The following morning, the black luxury car was waiting for Ayla right outside her parents' house. The neighbors watched from behind their curtains, whispering about how the Khan family had somehow risen from ruin overnight. Ayla ignored their stares as she stepped into the sleek vehicle, clutching her single suitcase.
The drive to Adrian Blake's mansion felt endless. Every turn of the road took her further from the simple life she had known, closer to a world drenched in opulence, shadows, and rules that weren't hers.
When the gates finally opened, Ayla's breath caught. The mansion was unlike anything she had ever seen—towering, dark, and beautiful, like something carved out of a dream but edged with a hint of menace. The black iron gates closed behind her with a heavy thud, as though sealing her fate.
The butler, a tall man with silver hair and a face devoid of emotion, opened her car door. "Mrs. Blake," he greeted, bowing his head slightly. "Welcome to Blackstone Manor."
Mrs. Blake. The words stung like a reminder. She wasn't truly a wife. This was a contract, a façade… and yet she had to wear the title like it was real.
Inside, the mansion was breathtaking. Crystal chandeliers hung from vaulted ceilings. The marble floors gleamed beneath her heels, and the walls were lined with towering paintings of stern-faced Blakes from generations past. The air smelled faintly of sandalwood and something darker… almost metallic.
Ayla felt a chill, though the room was warm. It wasn't just the grandeur. It was something else, something lurking beneath the surface, something that whispered she didn't belong here.
Adrian appeared at the top of the sweeping staircase, dressed in a sharp black suit despite the early hour. His gaze swept over her, cold and assessing, like she was another asset he had just acquired.
"You're late," he said.
"It's 8 a.m. exactly," she replied, holding his gaze, refusing to let him see the unease curling in her stomach.
His lips curved slightly, though not in a smile. "Good. You'll need to be this precise if you're to survive here."
Survive. The word echoed in her head like a warning.
The butler carried her bag upstairs as Adrian descended the staircase. He didn't bother to greet her, simply walked past her with the commanding air of a man used to people following him. Ayla hesitated, then fell into step behind him.
"I assume you understand the rules," Adrian said, his tone smooth but sharp as glass. "Our marriage will be public. There will be appearances, parties, business events. You will be the perfect wife. Elegant. Silent when necessary. And you will never question where I go or what I do."
"And if I do?" she asked, her voice a soft challenge.
He stopped walking and turned, his piercing gray eyes locking on hers. For a brief second, Ayla saw something flicker in them—something almost vulnerable, almost human—but it vanished as quickly as it appeared.
"Then," he said quietly, "you'll regret stepping into this house."
Before she could respond, a sharp sound echoed from somewhere down the hall. A crash, like glass shattering. Ayla flinched, instinctively looking in the direction of the noise.
Adrian's expression didn't change, but there was a glint in his eyes now, something cold and warning. "Stay out of the west wing," he said. "No matter what you hear, you don't go there."
"Why? What's there?" she asked, her curiosity already ignited.
His jaw tightened. "Some doors aren't meant to be opened. Not by you."
The butler reappeared, announcing that her room was ready. Adrian dismissed her with a glance and strode away, his phone pressed to his ear, his voice low and urgent. She caught only fragments of his words: "Shipment… delay… make sure it disappears."
Ayla's stomach tightened. Shipment? Disappear? What kind of business was Adrian really running?
Her new bedroom was larger than her entire house, with a balcony overlooking the sprawling estate. It was beautiful, but it felt like a cage. The door shut softly behind her, but the lock clicked from the outside.
Locked.
She stood frozen for a moment, staring at the gilded door handle. Was it a mistake? An oversight? Or a warning?
Her phone buzzed in her hand. A message from an unknown number appeared on the screen:
"Be careful, Mrs. Blake. The last woman who lived here didn't survive the secrets."
Ayla's breath caught as she reread the message. Her pulse thundered in her ears. Who sent it? What did it mean?
She turned toward the balcony, her eyes scanning the dark gardens below. A figure, dressed in black, stood just beyond the trees, watching the house.
When she blinked, the figure was gone.
The chandelier above her flickered, casting the room into momentary darkness.
Ayla gripped the edge of the bed, her thoughts racing. This wasn't just a marriage of convenience. Adrian Blake's world was filled with shadows, secrets, and danger—and she was already in too deep to turn back.
And somewhere in the west wing, behind those forbidden doors, was the truth she wasn't supposed to find.
To be continued...