Chapter 2
1268 Words
“My name is Ewa, you called me… remember?”
“Dad, I promise — my expenses will be low.”
“Dad — please.”
I gave my best emotional performance — voice trembling, heart pounding in my throat. Even the Uber driver kept glancing at me in the mirror, like he wasn’t sure whether to keep driving or pull over and let me cry on his shoulder.
“This is for your own good,” Dad said.
Which part of my panic did he miss?
“Dad, this isn’t a small deal. She’s going to crush me.”
“I know.”
“Wait—what?”
“I mean, just do your best and agree with Ms Roslina. If she doesn’t like your plan, she’ll never approve it. So if anything fails, it’ll be your ideas, not our money.”
His words sat like lead in my gut. A disclaimer. An insurance policy against me.
He sounded like a man who’d already survived her.
“Dad, I’m your daughter. I need another chance. I’ll find something else — something smaller. This is too much. If this goes south, you’ll—”
“You’ll understand when you become a parent.”
Ah, the family’s go-to mic drop.
“Dad—”
Tut-tut.
He hung up.
“Oh my God.”
So this is how the doomed feel on their way to battle.
“It’s going to be okay, child,” the driver said.
Jesus?
No — just the Uber guy.
“I hope so,” I offered a strained smile, eyes fixed on the building ahead.
Right.
In and out.
Get this over with, survive the project, and maybe, just maybe, I’ll earn enough credibility to never again have to follow Dad’s “suggestions.”
The Blakes are a big name, after all.
I grabbed my trolley and stepped into the villa.
Too big for one person, if you ask me. But then again, nobody is.
What really made my stomach twist was living here alone until the redesign was complete. Slightly spooky — but nothing compared to sharing space with Ms Roslina. She isn’t a bad person. Just... intense. Sharp as a whip, relentless as rain.
And then there’s her golden child — David.
Well. Even the moon has spots.
The villa had two wings — a guest room flanking the left of the entrance, and what I assumed were private quarters to the right. The central hallway split further: one side led to a five-room wooden office — grounded, stable, ideal for a workaholic like David. The other path curled into a garden and car park.
As soon as I entered, my mind clicked into design mode. The wood in the office exuded a heavy, serious calm — fitting for someone rumoured to be halfway to sainthood.
Roslina never finishes a meeting without mentioning him.
David isn’t exactly private property.
Still, for someone so constantly spoken of, his life sounds dull.
Not that it matters.
Not now.
Not after that evening back in our teens.
According to my calculations, my mission was simple: get Miss Roslina to approve my designs.
I’d always been a diligent student of design — grades, competitions, critiques — I handled them all.
But Roslina Blake sitting as judge and jury? That was enough to wobble even well-bolted confidence.
Still, if my stars hadn’t completely betrayed me, I could manage the design of the private room in three days.
Approval, though — that was the real battlefield. Personal spaces came with personal preferences, and this particular project screamed of back-and-forths and second-guesses. So I generously gave it five days each for the private rooms and the office.
Fifteen days total. That’s all it should take to survive this chaos.
Once the designs were approved, I’d just need to ensure the team executed it properly — which I could do remotely. Most of the furniture would come from Chely’s; they always had solid materials and sleek designs.
Fifteen days. In and out.
My dreamy spreadsheet of mental scheduling shattered when I heard movement behind me.
“Ma’am, your dinner,” came a voice — calm, flat, so close and sudden it felt like it was coming from inside my skull. I spun around. No footsteps. No warning. Just a pale figure standing there, tray in hand, like he'd materialized from the shadows.
“Ah!”
I jolted from my seat.
“Who are you? Where did you come from?”
“From the pantry, Miss. Your soup will get cold. Kindly have it and let me know if you need anything.”
He sounded like an employee… or a butler trained by Wednesday Addams.
“Thanks… I guess.”
“Do you stay here?”
“No, Miss. My hours are eight to eight. If you don’t need anything else, I’ll take my leave.”
Still monotone. Still mildly terrifying.
Well, there goes my last hope of companionship in this mansion-sized horror film.
I nodded, watching him disappear as eerily as he had appeared.
Then, quietly, I took a sip of the soup — suspicious of its silence — and retreated to my bed.
I had just placed the empty soup bowl on the tray and switched off the bedside lamp when I heard it.
A whisper.
Faint. Slippery. Like wind threading through a c***k in the window.
Then—another one. Deeper. Firmer. Not the wind.
I froze.
No. No. No. I was supposed to be alone in this villa. The staff left at 8. The doors were locked. I double-checked. Triple-checked. Didn’t I?
I strained to hear.
Whispering again.
Two voices. One low, commanding. The other soft. Familiar? My heart stammered.
Burglars?
Oh god. Burglars. Of course. Big villa. Fancy address. Obviously someone would try their luck tonight.
I scrambled in the dark and grabbed the only weapon I could find — a tall brass candle stand. Heavy. Useless. Decorative. My chances of survival? Zero.
I fumbled for my phone. Battery: 18%. Typical.
I tiptoed out of the room, each step a silent negotiation with the marble that threatened to scream underfoot. The floor was freezing — sharp enough to sting. My breath caught in short, ragged pulls, fogging in the air before me.
Why, Dad. Why?
Why did I beg you to help me get this project? I could’ve been safe. Poor. But safe.
Why did I meet Roslina Blake?
Of all the high-society ladies, I had to impress the one who’s practically an empress in heels.
Why didn’t I faint like Rekha?
That would’ve been convenient. Dramatic. Sympathetic. She fainted. I volunteered to suffer.
Why, oh god why, did I agree to live here alone?
I reached the hallway. The air felt colder now — or maybe it was just fear brushing up against my neck.
The voices grew louder as I crept closer to the far end of the corridor. The library? The sitting room? I didn’t know this house well enough to be sure.
I took one shaky step after another, candle stand raised in front of me like a medieval sword. My phone was clutched so tightly, I could feel the volume button imprinting itself onto my palm.
I paused just outside the slightly open door. A sliver of light spilled onto the floor like a warning.
Another whisper.
Then—clear as day:
“I will not get married, Mom.”, came the voice — low, defiant, and chillingly clear.
I blinked.
Wait. What?
I edged closer, my breath held hostage in my throat.
That voice… it wasn’t unfamiliar.
It was…
David?
- Writer
