Owned by the Heir

Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Calystria's POV

The glow of my laptop screen faded to black, leaving me staring at my own ghostly reflection in the dark glass. The face looking back was pale, eyes too wide, looking like a cornered animal. Valerian’s image lingered in my mind—cold, sharp, terrifyingly beautiful. The money in my bank account felt heavy, a burning weight in my pocket that I couldn't ignore.

I stood up from the bed, my legs feeling like they were made of wood. There was no use sitting around waiting for the reality to change. I had signed the papers. I had taken the money. The transaction was complete.

There’s no version of this where I stay.

I grabbed my old, tattered backpack from the floor and unzipped it. It smelled faintly of mildew and old jeepney fumes. I looked around my room, at the chaotic mess of a life I was leaving behind. I reached for the small wooden box on my nightstand. Inside was the only thing I really cared about—a cheap silver locket my mother gave me before she passed, and a polaroid of me and my sister, Cara, making silly faces at the beach.

I held the locket. It wasn't worth anything to a pawn shop, but to me, it was the only anchor I had left.

"Sorry, Mama," I whispered to the empty room. "I tried to do it the right way."

I threw the locket and the photo into the bottom of the bag. I didn't have much else. A few shirts, two pairs of jeans, my toothbrush. I looked at the small pile of clothes scattered on the bed, the drawers hanging open like gaping mouths. It was a pathetic amount of stuff for a twenty-four-year-old life.

I glanced at the corner where my old acoustic guitar sat, the wood scratched and the strap held together by duct tape. I bit my lip. I couldn't take it. There was no room for a battered instrument in a world of silk ties and private elevators. I touched the neck one last time, feeling the familiar grooves under my fingertips, then turned away. Leaving it felt like leaving a piece of my skin.

My eyes landed on the eviction notice, still lying on the table where I’d crumpled it. I walked over and picked it up. The red ink seemed duller now, the threat neutralized by a bank transfer with too many zeros. It felt irrelevant, just a relic from a previous life. A life where I was Calystria Santelario, the girl who couldn't pay rent. Now, I was Calystria Santelario, the girl who belonged to Valerian Iskorel.

I straightened the paper, smoothed out the wrinkles, and tossed it into the trash can. Good riddance.

I zipped up my backpack. The room fell into a heavy silence. I paused in the center of the floor, the cheap vinyl tiles cool through my thin socks. I listened. I listened to the drip of the leaky faucet in the bathroom, the distant bark of a dog, the hum of the neighbor’s TV through the thin walls. It was the soundtrack of struggle, but it was mine.

Downstairs, a car horn honked. Not a jeepney bark, but a low, sophisticated purr.

I walked to the window. The black sedan was back.

I didn't call anyone. I didn't text Cara—I had already told her I was taking a job out of town, a vague lie that tasted like ash in my mouth. I didn't want goodbyes. Goodbyes made things real, and I was already having enough trouble convincing myself that this wasn't a dream.

I slung my backpack over my shoulder. The weight of it was familiar, grounding. I walked to the door, stepped out into the hallway, and locked it behind me. The lock clicked, a small, final sound. I lingered for a second too long, my hand on the doorknob.

I don’t know if I’m coming back.

I walked down the stairs, my footsteps echoing in the stairwell. The air outside was humid, thick with the smell of exhaust and street food. The driver was waiting by the curb. He looked the same as before—rigid, polished, a statue in a suit.

"Ms. Santelario," he said, taking my backpack from my shoulder before I could protest. He opened the rear door for me.

"Thanks," I muttered, sliding into the cool, leather-scented interior.

The drive was longer this time. We left the cluttered, colorful chaos of my neighborhood and merged onto the highway, heading toward the distant, glittering spine of the city. I watched the streets roll by—my streets. The bakery where I bought pandesal every morning, the laundry shop where I spent Saturdays, the grimy park where I used to run. They looked smaller now, shrinking in the rearview mirror. I felt detached, like I was floating away from my own body.

The city thinned out as we drove. The buildings grew taller, sleeker, further apart. We turned off the main road onto a private lane lined with ancient trees. The shadows deepened, the streetlights replaced by subtle, ground-level illumination that made the road look like a runway.

We approached a gate. It was massive, wrought iron twisting into intricate, forbidding patterns. It looked less like an entrance and more like a jaw. Beside the gate, a security booth sat tucked away. Men in dark uniforms watched the car approach, their eyes hidden behind sunglasses despite the hour. Cameras tracked our movement, little red lights blinking in the gloom.

The gates swung open silently.

The car glided forward, and suddenly, there it was.

The mansion.

It wasn't just a house. It was a statement. A sprawling structure of glass, concrete, and dark stone, perched on a manicured hill like a predator surveying its territory. The architecture was severe—sharp angles, flat roofs, massive windows that reflected the night sky. It was beautiful, in a terrifying, geometric way. It wasn't welcoming. It was imposing. It looked like a place where feelings went to die.

I stared, my mouth slightly open. I had seen pictures, but pictures didn't capture the sheer scale of the isolation. It was a fortress.

"Welcome to the residence, Ms. Santelario," the driver said, his voice cutting through my trance.

We drove up the long, winding driveway. The landscaping was immaculate—trees clipped into perfect shapes, grass that looked like green velvet. There were no weeds here. There was no chaos. Only control.

The car stopped under a portico at the front entrance. Before I could even reach for the handle, the heavy double doors of the mansion swung open.

Staff emerged. Not just one or two, but a line of them. They stood in perfect formation, dressed in crisp black and white uniforms. They were waiting for me. I hadn't seen them arrive. It was like the house had spat them out.

I stepped out of the car. The air here smelled different—cleaner, colder, with a hint of expensive flowers I couldn't name. My sneakers made a faint slapping sound on the polished stone steps.

A woman stepped forward. She was in her fifties, with grey hair pulled back into a severe bun and a face that looked like it had never cracked a smile in its life. She was the head of the house, I guessed.

"Good evening, Ms. Santelario," she said. Her voice was polite, smooth, but utterly distant. "I am Mrs. Reyes, the house manager. We have prepared your quarters."

"Thank you," I said, clutching the strap of my small backpack. I felt absurdly underdressed. I felt like a speck of dust in a museum.

"Follow me, please."

I walked inside.

The temperature shifted instantly. It was cold, a refrigerated kind of chill that seeped into my bones. The silence was thicker here, muffled by thick rugs and expensive wall paneling. The interior was minimalist to the point of sterility. Everything was grey, white, and black. A massive chandelier hung from a ceiling that seemed miles high. The floors were marble, so polished I could see my reflection looking back up at me, distorted and small.

There were no personal photos on the walls. No clutter. No half-read books or discarded jackets. It was like no one actually lived here. It was a showroom.

As I walked past the line of staff, I felt their eyes on me. It wasn't malicious, but it was assessing. They looked at my faded jeans, my backpack, my messy hair. I could almost hear their thoughts. She’s the one? Her? I felt temporary. Replaceable. I wasn't a wife. I wasn't a guest. I was a... variable.

"We keep the main wing sealed during the evenings," Mrs. Reyes said, her heels clicking rhythmically on the marble. "Your room is in the East Wing. It is separate from the master quarters."

I nodded. "Separate. Right. Good." I tried to sound casual, but my voice echoed too loudly in the hallway.

We walked through corridors that seemed to stretch forever. Every now and then, I’d catch a glimpse of a room through an open door—a library with floor-to-ceiling books, a sitting room with furniture that looked like it had never been sat on. Too much space. Too much emptiness.

We passed a heavy set of double doors at the end of a long hall. They were carved with a pattern I didn't recognize. I slowed down, curious.

Mrs. Reyes stepped smoothly into my path, blocking my view without seeming to do so intentionally. "That is Mr. Iskorel's private study," she said, her tone final. "It is not to be disturbed unless requested."

"Oh. I wasn't... I wasn't going to disturb anything," I stammered. "Just looking."

"This way, Ms. Santelario."

We walked a bit further, then turned a corner. She stopped in front of a door. "Your room."

She opened it and stepped aside for me to enter.

It was larger than my entire apartment. The bed was a king-size monstrosity draped in white linens that looked like clouds. There was a sitting area, a desk, and a massive window overlooking the city lights in the distance. The walls were a soft grey, the furniture sleek and modern.

It was beautiful. It was a five-star hotel suite.

It was completely impersonal.

"You will find that your closet has been stocked," Mrs. Reyes said from the doorway.

I froze. "Stocked?"

She walked over to a door in the wall and opened it. It wasn't a closet; it was a walk-in dressing room the size of a studio apartment. Racks of clothes lined the walls. Dresses, blouses, slacks, coats—all arranged by color. Shoes lined the shelves. Bags sat on display stands.

I walked in, stunned. I reached out and touched the sleeve of a silk blouse. It was my exact size. I looked at the shoes. Size seven. My size.

"How...?" I turned to Mrs. Reyes. "How did they know my size?"

"Mr. Iskorel is thorough," she said, reciting the same line the driver had used. It sounded like a script.

Thorough. That was the word. It felt less like care and more like data collection. I thought of the "file" Valerian had mentioned. He hadn't just known my debts; he knew my measurements. He knew my shoe size. He had probably bought this wardrobe while I was still eating instant noodles and crying over bills.

I looked at the clothes. They were elegant, expensive, and entirely not me. I looked down at my own t-shirt, the one with the tiny coffee stain on the hem. I looked around the room—at the perfect art, the perfect bed, the perfect silence.

My backpack looked pathetic sitting on the floor next to the Louis Vuitton luggage set that had been placed by the wardrobe. My things didn't belong here. I didn't belong here.

I walked to the window. The view was stunning, a panoramic sweep of the city I had just left. But it felt distant. Unreachable. The glass was thick, soundproof. I was in a snow globe, looking out.

"Dinner will be served at seven if you wish to eat," Mrs. Reyes said. "However, Mr. Iskorel is currently away on business. He will not be joining you."

"When will he be back?" I asked, turning around.

"That is not for me to say, Ms. Santelario."

She gave a small, formal bow. "If you require anything, there is an intercom system on the wall. We ask that you do not wander the halls after midnight. The security systems are sensitive."

"Right. Curfew. Precision. Got it."

She paused, her hand on the doorknob. "Ms. Santelario?"

"Yes?"

"Welcome to the estate."

It was the first time someone had said anything that sounded remotely like a greeting. But it still felt like a warning.

She stepped out and closed the door.

The click of the latch was loud in the silence.

I stood in the center of the room. The cold air-conditioning hummed, the only sound in the vast space. I felt a sudden, irrational urge to open the door and run, but I knew the gates were already locked. The cameras in the corners of the ceiling—small, black, unblinking—were watching me. I could feel their gaze like a physical touch.

I walked over to the bed and sat down. The mattress was firm, unyielding. I looked around at the luxury, the cold beauty, the calculated perfection.

This place wasn't a home.

It was a system.

And I had just been plugged into it.