Unraveling us

The email wasn’t just unexpected—it was unbelievable. I stared at the screen, my fingers hovering over the keyboard as my heart pounded. Leonard Castillo, the man who once ruled the literary world before vanishing into obscurity, was looking for a ghostwriter. And somehow, my name had landed on his shortlist. I blinked at the message again. Miss Vasquez, I require a discreet, competent writer to assist in completing my novel. If interested, arrive at the address below by Monday. The job will last three months. Compensation will be discussed upon acceptance. —L.C. No details. No explanations. Just a time, a place, and an invitation into the world of a man who had spent years shutting everyone out. I should have hesitated. Should have questioned why someone like me—a struggling writer barely making ends meet—was chosen. But the truth was, I needed this. Desperately. My rent was overdue, my side jobs weren’t cutting it, and my dream of publishing my own book felt further away with each rejection email. I took a shaky breath. Three months. That’s all it was. I typed a response. I’ll be there. The drive to the estate was long and eerily quiet. I clutched the steering wheel as my small car wound through the forest-lined road, the trees thick and looming on either side. The GPS had stopped working miles ago, leaving me to rely on the written directions I had scribbled down. Who the hell lives this deep in nowhere? Leonard Castillo wasn’t just a recluse—he was a ghost. After his last novel hit the shelves five years ago, he had vanished. No interviews, no book tours, no public appearances. Fans speculated wildly. Some said he had gone insane. Others believed he had died. But here I was, driving straight into his world. The iron gates of the estate loomed ahead, tall and foreboding. I pulled up to the intercom, my throat dry as I pressed the button. A few seconds of silence. Then— “State your name.” The voice was deep, controlled, and completely devoid of warmth. I swallowed hard. “Elara Vasquez. I’m here for the job.” A faint click, and the gates groaned open. No greeting. No further instructions. Just an unspoken command to enter. I gripped the steering wheel and drove in. The estate was massive. A mansion straight out of a gothic novel—towering, dark stone walls, and windows so large they felt like watchful eyes. The driveway curved in a perfect half-moon, leading to a grand entrance. I parked, taking a deep breath before stepping out. The air was crisp, the silence unnerving. No staff. No welcome. Just the heavy weight of isolation pressing down on me. And then, the doors opened. Leonard Castillo stood at the entrance. My breath hitched. I had expected an older man, worn by time and tragedy. But the figure before me was nothing like that. Tall. Intimidatingly tall. Broad shoulders, dressed in a crisp black shirt with the sleeves rolled up, revealing strong forearms. Dark hair, slightly tousled, as if he had run a hand through it too many times. And then there were his eyes—cold, assessing, a shade of deep brown that felt almost black in the dim light. This wasn’t just a man. This was someone who had built walls so high, nothing could touch him. “Miss Vasquez.” His voice was sharp, edged with impatience. “You’re late.” I wasn’t. I was actually five minutes early. But something told me arguing wouldn’t get me far. “I—uh—got lost,” I admitted, lifting my chin. “No signal out here.” He studied me for a long moment before stepping aside. “Come in.” I hesitated for half a second before crossing the threshold. And just like that, I stepped into Leonard Castillo’s world—one that I wasn’t sure I’d ever leave unchanged.