TRAPPED IN THE BILLIONAIRE'S HAUNTED MANSION

CHAPTER 2: NIGHT ONE

It took three hours to drive from Durban to Sandton in his black G-Wagon. The driver didn't talk. I sat in the back seat with my Shoprite bag of R100,000 cash on my lap and my small overnight bag that had my green dress, my beaded necklaces, and my tarot cards.

I kept thinking about his hand on my wrist. The way he looked at my lips. The way he said "Wear that green dress tonight."

This was a bad idea. Grandma would beat me if she knew.

When the gates opened, I forgot how to breathe.

The house was not a house. It was a castle. Three floors, all black and glass. Big windows. But only one light was on — first floor. The third floor was completely dark, like a mouth that had swallowed all the light.

"Madam Zanele," the driver said, opening my door. "CEO is waiting inside."

I walked in. My cheap sandals loud on the marble floor that probably cost more than my life.

And there he was.

Liam Mthembu.

He had changed. No suit jacket. Just a black shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. I could see his forearms — veins, muscle, a small scar. His top two buttons open, showing his chest hair. He looked even more handsome and even more dangerous than at the market.

He was drinking whiskey, standing in his kitchen that was bigger than my whole RDP house.

"You came," he said. His voice was lower at night.

"You paid," I said. But my voice shook.

He put his glass down and walked towards me. Slowly. Like a lion. He didn't stop until he was one step away. Too close. I could feel heat coming from his body.

"Give me the bag," he said.

I gave him the Shoprite bag. Our fingers touched again. That same electric shock.

He didn't count it. He threw it on his R100,000 couch like it was nothing.

"House rules," he said, still standing too close. "Rule one: Third floor is forbidden after 10 PM. You never go there. Not even if you hear screaming. Especially if you hear screaming."

"Why?"

"Because that's where my girlfriend died. And where my sister died."

"Rule two: You sleep on second floor. I sleep on first floor. You don't come to my floor after midnight. I don't come to yours."

"Why?" I asked again. My heart was beating so fast I thought my green dress would rip.

"Because if you come to my floor after midnight, I won't be able to stop myself," he said, his eyes dropping to my mouth. He said it honestly. Like a confession. "You are... distracting. And I have not been with a woman in eight months. Since she died."

My knees went weak. No man ever spoke to me like that. My ex in Durban only wanted to ask for money.

"Rule three," he continued, his voice hoarse. "If you feel anything, if you see anything, you scream. I will hear you. I will come. Even if I am not wearing anything, I will come."

My face turned hot. Red hot.

"Okay," I whispered.

He showed me to my room. Second floor. The bed was huge. White sheets. A bath with jets. A mirror that was taller than me.

He stood in the doorway, watching me look around.

"You are the first woman to enter this house since her funeral," he said.

I turned around. He was leaning against the door frame. His arms crossed. His biceps stretching his black shirt.

"Why me?" I asked. "You have billions. You can hire anyone."

"Because when you touched me, you saw my sister," he said. "My sister wore a blue school uniform from St Mary's. She died on her 17th birthday. In this house. Eight years ago. She fell from the third floor balcony. Police said accident. I know it was not an accident."

Another death. Same house. Same floor.

This house was cursed.

He stepped into my room. One step. Then another. He reached out and touched my beaded necklace. His knuckles brushed my chest. My breath stopped.

"These beads," he said softly. "They are warm. Like you."

"They protect me," I whispered. I couldn't move. His hand was still near my chest.

"Protect you from me?" he asked. His face was inches from mine now. I could smell whiskey on his breath. And underneath, mint.

"Protect me from spirits," I said.

"I am a spirit," he said. "I have been a ghost in my own house for eight months."

We were so close I could see a small mole under his eye. So close his shirt brushed my green dress.

"Zanele, read me again," he whispered. "Right now. No cards. Just touch me. Tell me what you see about tonight."

I should have said no. But I placed my hand flat on his chest, right over his heart where the black smoke was thickest.

The second I touched him, a vision hit me so hard I almost fell — but he caught me. His hand on my waist, holding me up. Firm. Hot through my dress.

I saw the third floor. Dark. The ceiling fan spinning. A young girl in school uniform crying and pointing at Liam, saying "He is coming back. He is coming back tonight."

Then I saw blood. On Liam's hands. And Liam smiling. A dark, scary smile.

And then I saw myself. In his bed. On the first floor. Wearing nothing but his black shirt. And him kissing my neck.

I gasped and opened my eyes.

Liam was holding me tight. His hand still on my waist. His forehead almost touching mine.

"What did you see?" he asked, breathing hard.

"Your sister," I lied. I couldn't tell him about the blood. Or about me in his shirt. "She is warning you. Someone is coming back tonight. Someone who killed—"

BANG!

A loud bang from the third floor shook the whole house. The ceiling fan in MY room started spinning on its own. Fast. Creaking. The lights flickered.

Liam pushed me behind him instantly. Like his body was my shield. His whole back tense. Muscular even through his shirt.

"She's here," he said.

In the flicker of the lights, I saw her. Not the girlfriend. The sister. 17. School uniform. Standing in the corner of my room, pointing at the ceiling, crying silently. Her neck was bent at a wrong angle.

"Third floor," I whispered, holding Liam's back. "She wants us to go to the third floor."

"Rule one," Liam said. "We never go to the third floor after 10 PM."

It was 10:03 PM.

Then we heard footsteps above us. Heavy boots. Not a ghost. A man. Walking on the third floor.

Liam's face changed. From scared to furious. He turned to me. His eyes black.

"Stay here. Lock the door. If I am not back in 15 minutes, call my brother. His number is on the fridge downstairs. Do not call police."

He grabbed something from under my bed — I didn't know he hid it there. A black gun.

"You have a gun under my bed?" I screamed.

"This house needs it," he said. Then he did something insane.

He grabbed my face with both hands and kissed my forehead. Hard. His lips hot on my skin.

"If I die tonight, that R100,000 becomes R1 million. It's in my will. I wrote it this afternoon after I met you," he whispered against my forehead. "Stay alive, green dress."

Then he ran out and locked my bedroom door from the outside. I heard his footsteps running up to the third floor. To the forbidden floor. With a gun.

I was locked in a billionaire's bedroom, 500km away from home, with a dead girl in the corner of my room, and a man I had known for six hours who might die for me.

At 2:13 AM, my locked door opened on its own.

And a man in boots walked into my room.