The billionaire’s Affairs

I was never the kind of girl who believed in fairytales. I didn’t grow up clutching glass slippers or dreaming about princes. My childhood was made of peeling paint, second-hand shoes, and the sound of my mother crying softly in the kitchen when she thought I was asleep. So no — I didn’t believe in magic. And standing now at the foot of the enormous iron gates guarding Knight Manor, I didn’t feel like I’d arrived at anything magical. Just… trapped. The wind howled through the trees like it was warning me. The sky above was overcast, the kind of moody gray that made everything feel heavier. The gates loomed in front of me, black, ornate, and unwelcoming. Beyond them, I could barely see the outline of the mansion — a dark structure of cold stone and sharp corners, more fortress than home. I shifted the strap of my worn-out suitcase and pressed the intercom button mounted on the gatepost. Static. Then a voice—low, male, commanding. “State your name.” I swallowed. “Ivy Collins. I was hired as Mr. Knight’s new assistant.” A pause. Silence so long I thought maybe they hung up. Then—click. The gates began to open slowly, metal groaning like it hadn’t moved in years. I didn’t move. Something inside me whispered that I should turn around. That this place was wrong. But I didn’t have that luxury. Not anymore. ⸻ My boots crunched along the gravel driveway as I made my way up toward the manor. Trees lined either side — tall, ancient pines that reached out like skeletal fingers. Fog clung to the ground, swirling around my legs like smoke. Every step closer felt heavier. When the manor finally came into view, my breath caught. It was… beautiful in a terrifying way. Gothic architecture. Stone walls with ivy creeping up the sides. Dozens of tall, black windows that looked down like watching eyes. A single lantern flickered near the door, casting long shadows across the porch. I reached the steps just as the front door opened. A tall, sharp-featured woman stood there. Late fifties, hair in a perfect silver bun, black dress like she walked out of a Victorian film. She looked me up and down like I was something she stepped in. “You’re late,” she said. “I’m sorry,” I said quickly. “The train was delayed and—” “Excuses won’t serve you here. Follow me.” No introduction. No smile. She turned and walked inside, expecting me to trail behind. I stepped in and instantly felt swallowed. The inside of Knight Manor was even more intimidating than the outside. High ceilings. Chandeliers that sparkled like frost. Marble floors so polished I could see my reflection in them. The whole place smelled faintly of old books and colder secrets. Portraits lined the walls. None of them smiled. “You’ll refer to me as Mrs. Porter,” the woman said, handing me a paper schedule. “These are your duties. You’ll not disturb Mr. Knight unless instructed. Meals are served at 7. Lights out by 10. Do not wander the house at night. Is that understood?” “Yes… Mrs. Porter,” I replied, a little stunned. “Your room is on the second floor. Left wing. Third door. Keep it clean.” With that, she disappeared down a hallway, heels echoing like a warning. ⸻ The staircase creaked under my steps as I climbed. The manor was eerily silent — no voices, no movement, just the ticking of some invisible clock echoing faintly through the halls. My room was small but neat. A narrow bed with stiff white sheets. A wooden desk. A closet I was too afraid to open. The window overlooked the back of the estate — endless pine trees and a faint outline of something that looked like a greenhouse, or maybe a chapel. I set my bag down and sat on the bed, exhaling for the first time in hours. What was I doing here? Desperation. That’s what it was. After my mom died and the hospital bills ate everything she left behind, I dropped out of college. No family. No friends who could help. Just a job listing I found buried in the classifieds: “Live-in assistant needed. Discretion required. Housing included.” No company name. No photo. Just an email. Now I was here. And nothing felt right. ⸻ It was almost midnight when I heard it — the sound of footsteps outside my door. I froze. They were slow. Deliberate. Not rushing or stumbling. Just pacing. Then they stopped. Right outside my room. I didn’t breathe. My heart pounded so loudly I was sure they could hear it. Then… a voice. Low. Deep. Velvet and smoke. “Ivy.” I jumped to my feet. I hadn’t told anyone which room I was in. No one had. I waited, expecting a knock. But there was nothing. Just silence. When I finally opened the door a crack, the hallway was empty. No footsteps. No shadow. Just cold air creeping in through the stone walls. ⸻ That night, I didn’t sleep. I stared at the ceiling and wondered if the stories were true. They said Aidan Knight was a ghost of a man. A billionaire recluse. A widower. A genius with no past and no heart. The press called him brilliant. The staff called him broken. And now… I worked in his house. God help me.