Chapter 2
1114 Words
Lyra’s POV
Here’s something they don’t tell you when you sign a half-million-dollar contract to live with a suspiciously attractive billionaire who may or may not have kidnapped your sister:
He walks around barefoot.
Bare. Freaking. Foot.
And somehow that’s more intimate than if he were shirtless.
I’m currently sitting at the ridiculous ten-foot-long glass breakfast bar, pretending to enjoy avocado toast while watching Damien Virelli stride across his kitchen like he owns every floorboard—and my sanity.
His shirt is partially unbuttoned. His hair is wet. There’s a tattoo on the side of his neck that disappears under his collar.
I don’t know what’s worse: the fact that he looks like sin or the fact that I’m ogling him while investigating him for potential murder.
“You’re staring,” he says calmly, not even glancing at me.
“You’re barefoot,” I shoot back. “It’s distracting.”
He smirks faintly as he picks up a mug of coffee. “Would shoes help you focus?”
“Shoes would help you look less like you just stepped out of someone’s fantasy.”
He pauses.
Then turns, slow and deliberate.
“Whose fantasy, Lyra?”
My cheeks betray me.
“You wish,” I mutter, slicing my toast like it owes me money.
---
The day drags in quiet elegance. I explore the first two floors—library, office, weapons room (?!), and what I can only describe as a private theater larger than most apartment buildings.
The third floor, however, is still locked. Literally. With a black-coded keypad and a motion sensor.
Every time I pass it, my curiosity itches.
What’s up there?
A vault? Bodies? Secret ex-wife? My sister?
Maybe all four.
Later, I’m back in my room scrolling through my laptop—again—with no new leads. It's like this man has erased every digital trace of his existence. Even his Wikipedia page is suspiciously short.
That’s when I hear it.
A thump.
From the third floor.
I freeze.
Then another thump. Louder. Followed by… a dragging sound?
Nope. I didn’t imagine that.
So what do I do?
Exactly what every girl in a horror movie does: I grab a flashlight and sneak toward the stairs.
Call it dumb. I call it justice.
I stop in front of the keypad and watch the red light blink.
I lift my hand.
But before I can touch it—
“Don’t.”
I jolt so hard I nearly fall down the stairs.
He’s behind me.
Barefoot again.
---
Damien’s POV
She’s nosy.
Bold.
Reckless.
Exactly the type I shouldn’t have brought into this house.
I watch her freeze, her body halfway turned toward the forbidden door. Her fingers twitch. She’s still debating whether or not to touch the keypad.
I speak again, softer this time. “That door isn’t locked to test you, Lyra. It’s locked to protect you.”
Her voice is sharp. “From what? The ghosts you keep in your closet?”
I don’t smile. I rarely do.
“From yourself.”
She narrows her eyes at me, and I can practically hear her pulse speeding up.
“You like riddles,” she accuses.
“You like breaking things.”
“You like watching me.”
That catches me off guard.
Just for a second.
She’s right, of course. I do watch her. From the monitors. From doorways. From reflections.
I watch the way her lips twitch when she lies.
The way her fingers tighten when she hears her sister’s name.
I’ve been watching Lyra Santiaga since before she knew my name.
But I say none of that.
Instead, I step closer.
And lie.
“I don’t waste time on people who don’t matter.”
She flinches—barely. But it’s enough to make me regret it.
Her voice is quieter now. “Then maybe I should leave.”
I should let her.
But I won’t.
“Do that,” I say, “and you’ll never know the truth.”
Her breath hitches.
Hook. Line. Sinker.
---
Lyra’s POV
He’s playing me. I know he is. But God, he’s good at it.
The moment he says “truth,” my anger fizzles into something more dangerous—hope.
And I hate him for it.
I hate how calm he is. How composed. How every word from his mouth is a calculated move in a game I don’t fully understand yet.
“I’m not here to play house,” I tell him. “I want answers.”
“You’ll get them.”
“When?”
“When you stop acting like a child.”
That stings.
I cross my arms. “You think this is a game, don’t you?”
“No,” he says. “Games have rules. This doesn’t.”
And with that, he walks away, leaving me standing alone in front of a door that hums with secrets.
---
Later That Night
I’m in bed, but sleep isn’t even on the menu.
Instead, I’m pacing in my oversized pajamas, muttering to myself like a lunatic.
Who puts a freaking security door in a house and expects no one to be curious?
Who hires a woman whose sister vanished years ago and doesn’t expect her to ask questions?
And most importantly:
Why the hell does my stomach twist every time he’s in the room?
I glance at the mirror.
My reflection looks tired. Angry. Scared.
But also… alive.
Damien Virelli is dangerous.
But danger, I’ve learned, is better than numbness.
Suddenly, a soft ding echoes from my laptop.
An anonymous message.
> “He keeps everything behind locked doors. But the key isn’t always metal. Sometimes, it’s emotion.”
I stare at it.
No sender. No trace.
I type back.
> Who are you?
No reply.
I shiver.
This place is watching me.
But I’m watching back.
---
Damien’s POV
I stand in my office, reviewing footage of her pacing her room like a lioness in a cage.
She’s restless.
Predictable.
But also… fascinating.
She hasn’t cried. Not once. Most women in this house crack within the first 48 hours.
Not Lyra.
She fights everything. Including herself.
I pour a drink and lean back, watching her freeze at the laptop message. Good. Let her know she’s not alone. Let the paranoia begin.
Because paranoia makes people honest.
And I need her to be honest if I’m ever going to tell her what really happened the night her sister vanished.
I look at the photo on my desk.
Lyra’s sister. Smiling. Posing.
Alive.
Somewhere.
But if Lyra learns the full truth now… it’ll break her.
And I need her strong.
Because what’s coming…
Will destroy us both.
---
- Writer
