CHAPTER 3: THE RULES AND THE OTHER VEXLEY
736 Words
Calla's Pov
I woke up in silk sheets.
Not just soft. Obscenely soft. Like my body had forgotten what cotton felt like. Like even my skin didn’t belong here.
The room was huge. Way bigger than my old studio. Pale gray walls. Sleek black furniture. No clutter. No warmth. A bed built for someone who didn’t sleep alone.
I blinked at the ceiling, heart already racing. It took me a second to remember where I was.
Vexley Estate.
Right. The job.
The mysterious billionaire who didn’t want his staff to ask questions. The one who looked at me like he already knew what I was running from.
Ronan Vexley. CEO. Control freak. Beautiful, terrifying man with eyes that could cut glass and a voice that could make you forget your name.
I got dressed in the only clean shirt I had left. Stole a banana from the massive kitchen fruit bowl that looked more decorative than edible. My stomach growled like it hated me. I ignored it.
Elijah found me by the laundry room.
“You're late,” he said without checking the time.
I opened my mouth, closed it. Followed him.
Cleaning here wasn’t normal cleaning.
There were rules. Specific instructions. Don’t touch the desk in the library. Don’t open any drawers in the study. Don’t go upstairs. Don’t ever go in the west wing.
The way Elijah said it—flat, serious, like he’d seen someone break those rules and vanish—I didn’t ask why.
I dusted the library, vacuumed the south parlor, changed bedsheets in two guest rooms that hadn’t been slept in but still smelled like expensive cologne and something darker.
It was quiet. Too quiet.
Like the house itself was listening.
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Around noon, I stepped into the hall near the west wing by accident. I didn’t realize I crossed the invisible line until I heard the voice.
“You’re not supposed to be here.”
I froze.
It wasn’t Ronan.
The man in front of me looked… polished. Clean suit, sharp features, hair slicked back like he modeled for old mafia films. He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
“Sorry,” I said quickly, backing up.
He moved toward me, slow. Deliberate. Like a cat stretching before a kill.
“No need to panic,” he said. “I’m Dominic.”
I didn’t shake his hand.
He noticed.
“New help?”
I nodded.
“Pretty,” he said, scanning me. “Ronan has a type, after all.”
My stomach twisted.
“I was just looking for the laundry chute,” I lied.
He smiled wider. “That’s cute. You lie badly.”
I tried to walk past him. He blocked me with one step.
“Let me guess,” he said. “You’ve got secrets. You needed a way out. He gave you a job. Now you think you’re safe.”
I didn’t answer.
“Do yourself a favor,” he whispered. “Don’t trust him. And whatever you do, don’t fall for him.”
I forced my voice to stay calm. “I’m not here for him.”
His eyes lit up. Like I amused him.
“Then you’re already his favorite kind of girl.”
I stepped around him—fast, before he could say more.
He didn’t follow.
He just laughed.
I found Elijah in the hall ten minutes later.
“Who the hell is Dominic?” I hissed.
He looked at me too long before answering.
“Someone who’s not your concern.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one you’re gonna get.”
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That night, I sat on the edge of my bed with my phone in my hand, thumb hovering over Jade’s name.
But I didn’t call.
What would I say?
That I was living in a mansion that felt like a haunted museum? That the billionaire who hired me had rules like a warden, and his creepy maybe-friend might be a threat?
I set the phone down.
Just as I lay back, there was a soft knock on my door.
I sat up fast. “Who is it?”
No answer.
Another knock. Quieter this time.
I got up, heart slamming against my ribs. I opened the door an inch.
No one was there.
But something was.
On the floor—an envelope. Unmarked. No name.
Inside was a single photo.
Me.
Sleeping.
- Writer
