Chapter 2 – The First Meeting
1973 Words
The door shut behind me with a heavy thud, sealing me inside the mansion.
A chill ran down my spine as I took in my surroundings. The place was breathtaking—vaulted ceilings, dim golden lighting, and walls lined with towering bookshelves. But there was something eerily hollow about it. Like a house that had long forgotten the sound of laughter.
Leonard Castillo strode ahead without waiting for me. “Follow me.”
His voice was firm, leaving no room for argument. I hurried after him, my flats barely making a sound against the marble floor.
He led me through a long hallway, each step measured and precise. “You’ll be staying in the west wing. You’ll have full access to the study and library. Nowhere else.”
I frowned. “Nowhere else?”
He shot me a sharp look over his shoulder. “I don’t like unnecessary disruptions.”
Wow. Rude.
I bit my tongue, resisting the urge to roll my eyes. “Understood.”
We reached what I assumed was the study. The room was massive, lined with even more bookshelves. A large wooden desk sat at the center, cluttered with notebooks, drafts, and a laptop.
“This is where you’ll work,” Leo said. “I’ll send you notes every morning. You’ll write. I’ll review.”
I folded my arms. “That’s it?”
His gaze flickered to me, unreadable. “That’s it.”
Something about the way he said it made my skin prickle.
I shifted uncomfortably. “What exactly am I writing?”
His jaw tightened. For a second, I thought he wouldn’t answer. Then—
“My last book,” he said quietly. “The one I never finished.”
I hesitated. “And why can’t you finish it yourself?”
Silence.
The air between us stretched, thick with something unspoken.
Then, Leo stepped closer. Not enough to touch, but enough to make me hyper-aware of his presence.
“Because,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “Some stories are too painful to write alone.”
My heart clenched.
For the first time since arriving, I saw a flicker of something beneath his cold exterior. Something broken.
And in that moment, I realized—I wasn’t just ghostwriting a novel.
I was unraveling a man who had spent years keeping himself locked away.
The weight of his words settled between us, thick and suffocating.
I wasn’t sure what to say. This was just a job, right? A paycheck. A way to keep myself afloat. But suddenly, it felt like more than that.
Leonard Castillo, the man the world had been dying to hear from, was asking me to write the story he couldn’t bring himself to finish.
And I had a feeling it wasn’t just writer’s block holding him back.
I shifted on my feet. “Okay,” I said finally. “When do we start?”
Leo studied me for a second before turning away. “Tomorrow.”
He moved toward the large desk, picking up a thick stack of papers before handing them to me. “Read this tonight.”
I took the manuscript carefully, scanning the first page. Untitled. The words were raw, filled with emotion even in just the opening lines. This wasn’t just any novel—it was personal.
I glanced back at him. “Why me?”
His jaw ticked. “Because you don’t know me.”
I frowned. “That’s… a weird reason.”
His lips twitched—almost a smirk, but not quite. “Familiarity leads to judgment. I don’t need that.”
I didn’t know what to say to that, so I just nodded. “Got it.”
Leo turned away, his voice cool again. “You’ll have dinner in your room. Breakfast is at seven. Don’t be late.”
I blinked. “Wait—so I can’t eat with you?”
He shot me a look. “Did you misunderstand what I said earlier?”
“No disruptions,” I muttered under my breath.
“Exactly.”
And with that, he walked out, leaving me standing in the middle of his office, manuscript in hand.
What the hell did I just sign up for?
---
Later That Night
My assigned room was beautiful but eerily empty. It was bigger than my entire apartment, with a four-poster bed, floor-to-ceiling windows, and a fireplace that crackled softly.
On the bedside table, a tray of food sat untouched.
I curled up in the armchair, Leo’s manuscript in my lap. The pages felt heavy, as if carrying the weight of something unfinished—something painful.
I took a deep breath and began to read.
The first chapter was haunting. A story about a man who had everything, only to lose it all in a single moment. The words bled with regret, longing, and a grief so deep, I could feel it clawing at my chest.
I didn’t know what happened to Leonard Castillo.
But whatever it was… it had broken him.
And somehow, I was supposed to put him back together.
I don’t know how long I sat there, flipping through page after page of Leo’s unfinished novel. But when I finally looked up, the room was dark, the only light coming from the fireplace.
I exhaled, my mind racing.
The story was gut-wrenching. A man torn apart by guilt. A woman he couldn’t save. A love story that felt too personal to be fiction.
Was this why Leo had stopped writing? Because it wasn’t just a story—it was a confession?
I shut the manuscript and rubbed my temples. I wasn’t just here to ghostwrite. I was piecing together someone else’s pain, line by line.
What did I just get myself into?
A soft knock at the door made me jump.
I hesitated before standing and opening it.
A woman stood there, probably in her late fifties, dressed in a neat black uniform. She had kind eyes, but there was something cautious about the way she looked at me.
“You should rest,” she said gently. “The mornings here start early.”
I nodded, still holding onto the manuscript. “What’s your name?”
“Amelia.” She smiled faintly. “I’ve worked here for a long time.”
I hesitated before asking, “Is he always like this?”
Her smile faded slightly. “He has his reasons.”
That wasn’t an answer.
But before I could ask anything else, she gave me a small nod and turned to leave.
I closed the door, exhaling.
Leo Castillo was a mystery. And something told me that if I wasn’t careful, I’d get pulled in too deep.
I placed the manuscript on the nightstand and climbed into bed, my mind still spinning.
Tomorrow, I start unraveling a man who doesn’t want to be unraveled.
And for some reason, that terrified me more than anything.
Sleep didn’t come easily.
I tossed and turned, my mind restless with thoughts of Leo’s unfinished novel. The words haunted me—his pain bled through every sentence, too raw to be fiction.
By the time my alarm rang at six, I had barely gotten any rest.
With a groan, I forced myself out of bed, splashing cold water on my face before throwing on a simple sweater and jeans.
Breakfast is at seven. Don’t be late.
Leo’s voice echoed in my head, sharp and commanding.
I didn’t plan on testing his patience this early.
---
The Dining Room
The house was just as silent as last night.
I followed the long hallway toward the dining room, my footsteps barely making a sound against the polished floors.
The doors were slightly open, and I hesitated for a moment before stepping inside.
Leo was already there.
Seated at the far end of the long dining table, he was dressed in a black button-down, sleeves rolled up to his forearms. A cup of coffee sat untouched beside him, his gaze focused on something in his hands.
A cigarette.
He rolled it between his fingers absentmindedly, his expression unreadable. But the moment he noticed me, his jaw tightened.
“You’re early,” he said.
I lifted a brow. “And you don’t look like a morning person.”
A flicker of something—amusement?—crossed his face before he set the cigarette down and gestured toward the seat across from him.
“Eat,” he ordered.
I sat, glancing at the plate in front of me. Scrambled eggs, toast, and a small serving of fruit. Simple.
I picked up my fork. “Do you always eat alone?”
Leo took a sip of his coffee before answering. “Yes.”
I chewed on my toast, waiting for him to say more. But he didn’t.
Just silence.
The air between us felt thick with something unspoken, and for some reason, I wanted to break it.
“You don’t seem like the type who needs a ghostwriter,” I said, studying him. “You’re obviously brilliant.”
His gaze lifted, sharp and unreadable. “Brilliance has nothing to do with it.”
“Then what does?”
For a moment, I thought he wouldn’t answer.
Then, in a low voice, he murmured, “Some stories don’t want to be told.”
A chill ran down my spine.
Before I could respond, he pushed his chair back and stood.
“Meet me in the study in twenty minutes,” he said. “We begin today.”
Then, without another word, he walked out—leaving me alone with a million more questions.
I stared at the empty chair across from me, Leo’s words lingering in my mind.
"Some stories don’t want to be told."
What did he mean by that?
Was his novel about something he regretted? Something painful?
I exhaled and finished the last bite of my toast, pushing my plate away. My stomach felt heavy—not from the food, but from the weight of everything unspoken between us.
Twenty minutes.
I glanced at the clock.
Time to face the storm that was Leonard Castillo.
---
The Study
I knocked once before stepping inside.
Leo was already seated at his desk, a black notebook open in front of him. His sleeves were still rolled up, exposing the veins on his forearms. The air smelled faintly of coffee and something deeper—cigarette smoke, maybe.
He didn’t look up. “Sit.”
I obeyed, settling into the chair across from him.
For a long moment, he said nothing.
Then—
“Tell me what you thought of it.”
I knew what he meant. His unfinished novel.
I swallowed, choosing my words carefully. “It’s… heavy.”
His eyes lifted, dark and unreadable. “Heavy?”
I hesitated. “It feels personal. Like whoever wrote it isn’t just telling a story. He’s confessing something.”
Silence.
Leo’s fingers tapped lightly against his notebook, his expression unreadable. “And?”
I met his gaze. “And whoever wrote it… is afraid of how it ends.”
His jaw clenched, the muscle ticking.
Bingo.
I was right.
This wasn’t just any novel.
It was his truth.
Leo leaned back in his chair, studying me. For the first time, I felt like I was the one being unraveled, like he was peeling away my layers just as I was peeling away his.
Then, finally, he spoke.
“You’re different from what I expected.”
I frowned. “Is that a bad thing?”
His lips twitched—almost a smirk, but not quite.
“We’ll see.”
And just like that, the tension between us shifted.
I wasn’t just here to write.
I was here to uncover the parts of him he kept buried.
And something told me—once I did, there would be no turning back.
- Writer
