KEEP HER CLOSE

Louisiana Vale had been in many strange homes before but never one that made silence feel this loud. The penthouse was quiet. Not the peaceful kind. The kind that watched. That waited. Every wall gleamed like glass, every surface untouched, as if the entire place had been frozen in time. She stepped inside with care, her small bag tucked beneath her arm, her eyes flicking toward the towering ceilings and marble floors. This was where powerful people lived. Where rules were spoken once and expected to last forever. She barely had time to blink before she felt him enter. Alexander Reign. He didn’t announce himself. He didn’t need to. His presence spoke first sharp, cold, and impossible to ignore. Dressed in black from head to toe, he looked like he belonged to the shadows. Only his obsidian eyes stood out, dark and unreadable, cutting straight through her. “You’re the new girl,” he said simply, like a fact he didn’t care for. Louisiana nodded. “Yes, sir.” “Rules,” he continued, stepping closer. “You don’t speak unless asked. You don’t touch anything in my office. You don’t make noise. Ever.” She swallowed. “Understood.” His gaze lingered on her just for a moment. A flicker of curiosity? Or suspicion? She couldn’t tell. “You’ll stay in the guest room. Keep out of the rest.” And just like that, he turned away. No welcome. No handshake. No hint of warmth. Louisiana didn’t expect kindness. Not here. She had taken this job because she needed to survive not because she believed in fairy tales. She was twenty-two, an orphan with no family, no fortune, and nowhere left to run. The listing had said “discreet house help.” She hadn’t realized it meant invisible. She found the guest room upstairs neat, cold, and too quiet and set her bag on the single bed. Her fingers brushed the edge of the mattress, where something strange jutted out underneath. She paused. An envelope. It wasn’t labeled. It wasn’t sealed. But it was full. Louisiana opened it before she could stop herself. Inside were photographs Of her. Dozens of them some old, some recent. On the bus. Outside the shelter. Carrying groceries. Even one from last week, laughing with the old woman from the bakery down the street. Her heart flipped. She shuffled to the last photo and that’s when she saw it. The line written across the back, in black ink: Keep her close. She’s the key. The walls didn’t feel quiet anymore. They felt alive.