The next morning came much too fast.
Isabella barely slept through the night, tossing and turning on the couch while Emily slept soundly in the bedroom. Her suitcase sat silently by the door, packed with only the essentials—some clothes, her toiletries, and a few books she didn't have the heart to leave behind. The thought of leaving Emily's apartment felt heavier than she expected. This place had become her safe haven, her sanctuary after everything life had thrown at her.
She stared out the window as the city slowly came to life, her mind filled with questions she couldn't answer. What would the house look like? What kind of life waited for her there? Would Azrael speak to her? Would he even acknowledge her?
By 8:00 a.m., she was dressed and sitting quietly at the dining table, her fingers clasped tightly together. Emily came out minutes later in a loose shirt and boxers, rubbing her eyes.
"You're up already?" she asked, walking over and sitting across from her.
Isabella nodded slowly.
Emily took a long look at her, then reached across the table and squeezed her hand. "Don't let him crush you," she said softly. "You're stronger than you think."
Isabella managed a small smile. "I'm scared."
"I know," Emily said. "But I'm right here. Always."
A knock at the door ended the conversation.
Isabella's heart lurched. She stood, took a breath, and walked to the door.
Xaren stood there again, his black suit sharp and perfect, his expression unreadable. Behind him, a sleek black car waited at the curb.
He gave a small nod. "Ready?"
Isabella turned to Emily, who was now standing by the wall, arms folded tightly across her chest.
Emily walked forward and hugged her tightly. "Don't forget to text me the moment you get there. I'll come over if he so much as frowns at you."
"I will," Isabella whispered, then pulled away, eyes already stinging.
She picked up her bag, gave the apartment one last look, and stepped outside.
Xaren opened the door for her again. She slid into the back seat—and there he was.
Azrael.
His brown eyes lifted only briefly to glance at her before returning to the view outside the window. He wore a charcoal-grey shirt this time, sleeves rolled up slightly, revealing strong forearms. His dark hair looked freshly cut, curled slightly at the edges, and his face, as usual, was unreadable. There was something about the way he sat—like he owned every breath of air around him.
Isabella said nothing.
The car moved.
The silence was familiar now, like an invisible presence sitting with them. Isabella tried not to fidget. Xaren said nothing, his eyes on the road. Azrael didn't even look her way. It was as if she wasn't there.
After nearly forty minutes of silence, the car made a turn into a private driveway lined with tall pine trees and thick hedges. The city slowly faded behind them, replaced by quietude and seclusion. Isabella leaned slightly toward the window, her eyes widening.
The mansion appeared like something out of a dream—or a nightmare. Gated, enormous, and surrounded by ivy-covered walls, it stood like a fortress of elegance and power. The architecture was gothic and modern, a strange yet beautiful blend of sharp edges and intricate designs. Black marble pillars guarded the entrance, and the building itself was carved with faint symbols that shimmered slightly in the sunlight.
The car slowed to a stop in front of the main entrance.
A few men in dark uniforms stood at attention near the door, their faces expressionless. Xaren stepped out first and opened the door for Isabella.
She hesitated for half a second before stepping out.
Azrael followed.
He didn't say anything, didn't offer his hand, didn't give a welcoming gesture. He simply walked past her, his coat fluttering lightly behind him as he ascended the wide steps to the house. She followed, clutching the handle of her suitcase tightly.
The door opened before they reached it, and they were greeted by an older man in a grey uniform, likely the head of staff. He bowed respectfully.
"Welcome, sir. Miss," he added, nodding to Isabella.
She looked around as they entered.
The house was grand, yes—but cold. Everything was polished marble, crystal chandeliers, and dark wood panels. It was breathtakingly beautiful, but not warm. Not inviting. The air was thick with silence, and the staff that passed by moved like shadows.
Azrael walked ahead and suddenly stopped at the foot of a grand staircase.
He turned slightly, eyes falling on her.
"Follow me."
She did.
Up the stairs, down a long hallway with velvet carpets and arched ceilings, past rooms with doors that looked as old as time. At the end of the hall, he stopped before a white door and opened it.
"This is your room."
Isabella stepped in slowly.
The room was large, softly lit by tall windows with white drapes. A canopy bed stood at the center, dressed in silver sheets. There was a small writing desk, a closet, and a private bathroom visible through an open door.
She turned back to him. "And you?"
"I sleep elsewhere," he said curtly.
"Of course you do," she muttered, mostly to herself.
He didn't respond. His eyes lingered on her face for a moment longer before he turned away.
Just before walking off, he paused.
"Dinner is at eight. You're expected to be present."
Then he walked away.
The door clicked shut behind him.
Isabella stood there in the center of the room, her chest rising and falling slowly. She turned and walked to the bed, sitting down heavily. The mattress was soft. Softer than anything she'd ever slept on. The sheets smelled like lavender and something else—something expensive and cold.
She looked around again. It felt more like a hotel than a home.
She reached into her bag and pulled out her phone. One message. From Emily.
"You okay? Is he treating you right?"
Isabella typed back quickly.
"I'm here. It's huge. Beautiful. But… I feel like a guest in a castle that doesn't want me."
The reply came almost instantly.
"Then make it want you."
Isabella smiled slightly. Leave it to Emily to make her feel like a warrior.
She spent the next few hours unpacking slowly, setting her books on the table, arranging her clothes, brushing her hair. When the clock struck eight, a soft knock came at her door.
It was a maid.
"Dinner is served, miss."
She followed her quietly down the hall, back through the corridor and into a large dining room where a long table stretched across the center. Chandeliers glowed softly overhead. Azrael sat at the far end, already pouring himself a glass of wine.
Only two chairs were set.
She sat opposite him.
Dinner was quiet.
The only sounds were the clinks of silverware and glasses. The food was exquisite—roasted duck, spiced rice, buttered vegetables, and warm bread—but it tasted dull in the silence.
At some point, she put down her fork and looked at him.
"Is this how it's going to be?"
He looked up slowly.
"What do you mean?"
"This. You and I sitting across a table like strangers."
"We are strangers," he said, eyes fixed on her.
She opened her mouth, then shut it.
Fair enough.
"Then maybe we should change that," she said finally.
His eyes locked onto hers.
Something flickered in them.
He said nothing.
But he didn't look away either.
They sat there in silence, a storm of emotions trapped beneath the surface—words unsaid, truths not yet spoken, and a bond neither of them wanted, but both of them needed.
And in that moment, Isabella knew one thing for certain:
This wasn't going to be easy.
But she wouldn't back down.