I glance back at the shadowy woods behind me. My choices are pretty clear: walk into this house—or let the forest eat me.
“Well,” I say, squaring my shoulders, “this isn’t suspicious at all.”
Taking a deep breath, I peer through the opening. Warm light spills out into the stormy night, glowing softly against the polished floors inside. It’s not the eerie, cobweb-laden foyer I’d been bracing for. No peeling wallpaper. No taxidermy collection. Just sleek elegance and… silence.
I hesitate, one hand still on the handle. “You could just close the door and go back down the hill,” I tell myself. “Sure, it’s raining, and your car smells like melted crayons and despair, but—”
A fresh gust of wind blows in behind me, icy enough to make my decision for me. “Nope. Not doing this outside,” I grumble, stepping inside, my boots echoing on the marble floors. Warmth hits me immediately, a stark contrast to the icy rain outside. The entryway is enormous, lit by a chandelier that looks like it was plucked straight out of a royal palace. The floors gleam like they’ve never seen a speck of dust, and the faint scent of cedar and something floral lingers in the air.
“Hello?” I call, my voice cracking slightly.
Nothing. Not a creak, not a cough.
Just my own breathing and the faint patter of rain outside.
“Well, this is how every horror story starts,” I say, louder this time, though I can’t shake the feeling that even my voice doesn’t belong here. It feels too loud, too human, in a space that looks like it was designed for gods—or, at the very least, people with an unhealthy obsession with interior design magazines.
I glance around, spotting a sleek console table by the wall. My reflection in the mirror above it makes me grimace. I look like a drowned rat. My wet hair clings to my face in sad, limp strands, and my jacket hangs off me like I stole it from a garbage heap. Elena’s voice pops into my head: “But if your shoulders get any stiffer, don’t come crying to me when they fuse into your neck.”
“Thanks, Elena,” I mumble, rolling my shoulders, which are now practically kissing my ears. “Really appreciate your input.”
I drop my bag on the table, pulling out my phone. The cracked screen flickers to life, but the signal bar stays stubbornly empty.
“Perfect,” I whisper. “Just perfect.”
My fingers brush against the joint.
Maybe a little weed wouldn’t hurt. You know, just to keep from spiraling into a full-blown stress pretzel.
I pull it out, turning it over in my hands. The bright green paper practically screams bad idea, but I’ve already walked into a strange mansion uninvited. Why not add to the list? I palm it, along with the lighter I keep in my purse for emergencies, then sling the strap back over my shoulder.
I wander through the house, my boots leaving wet prints on the pristine floors. The silence follows me, heavy and oppressive, until I step through a pair of glass doors onto the patio.
“Hello?” I call out again, my voice cutting through the misty air. It bounces back to me, hollow and unanswered.
What I see stops me in my tracks. The patio is like something plucked out of a dream—or maybe a billionaire’s vision board. The stone tiles shimmer faintly under the soft glow of recessed lights, leading to a pool so extravagant it makes my jaw slacken. The infinity pool stretches out before me, its surface impossibly smooth, catching and distorting the faint outlines of the trees beyond.
And those trees—God. They’re massive, ancient-looking things with twisting branches that reach for the sky like they’re plotting something. The forest beyond the pool is deep, dark, and wild, the kind of place you wouldn’t survive without a machete and a good dose of luck. Mist curls through it, snaking around the trunks and clinging to the edges like it belongs there.
I step forward without realizing it, drawn to the view. It’s magnetic, impossible to look away from. The air out here is different—cooler, damp with the kind of chill that feels intimate, like it’s wrapping around you. My boots tap softly against the stone as I walk toward the edge, like I’ve been charmed into some ridiculous trance.
And then my eyes settle on the pool’s edge, where the water melts seamlessly into the treetops below. It’s surreal, as if the forest itself is trying to devour the pool. The mist hangs heavier now, swirling lazily over the treetops, giving the whole scene an otherworldly quality.
For a moment, I just stand there, staring, the sound of my own breathing the only thing tethering me to reality. The rain has finally stopped, leaving the air crisp and still, like the world is holding its breath.
“Alright, Elena,” I mutter aloud, flicking the lighter as I stand beside the pool. “Let’s see if this actually helps.”
The flame dances, and I bring it to the end of the joint. It ignites with a soft crackle, and I take my first-ever drag.
Big mistake. Huge.
The smoke hits my lungs like a battering ram, and I instantly start coughing so hard I double over, clutching the railing like it’s the only thing keeping me alive. My eyes water, my chest burns, and for a split second, I’m convinced this is how it ends—not in some grand adventure, but by dying like an idiot trying to be cool in the middle of nowhere.
“Relaxation, my ass!” I wheeze, my voice hoarse. “People do this for fun ? Are they insane?”
The coughing eventually subsides, and I stand up straight, wiping my watery eyes. My reflection in the pool stares back, damp and pitiful, looking like the ghost of bad decisions past. But I’m nothing if not stubborn, so I give the joint another defiant look.
“Round two,” I mutter, raising it like a toast to my own stupidity.
I take another drag.
This one goes down… slightly better. I still cough, hacking into the night air like a 90-year-old chain smoker, but this time, something shifts. I lean against the railing again, waiting, squinting out at the forest as if it holds all the answers. The mist swirls lazily below, the trees swaying faintly in the breeze.
And then it hits me.
It’s subtle at first—a kind of looseness in my shoulders, like someone finally turned off the pressure valve in my neck. My jaw unclenches. My heartbeat slows. I take a deep breath, and for the first time in forever, it doesn’t feel like my lungs are carrying a thousand bricks.
“Okay,” I whisper, glancing down at the joint in my hand. “Maybe Elena’s onto something.”
The thought makes me snicker, and then I snicker again because the sound is so ridiculous. Before I know it, I’m giggling like a maniac, leaning against the railing as my reflection in the pool wobbles and stretches like it’s laughing with me.
My inner devil chooses this moment to appear, sitting smugly on my metaphorical shoulder, arms crossed. “Told you it wasn’t so bad,” it says.
The angel on the other shoulder is less impressed. “This is how people end up in those ‘Florida Woman’ news stories,” she snaps, wagging a tiny finger. “Get a grip, Bella.”
“Too late,” I say aloud, grinning like an idiot. I take a third drag, longer this time, because apparently, I’ve lost all sense of self-preservation.
And that’s when things go sideways.
It’s like my body decides to melt all at once. My knees wobble, my head feels too light, and the entire forest tilts slightly to the left. The mist seems closer now, swirling up over the edge of the pool like it’s alive, and I can’t tell if the trees are actually moving or if my brain’s just playing tricks on me.
I slap the joint out, grinding it against the stone railing. “Nope,” I say, stumbling backward. “That’s enough fun for one night.”
I shiver, suddenly aware of how cold it is now that the rain has stopped. The damp air clings to my skin, making me feel both exposed and claustrophobic. My boots squeak against the tiles as I turn and head back inside, gripping the doorframe like it’s my only anchor to reality.
The house feels warmer than before, though that might just be the weed. Or my brain trying to make sense of things. Either way, the silence inside is deafening, wrapping around me like a weighted blanket I didn’t ask for.
I drop onto one of the oversized sofas in the living room, sinking into the cushions as if they’re trying to engulf me.
“Elena,” I whisper, my voice slurred, “you owe me so many explanations when I survive this.”
The devil on my shoulder cackles. The angel facepalms. And I sit there, staring into the low light, wondering if the house is actually breathing—or if I’m just too high to know the difference.
The house feels warmer than before, though that might just be the weed. Or my brain trying to make sense of things. I sink deeper into the couch, my limbs feeling boneless and heavy, while my mind—my gloriously high, overactive mind—is suddenly buzzing with possibilities.
“Elena,” I mutter again, my voice low, “if I start talking to the furniture, I’m blaming you.”
My eyes dart to the grand staircase across the room, sweeping up in a perfect curve that screams money. It’s the kind of staircase where a rich villain in a silk robe would casually sip brandy while plotting someone’s demise. But right now, it’s calling me like a siren.
“Stairs,” I say aloud, pushing myself upright. “Yeah. Let’s do this.”
My legs feel like jelly as I stumble toward the staircase, gripping the ornate banister for balance. The wood is dark and polished to a gleam, and the spindles are intricately carved, like someone got paid way too much to make it look fancy-but-not-too-fancy.
“Is this mahogany?” I ask the banister, squinting at the craftsmanship. “No, wait—rosewood? I don’t even know what rosewood is, but this feels expensive.”
The stairs creak softly under my weight, a sound that feels both comforting and sinister at the same time. By the time I reach the top, I’m out of breath, which is deeply concerning considering I’ve only climbed one flight.
“Note to self,” I mumble, “reevaluate fitness goals. Also, maybe lay off the snacks.”
At the top of the stairs, a long hallway stretches out before me, lined with doors. Each one is sleek, glossy, and slightly intimidating, as if they’re guarding secrets I’m not supposed to know. But one door stands out—a double door at the end of the hall, slightly ajar, with light spilling through the crack like it’s daring me to come closer.
“Oh, this is how people die in movies,” I murmur, my feet already moving toward the door. “But sure, Bella. Let’s just waltz right into the trap.”
I push the door open and stop dead in my tracks.
It’s not just a bedroom.
It’s the bedroom.
The kind of room that could single-handedly bankrupt a billionaire. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the endless expanse of the forest, and the curtains—soft, gauzy things that look insanely expensive—are pulled back to let the moonlight pour in. The bed is massive, a four-poster monstrosity with draped fabric so sheer it looks like a dream. The linens are crisp, pristine, and begging for someone to ruin them.
The furniture is a blend of modern luxury and old-world charm, all dark wood and subtle gold accents. There’s a chaise lounge near the window that practically whispers, “Come, drape yourself dramatically and contemplate life.” A faint scent of cedarwood lingers in the air, mingling with something floral and faintly intoxicating.
But none of that matters.
Because there, above the fireplace, is him.