Amara's POV
The morning light filters through the glass walls like judgment — pale, silent, unwelcome. I've been awake since dawn, listening to the city hum below us, watching the sky turn from ash to gold. It's beautiful, in a lonely kind of way.
I don't see Alexander when I come downstairs. Only the staff moving quietly, setting the table as if nothing ever happened — as if last night's storm of words never existed.
"Mrs. Voss," the butler says, his voice smooth but detached. "Mr. Voss would like to see you in his study."
Of course he would.
I follow the long hallway, each step echoing like a countdown. When I push open the door, he's already there — perfectly dressed, posture straight, coffee in hand, his gaze unreadable.
"Sit."
The command slides across the room like cold steel.
I sit — not because I want to, but because I'm not ready to start a war before breakfast.
There's a folder on the desk. Another one. Always a folder with him.
"This," he says, tapping the cover, "contains the house rules. You'll read it later. For now, I'll make them clear."
Of course he will.
He stands, walks around the desk, and stops in front of me — close enough that I can smell his cologne: cedar and smoke, sharp enough to sting.
"Rule one," he begins, voice calm, precise. "Privacy is earned here, not assumed. You'll have access to the guest floors, your personal quarters, and the garden terrace. My office, my study,and my bedroom are off limits unless I say otherwise."
I tilt my head, my voice soft but sharp. "So I'm allowed to breathe, but not exist in your world unless you grant permission?"
A faint smirk touches his lips. "You catch on quickly."
"Rule two." He ignores my glare. "The staff work for me. You may request assistance, but you will not give orders. They answer to me, not you."
My jaw tightens. "You mean I can't even ask someone for a cup of tea without your approval?"
His eyes flick to mine — slow, deliberate. "You can ask. But remember whose house this is."
There's no anger in his voice. Just authority. Quiet, effortless, terrifying.
"Rule three," he continues, pacing behind me now. "You will attend all public events, dinners, and business functions as required. You'll behave accordingly — smile when you're told to smile, speak when necessary, and never embarrass this family in public."
My fingers dig into my lap. "You mean your family," I whisper.
He stops. "For the world, it's ours. Don't forget that."
"Rule four: boundaries." His tone dips, low and deliberate. "You'll have your space. I'll have mine. I don't expect affection. I don't need it. But I do expect respect."
That one stings differently. Not because of the word respect, but because of what hides beneath it — the admission that he doesn't expect warmth. That maybe he's not capable of it.
I lift my chin. "Respect is mutual, Mr. Voss. You'll get what you give."
He stills — for just a second — then moves back toward his desk. "Careful," he murmurs. "Defiance might amuse me for now. But I have limits."
"Rule five." His voice hardens. "You will not involve your friends, family, or anyone else in our affairs. Whatever happens in this house stays in this house."
A sharp laugh slips out of me. "So I'm not allowed to have a life?"
His gaze lifts — icy, calm, devastating. "You can have whatever life you want, Amara. Just not outside the one I've given you."
There it is again — that dangerous balance between possession and control.
He walks back to his desk, picks up a pen, and taps it against the folder. "These rules aren't punishments. They're structure. You'll find life easier if you follow them."
He flips another page in the folder. "There's one more thing," he says, his tone changing — quieter, heavier.
"Rule six." He doesn't look at me when he says it. "The fourth bedroom on your floor — you will not enter it. Ever."
I frown. "Why?"
His jaw tightens. "Because I said so."
"That's not an answer."
He meets my eyes then — sharp, warning, but beneath it, something flickers. Not anger. Not control. Something else. Something almost human.
"It's not part of your concern, Amara," he says finally, voice lower. "The room stays locked. That's all you need to know."
The silence stretches, thick and uneasy. I open my mouth, but his expression stops me cold.
That room — that one rule — feels different. Not about control. About pain.
Still, I can't help it. "So what's in there? A secret? A memory?"
He looks away. "A ghost," he says softly. "And I don't like visitors."
Then the mask returns. Cold. Controlled. Untouchable.
"Remember that rule," he says, walking past me. "Some doors are better left closed."
I stand there long after he's gone, heart pounding, my curiosity burning hotter than fear.
The fourth bedroom.
The one I'm never supposed to enter.
And just like that — I know I will.
I stand slowly, matching his stare. "I've never been good at following rules. Especially when they were written to cage me."
His expression doesn't change, but something in the air does. A flicker — brief, dangerous. Like lightning behind glass.
He circles me once, close enough that my skin prickles. "A cage," he repeats softly. "You call this a cage, but you're standing in one of the most powerful places in the city."
I meet his eyes. "Still feels like prison when you can't breathe."
He leans in — close enough for me to feel the ghost of his breath against my cheek. "Then learn to breathe differently," he whispers.
I freeze, heart hammering. He straightens, the spell broken, his tone once again smooth, controlled.
"You'll sign acknowledgment of these rules before the day ends."
I let out a bitter laugh. "Of course. Another contract."
He watches me for a long, unreadable moment. "You're not the only one bound by this arrangement, Amara. Remember that."
Then he turns away — the discussion over, the judgment final.
I stand there for a heartbeat longer, staring at the folder, at his back, at the faint sunlight catching on his hair. My chest feels tight — part fury, part something I can't name.
Maybe he's right. Maybe this is structure.
But as I walk out of his study, my heart pounding like war drums, I make myself a silent promise.
If he thinks rules will tame me — he's forgotten one thing.
Even cages can burn.