It had been twenty-one days since Selene Thorne moved into the Hale estate.
Long enough for the staff to stop watching her as a guest.
Long enough for Maxwell to stop offering updates about her place in the house.
Long enough for her to learn where the cameras were and where they weren't.
She never asked questions, she didn't need to.
People talk when you're quiet. Housekeepers whisper behind closed doors. Assistants forget to log out of their shared drives. Maxwell's schedule, the locked drawer in his office, the way he left his watch on the left side of the sink every night, his patterns and habits.
She noticed everything.
In public, she played the part; she was composed, quiet, and presentable.
But behind closed doors, Selene moved like a ghost.
She had already copied the security panel reset pattern onto a scrap of tissue and flushed it after memorizing it.
She'd found the drawer that didn't match the others, not by how it looked but by how it felt. It was slightly looser, recently opened, often enough that it wasn't for storage, but not enough to draw attention.
That drawer was still locked, but she would get it open.
She wasn't there to play house.
This estate was Maxwell Hale's kingdom. And every King had a weakness buried somewhere.
Selene just had to find it.
It was late when she slipped out of her room, barefoot, silent. The hallway lights were dimmed to a faint gold glow. She moved without hesitation, down the main stairwell, past the west wing, toward Maxwell's office.
He was out at night for a charity dinner. She saw the itinerary on his tablet before it locked again.
She paused in front of the office door. It was locked. Of course, it was. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a slim silver pin.
Two minutes.
That's how long it took.
The door creaked open softly, she slipped inside.
The room smelled faintly of old leather and cold steel, shelves lined the walls, the desk was too neat, and she didn't bother checking it. She went for the drawer. The one on the bottom left.
Still locked.
She smiled to herself.
She stood and turned back to the shelves. Books lined the cases, but only one had a crease along its spine: The Art of War.
Of course.
She pulled it halfway. There was a click. The drawer opened.
Inside the drawer was a phone, powered off. A thick folder, unmarked. A black key card.
She didn't touch the phone.
She flipped open the folder slowly.
There were photographs. Documents. Names. Numbers. Some of them were circled in red.
And there near the back was her own face.
Labeled: Selene Thorne.
Her fingers froze.
Her file was thinner than the others, which was the worst part. It was like Maxwell knew more than he was letting on, and he didn't need to put it in writing.
She closed the folder, but not before slipping one page into her robe pocket. Just one. Just enough.
She returned everything else exactly how she found it, slid the drawers shut, and reset the book.
As she pulled the office door closed behind her, she didn't flinch at the soft click that echoed in the hallway.
She wasn't scared.
She was certain now.
Maxwell Hale was watching her, but she was already watching him.
Upstairs, the halls were still quiet, she moved like a breath, bare feet brushing along the polished floors.
Her door was closed.
But the lights were on.
Selene paused.
She hadn't left it on.
Her fingers curled tighter around her robe belt as she pushed the door open.
Maxwell Hale was sitting at the edge of her bed perfectly still.
His jacket was off, the sleeves rolled to his forearms, his hands were clasped between his knees, his body relaxed, but there was something too intentional about it. He was like a predator resting before the pounce.
She didn't ask how he got in.
She already knew.
His eyes lifted to hers, calm and unreadable.
"Sleepwalking?" he asked, a voice like cold smoke.
Selene stood by the door. "You're in my room."
"You're in my house."
A moment passed.
He stood.
It wasn't a dramatic movement, it was quiet. Precise. Somehow more dangerous than if he had shouted or slammed something. Maxwell didn't need noise to dominate a room.
He took two steps towards her. "You like control, I can see it in the way you move, the way you speak, calculated. Calm, waiting for the moment, everyone stops paying attention."
He just stopped in front of her, not touching her. Just too close.
"I should remove you," he said almost idly. But I'm curious. I want to see what you do next."
Selene's pulse flickered, but her face gave nothing away.
"Why aren't you scared?" he asked, tilting his head slightly.
"I don't scare easily."
"No," he said, "you don't, but you should."
Then he leaned closer, his voice a whisper now, like a secret not meant for daylight.
"There are places in this house no one would ever hear you scream from."
Her breath hitched. He noticed.
But he didn't press any further. He straightened, then turned away.
At the door, he paused. "If you go back into that office, I'll show you what this house keeps hidden," he said without looking at her.
He left without slamming the door.
His words hit harder than any noise could.
Selene didn't move for a long time.
Her pulse throbbed beneath her skin like a warning bell, but her expression held, frozen in the same calm she'd worn when his breath had brushed her ear like a threat disguised as intimacy.
There are places in this house that no one would ever hear you scream.
The words hadn't been loud, they slithered beneath her skin, lodging somewhere deep, where fear and adrenaline met strategy.
She breathed in, slowly, shaky.
Not because she was afraid but because she was furious.
She turned back into the room, every part of her burning with the truth she hadn't wanted to face tonight.
She couldn't outpace Maxwell Hale with brute defiance, he was too many steps ahead, watching her. Cataloguing her.
She'd thought she was watching him.
But he had let her.
She sat on the edge of the bed where he'd been earlier, her fingers twitching where they rested on the sheets, still warm from his presence.
A predator resting before the pounce.
Selene clenched her fists.
He was right.
She loved control, she liked silence, she liked studying the room before stepping into it, but he didn't fear her for that, he admired, respected it even, and that … That was the problem.
He didn't see her as harmless.
He saw her as interesting.
And interesting things didn't last long in a house like this.
If she pushed again too fast, too boldly… He'd cut her off permanently.
So she did what she'd always been best at. She adapted.
If she couldn't fight him in the open she'd become what he wanted. She'd wrap herself up in silk and quietness, in the illusion of obedience. She'd give him softness where he expected fire, eyes lowered, words measured.
She would become what he loved.
And then.. Only then… She'd tear him apart from the inside.
But for now.
Selene stood, crossed the room, and turned off the light.
Her reflection caught in the mirror as she passed.
Composed, quiet, and presentable.
Just how he liked her.
She smiled to herself, but there was no warmth in it.
"Let him think I'm his."
She would win his heart, and once she had it, he would never see the knife coming. And if I have to become his obsession first, then so be it.