By the third day, Elle realized something strange about the mansion—it was too quiet.
Not the peaceful kind of quiet, but the kind that hummed with secrets. Every corridor gleamed, every painting hung perfectly straight, yet something about the house felt… unfinished. Like it was waiting for something—or someone—that never came back.
Elle wandered past the long hallway that connected the east and west wings, her steps soft against the marble floor. At the far end stood a door—different from the others. It was older, darker, and locked.
She ran her fingers over the brass handle. "What are you hiding, Adrian?" she murmured.
"Curiosity is a dangerous thing, Mrs. St. Clair."
She turned sharply. Adrian stood a few steps behind her, hands in his pockets, his usual calm masking something sharper underneath.
Elle's pulse skipped. "You move quietly."
"It's my house," he said flatly. "I don't need to announce myself in it."
"I wasn't—" She stopped, realizing how defensive she sounded. "I was just exploring."
His gaze flickered to the locked door. "Some doors aren't meant to be opened."
Her curiosity sparked brighter. "Why? What's inside?"
He stepped closer, his voice low. "Memories. And I don't like sharing those."
Their eyes met for a long moment. For once, Elle didn't see the cold businessman. She saw something else—a shadow of pain, quickly hidden behind steel composure.
She wanted to ask more, but he turned and walked away. "Dinner is at seven," he said over his shoulder. "Try not to be late again."
⸻
That night, Elle couldn't stop thinking about the locked door.
Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Adrian's expression—controlled but haunted. What kind of man built a life like his and still looked like he was running from something?
At dinner, she tried to lighten the mood. "So," she began, "should I be practicing how to smile for the press, or is my blank stare good enough for Mrs. St. Clair?"
Adrian glanced up from his glass of wine. "You're not here to entertain them. You're here to keep them from asking questions."
"Like a shield," she said. "Or a prop?"
He raised a brow. "Do you prefer being called something else?"
"Human might be nice."
For a second, he almost smiled—almost. The corners of his mouth twitched, but he masked it with a sip of wine.
"You have spirit," he said.
"Would you rather I didn't?"
"I'd rather you kept it controlled."
She sighed, setting her fork down. "You really do have a rule for everything."
"I built my life on rules," he replied evenly. "They don't disappoint you like people do."
That silenced her.
He noticed her expression soften, and for a flicker of a moment, his tone shifted. "I didn't mean—"
"It's fine," she interrupted quietly. "You don't owe me explanations, Adrian. We're just a contract, remember?"
He didn't respond. But his gaze lingered on her longer than usual—steady, searching.
⸻
Later that night, Elle stood by her bedroom window, watching the rain blur the city lights below.
She felt the weight of silence pressing down again. In that mansion, even the rain sounded lonely.
When she turned to head to bed, something on her nightstand caught her eye—a small, old photograph. She frowned. Lydia must have placed it there while cleaning.
It showed a young boy, maybe eight or nine, sitting on a beach beside a woman who had his same gray eyes. The boy was smiling.
Adrian never smiled.
Elle's heart tightened. She turned the photo over—there was handwriting on the back. To my little star, love always—Mom.
Before she could think, there was a soft knock on her door.
"Come in," she said.
Adrian stood at the doorway, expression unreadable. But his eyes immediately caught the photo in her hand.
"Where did you get that?" His voice was low, cold—but beneath it, there was something else.
"On the table," Elle said quickly. "I didn't mean to—"
"Put it down."
She did, carefully, feeling the air in the room shift.
He stepped inside, picked up the photo, and stared at it for a long moment. His jaw tightened before he placed it in his pocket.
"That part of my life is off-limits," he said quietly.
"I understand," she replied. "But for what it's worth, you looked happy."
He froze, just for a heartbeat. Then his eyes met hers—sharp, conflicted, almost vulnerable.
"Happiness is overrated," he said finally, and turned to leave.
As the door clicked shut behind him, Elle exhaled slowly.
He was a man wrapped in control, built from silence and secrets. But now, she'd seen a crack in the armor. And no matter how many rules he lived by, she knew one thing for sure—
The colder the heart, the deeper the fire it hides.