"The Mansion That Doesn't Welcome"
The contract ink had barely dried when the first consequence arrived.
A black car showed up at my apartment before noon the next day, gliding to a stop outside the rusted gate like a predator that didn't need to roar to command fear. The driver didn't introduce himself. He simply held the door open like my decision had erased my name, my history, and my right to ask questions.
I was no longer Chilzy Brown, artist. I was in agreement. A transaction.
The ride to Ethan Golf's mansion was silent.
My suitcase sat by my side, half-empty. There was nothing left of my old life to pack.
Outside the city, the streets grew wider and cleaner, lined with manicured trees that seemed more artificial than real. Civilization disappeared, replaced by estates guarded with walls taller than some apartment buildings.
Then I saw it.
The Golf Mansion.
A sprawling fortress of marble and glass, sitting on land that seemed to stretch for miles. It wasn't a home. It was a statement: power lives here, and it has no reason to be kind.
The gate swallowed us whole.
The doors opened without anyone touching them.
A tall, grim-faced butler greeted me at the entrance, his stare resting on me like I was an odd purchase he couldn't return.
"Mrs. Golf," he said flatly, though the title sounded wrong on his tongue, "Follow me."
Mrs. Golf. The words sat heavy in my chest, colder than the marble beneath my feet.
The mansion smelled like polished wood and something older, something that didn't belong to any luxury catalogue.
Corridors stretched endlessly, portraits stared from walls, and rooms loomed with doors I wasn't invited to open.
At the end of one hallway, the butler stopped.
"This is your wing."
My wing.
A wing inside a mansion where my only relationship was a signature.
The room I entered was suffocating in perfection—pristine linens, velvet chairs, and fresh orchids that didn't smell like life.
There was no warmth. No hint of the man I was now legally attached to.
"This is your schedule," the butler said, handing me a slim leather folder. "Your duties begin tomorrow. Breakfast at eight. Afternoon media training. Dinner is served at six. You are to join Mr. Golf only upon request."
I glanced up. "And if I don't comply?"
His lips twitched, but not into a smile. "The contract outlined consequences. I advise you to remember them."
Before I could ask another question, he left, the door clicking shut with a finality that made the walls feel thicker.
I was inside.
But I didn't feel welcomed.
Night fell like a shadow that pressed too close.
I stood by the window, staring at the vast emptiness beyond the glass—fountains that danced without witnesses, gardens trimmed to soulless symmetry, and lights that flickered in rooms without laughter.
This was Ethan Golf's kingdom. And I was the ghost wandering its halls.
My phone buzzed.
Unknown Number:
"Tomorrow, wear blue."
No signature. But the tone was unmistakable—Ethan's control extended to fabric choices now.
My chest tightened.
Why blue? Why care at all?
But beneath the annoyance, curiosity stirred.
Why did a man with everything choose me?
The question swallowed me whole.
I woke before dawn, the silence pressing against my ears like static.
I chose a sapphire dress from the wardrobe prepared for me—expensive fabric that hugged my skin like ownership.
By eight, I sat in the grand dining hall, an ocean of polished wood and chandeliers above me, waiting like an outsider in my own name.
Ethan entered without a sound.
His presence filled the room before his footsteps touched the floor. In the cold morning light, he looked untouchable—sharp jaw, ruthless posture, expression carved in ice.
His grey eyes slid over me, assessing, not admiring.
"Acceptable," he said, sitting opposite me without greeting.
Anger stirred in my stomach, but I swallowed it. I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing me crack.
Breakfast passed in silence until his fork stilled midair.
"I have enemies," he said abruptly.
I stiffened. "Excuse me?"
His stare pinned me. "Your presence here serves multiple purposes. You will be watched. Photographed. Judged."
His tone darkened. "You will be targeted."
My appetite vanished.
"This marriage is a shield," Ethan continued, "but shields attract arrows. Prepare yourself."
"Targeted how?" I demanded, gripping the fork too tightly.
Ethan leaned in, his voice low enough to raise the hairs on my skin.
"People will come for you—not because of who you are, but because of what your last name now represents."
A chill slithered down my spine.
"And if I want out?" I asked, though I already knew the answer.
Ethan's expression was carved in stone. "There is no out."
After breakfast, I was paraded before photographers and PR managers like a shiny new product.
Smile, tilt your chin, and stand closer—no, not too close.
The photos would be released to announce the whirlwind marriage of Ethan Golf to his mysterious, glamorous wife.
No one would know the truth: I was neither glamorous nor willing.
By evening, my body ached from forced smiles and hollow introductions.
I returned to my wing expecting silence.
Instead, I found a note resting on my bed.
In smooth, unfamiliar handwriting:
"This house doesn't forgive strangers."
My breath caught.
I glanced around, but no one stood in the doorway. The hall was empty.
The door had been locked all day.
Or so I thought.
The message wasn't signed.
My fingers trembled as I folded the note, a prickling at the back of my neck whispering a single, horrifying truth.
My biggest threat might not be Ethan.
It might be the house itself.