Margaret's heels clicked against marble floors as she led Dalia through corridors that seemed to stretch endlessly, each turn revealing new vistas of controlled perfection. The house was larger than any building Dalia had ever lived in, all soaring ceilings and windows that framed the grounds like paintings in a gallery dedicated to wealth.
"The estate encompasses two hundred acres," Margaret explained in her crisp, professional tone, as if she were giving a tour to a potential buyer rather than a new prisoner. "Mr. Ward values his privacy. The nearest neighbor is three miles away."
Three miles. Dalia tried to calculate how long it would take to walk that distance, then caught herself. Where would she go? Her old life was already being dismantled, her belongings absorbed into this vast machine of luxury like drops of water disappearing into an ocean.
They passed rooms that seemed designed for entertaining crowds that never came. A dining room with a table that could seat twenty, a ballroom with chandeliers that threw rainbows across polished floors, a library that stretched two stories high with more books than she'd seen outside of universities. Everything was perfect, pristine, and utterly without warmth.
"How many people work here?" Dalia asked, though she'd seen only James and a few silent figures moving through the periphery of her vision like ghosts.
"Mr. Ward's household staff numbers twelve full-time employees," Margaret replied. "Groundskeeping, security, maintenance, housekeeping, and kitchen staff. They're all highly vetted and bound by the same confidentiality agreements you've just signed."
Of course they were. Cassian Ward surrounded himself with people who were legally obligated to keep his secrets, creating a perfect bubble of controlled information where nothing inconvenient could ever leak out.
They climbed a staircase that curved like a work of art, the bannister smooth beneath her palm as they ascended to the second floor. Here, the corridors were slightly narrower but no less imposing, lined with artwork that probably cost more than most people's houses.
"Your quarters," Margaret announced, stopping before a set of double doors that looked like they belonged in a luxury hotel.
The suite beyond was larger than her entire apartment had been, all cream and gold and carefully chosen antiques that spoke of money so old it had forgotten where it came from. A sitting area with furniture that looked too expensive to actually use, a bedroom with a four-poster bed that could sleep a family, and windows that offered a view of grounds that rolled away toward distant trees like a private park.
"Mr. Ward had your things moved to the dressing room," Margaret continued, opening another door to reveal a space that was bigger than her old kitchen. Her two suitcases and three boxes looked pathetically small against the backdrop of built-in wardrobes and drawers that could house a department store's worth of clothing.
"This is temporary, of course," Margaret added, following Dalia's gaze. "Mr. Ward has arranged for a stylist to provide a more appropriate wardrobe. Your measurements were taken from your employment records."
Employment records. As if Henderson & Associates would have kept her dress size on file. The realization hit her like cold water: Cassian had been planning this for longer than she'd imagined, preparing for her arrival with the thoroughness of someone who'd never doubted the outcome.
"How long has he known?" she asked quietly.
Margaret's expression didn't change, but something flickered in her eyes. "Known what, Ms. Moreno?"
"That he was going to offer me this position."
"Mr. Ward is very thorough in his planning." The non-answer was delivered with the smooth efficiency of someone who'd had years of practice deflecting questions. "You'll find everything you need has been provided. The bathroom is through there, and this button will summon housekeeping if you require anything."
She indicated a discrete panel beside the bed, probably connected to the same system that had brought her to the study with supernatural speed.
"The kitchen staff will prepare whatever you'd like for meals, though Mr. Ward prefers that you join him when he's in residence. Breakfast is typically at eight, lunch at one, dinner at seven. More formal occasions will be communicated in advance."
More rules, delivered as suggestions but carrying the weight of commandments. Dalia wondered what would happen if she decided to skip a meal, then realized she probably didn't want to find out.
"Are there other areas I should know about?" she asked, thinking of the contract's mention of restricted spaces.
Margaret's pause was barely perceptible, but Dalia caught it. "Mr. Ward will discuss the estate layout with you personally. I'm sure he'll want to give you a complete orientation himself."
Which meant there were things Margaret wasn't authorized to tell her, secrets that required Cassian's direct involvement to reveal or conceal.
"I'll leave you to settle in," Margaret continued. "Someone will come to escort you to dinner at quarter to seven. The dress code is formal, as Mr. Ward mentioned."
She was gone before Dalia could ask what "formal" meant in a house where the casual wear probably cost more than her old monthly salary.
Alone for the first time since signing the contract, Dalia walked to the windows and looked out at grounds that stretched beyond her ability to see their boundaries. Somewhere out there was a fence, she was certain, though it was probably disguised as landscaping or natural barriers. Cassian Ward hadn't built an empire by leaving anything to chance, including the possibility that his new acquisition might try to leave.
The silence of the house pressed against her like a physical weight. No traffic noise, no neighbors' televisions, no sounds of normal life intruding on the perfect bubble Cassian had created. Even the air felt different here, processed and climate-controlled to an exact temperature that never varied.
She opened one of her suitcases, pulling out the few clothes she'd brought that might pass for formal. A black dress she'd bought for her father's funeral, shoes that had been expensive once but now showed the wear of too many job interviews, a pearl necklace that had belonged to her grandmother. The costume of someone pretending to belong in a world that had never wanted her.
The bathroom was a marvel of marble and gold fixtures that belonged in a five-star hotel. The shower alone was larger than her old bedroom, with more settings and controls than seemed necessary for the simple act of getting clean. She turned on the water and stepped under a rainfall shower head that felt like standing in warm precipitation.
For a moment, she allowed herself to enjoy it. The water pressure was perfect, the temperature exactly right, and there was something almost medicinal about washing away the grime and stress of her old life. Bottles of shampoo and conditioner lined the shower walls, all luxury brands she'd only seen in magazines, and she used them with the guilty pleasure of someone who'd been surviving on drugstore basics for too long.
When she emerged, wrapped in a towel that was softer than anything she'd ever owned, she caught sight of herself in the bathroom mirror. The reflection showed a woman who looked smaller somehow, diminished by the grandeur surrounding her. Her dark hair hung in wet waves around a face that seemed pale against the golden fixtures, and her eyes held the slightly wild look of someone who wasn't sure if they'd been saved or trapped.
Both, probably.
She dried her hair with a blow dryer that was probably worth more than her old television, then returned to the dressing room to prepare for dinner. The black dress still fit, though it felt different against her skin now that she was wearing it in a palace instead of a funeral home. The pearls added a touch of elegance that almost convinced her she belonged here.
Almost.
A knock at her door came at exactly 6:45, just as Margaret had promised. The young woman who waited in the hallway was perhaps twenty-two, with the kind of understated beauty that came from excellent breeding and expensive maintenance. She wore a simple black uniform that probably cost more than Dalia's entire wardrobe, and her smile was professional without being warm.
"Ms. Moreno? I'm Sarah. I'll be showing you to the dining room."
Another escort, another handler to ensure she didn't wander into areas she wasn't meant to see. Dalia wondered if she'd ever be allowed to navigate the house alone, or if she'd always need a guide to lead her through Cassian's carefully controlled world.
The dining room was smaller than the formal one she'd seen during the tour, but no less impressive. A table for eight dominated the space, though only two places were set, facing each other across an expanse of polished wood that reflected the light from a chandelier that probably cost more than her father's house.
Cassian was already seated, changed from his casual clothes into a dark suit that made him look like he'd stepped from the pages of a magazine dedicated to dangerous men. He stood when she entered, his eyes moving over her appearance with the thoroughness of someone cataloging an investment.
"You look lovely," he said, and something in his tone made her skin feel too warm.
"Thank you." She took the seat across from him, hyperaware of how the distance between them made conversation feel formal, like a negotiation between diplomats from hostile nations.
Staff appeared with silent efficiency, serving courses that were works of art as much as food. Everything was perfectly prepared, precisely presented, and utterly without the casual messiness that made meals feel like anything other than performance pieces.
"How do you find your accommodations?" Cassian asked as they worked through what might have been the most expensive salad ever created.
"Very generous." Safe, neutral, the kind of response that revealed nothing of what she was actually thinking.
"I want you to be comfortable here. This is your home now."
Home. The word felt foreign coming from him, like he was speaking a language she'd once known but had forgotten how to understand.
"Is it?" she asked. "My home, I mean. Or is it your house where I happen to live?"
His smile was sharp as a blade. "That depends entirely on how you choose to see it. I prefer to think of it as a place where you can finally be safe."
Safe. Another word that sounded different when he said it, loaded with implications she wasn't sure she wanted to explore.
"Safe from what?"
"From everything that was destroying you before I found you."
Before he found her. As if her destruction hadn't been a direct result of his business decisions, as if he was her savior rather than the architect of her downfall.
But she was here now, in his house, eating his food, wearing his grandmother's pearls and pretending that the cage was golden enough to be called freedom.
And tomorrow, she would begin learning what it truly meant to belong to Cassian Ward.