The first real morning in Dominic Blackwood's mansion felt like stepping into someone else's dream—and realizing it was a nightmare dressed in marble and glass.
Amara woke to sunlight slicing through blinds she hadn't closed. The pillow wall was still intact, but the other side of the bed was empty and cool. Dominic had already left. No note. No sound. Just the faint scent of his cologne lingering on the sheets like an accusation.
She sat up slowly, pressing her palms to her eyes. Last night replayed in sharp fragments: the locked door, the synthetic blood she'd smeared on the sheets with shaking fingers while the shower ran, Dominic's quiet "Good morning" when he emerged and saw the evidence already staged. He hadn't looked at the stain. Hadn't commented. Just nodded once, as if it were another item checked off a list, then left for his west-wing office before the household staff arrived.
She glanced at the nightstand clock: 8:47 a.m. The household manager would have already seen the sheets by now. The rumor mill would be turning. By noon, Dominic's mother would be calling with satisfied congratulations and probing questions about grandchildren.
Amara's stomach twisted.
She forced herself out of bed and into the en-suite bathroom—another cavern of white marble, gold fixtures, and mirrors that reflected her pale, exhausted face back at her a dozen times. She showered quickly, scalding water to wash away the remnants of last night's performance. When she stepped out, a fresh set of clothes had been laid on the vanity stool: soft gray cashmere sweater, tailored cream trousers, delicate gold sandals. All Elena's size. All Elena's taste.
She dressed mechanically, avoiding her own reflection.
Downstairs, the mansion felt even more alien in daylight. Every hallway stretched endlessly, every room staged for invisible guests. She passed a formal living room with furniture so pristine it looked never sat on, a dining room that could seat thirty but echoed when she walked through it alone. The air smelled faintly of lilies and money.
Mrs. Hargrove appeared at the end of the corridor like she'd materialized from the walls.
"Good morning, Mrs. Blackwood." The title still made Amara flinch inwardly. "Breakfast is served on the east terrace. Mr. Blackwood asked that you join him when you're ready."
"He's still here?"
"He delayed his first meeting." Mrs. Hargrove's expression remained perfectly neutral. "He rarely does that."
Amara followed her through sliding glass doors onto a terrace that overlooked manicured gardens and the distant shimmer of the Atlantic. A wrought-iron table had been set for two. Dominic sat with his back to the view, scrolling through a tablet, black coffee steaming beside him. He wore a navy suit today, no tie, sleeves rolled to the elbows. The casual elegance only made him look more untouchable.
He glanced up when she approached.
"Sit," he said.
She did.
A server appeared with plates: scrambled eggs with chives, smoked salmon, fresh sourdough, sliced mango. Amara stared at the food like it might bite her.
"You didn't eat much at the gala," Dominic said without looking up from his tablet. "Eat now."
"I'm not hungry."
"You will be." He set the tablet aside. "Rule six: No starving yourself to prove a point. You're no use to anyone if you collapse."
She met his eyes. "I'm not trying to prove anything."
"Then eat."
She picked up her fork. The eggs tasted like nothing.
They ate in near-silence. Birds called from the garden. A fountain bubbled somewhere out of sight. The city hummed far below.
Eventually Dominic spoke. "The staff saw the sheets."
Her fork froze halfway to her mouth.
"They're discreet," he continued. "But word travels. My mother called at seven-fifteen. She's… pleased."
Amara set the fork down. "What did you tell her?"
"That we're very happy." The corner of his mouth twitched. "She asked when she could expect grandchildren."
Heat flooded Amara's face. "And you said?"
"I said we're taking our time." He leaned back, studying her. "She'll push. She always does. Ignore it."
"Easy for you to say."
"Is it?" His tone sharpened just enough to notice. "You think this is easy for me?"
She looked at him—really looked. The faint shadows under his eyes. The tension in his jaw. The way his fingers drummed once, twice, against the table before he caught himself and stilled them.
"No," she admitted quietly. "I don't."
A beat passed.
He exhaled. "This house… it wasn't always mine alone. My father built it. My mother decorated it. After he died, she moved to the family estate in Ikoyi. Said the place felt too empty. I kept it because it was convenient. Close to headquarters. Defensible."
"Defensible," she echoed.
"From prying eyes. From family. From expectations." He glanced toward the glass doors. "Now it's yours too. For as long as this lasts."
Amara followed his gaze. The mansion loomed behind them—beautiful, cold, impenetrable.
"It doesn't feel like mine," she said. "It feels like a museum."
"It is." He stood abruptly. "Come. I'll show you the parts you're allowed to see."
She rose, surprised.
He led her through the house with the detached efficiency of a tour guide. The home theater with recliners that cost more than her old rent. The wine cellar stocked with vintages older than both of them combined. The rooftop gym with panoramic views and equipment that gleamed like it had never been touched. The library—her favorite so far—with leather-bound first editions and a window seat overlooking the pool.
In the library he paused.
"You can come here anytime," he said. "No restrictions."
She ran her fingers along a shelf of Nigerian literature— Achebe, Adichie, Habila. "Thank you."
He watched her for a moment. "You read?"
"When I have time." She pulled a worn copy of Half of a Yellow Sun from the shelf. "This one's been on my list forever."
"Take it. Read it. Burn it. I don't care."
She clutched the book to her chest. "I won't burn it."
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "Good."
They moved on.
He showed her the music room—grand piano, walls lined with vinyl. The indoor pool, turquoise and still. The art gallery corridor with pieces that made her breath catch: a Ben Enwonwu original, a stark black-and-white photograph by J.D. 'Okhai Ojeikere.
Every room felt like a display of Dominic's power. Every piece chosen for impact, not warmth.
Finally they reached a small conservatory at the back of the house. Glass walls, climbing vines, a single wicker chair facing a koi pond. Sunlight filtered through leaves in soft green patterns.
"This was my mother's favorite spot," he said quietly. "Before she left."
Amara stepped inside. The air smelled of earth and green things. For the first time since arriving, the mansion felt… human.
She sat in the wicker chair without thinking.
Dominic leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed.
"You look like you belong here," he said.
"I don't."
"You could."
The words hung between them—simple, dangerous.
She looked up at him. "Why are you showing me all this?"
"Because you live here now." He pushed off the frame and stepped closer. "And because I'm tired of pretending this place is only mine."
Her heart thudded. "What happens when the two years are up?"
He didn't answer right away.
Then: "We dissolve the contract. You walk away with enough money to start over anywhere. Your mother's medical bills paid in full. Your father's debts cleared. The land returned. You disappear if you want to."
"And you?"
"I go back to what I was before." His voice was flat. "Alone. Focused. Untouchable."
She stood slowly. "That sounds… lonely."
"It's efficient."
She stepped closer—close enough to see the pulse at the base of his throat. "Is that really what you want?"
His gaze dropped to her mouth, then lifted again. "Wanting things is dangerous in my world."
"Even this?" She gestured between them. "Even… whatever this is becoming?"
He exhaled through his nose. "Especially this."
Silence wrapped around them like vines.
Then his phone buzzed—sharp, insistent.
He glanced at it. "I have to take this."
She nodded.
He stepped outside the conservatory to answer. Through the glass she watched him pace, voice low and clipped. Business. Always business.
When he returned, the moment had passed.
"I'll be gone until late," he said. "Mrs. Hargrove has your schedule. Hair and makeup at four. Dinner meeting with investors at seven. Black dress in your closet. I'll meet you in the foyer at six-forty-five."
"Another performance," she said softly.
"Another act," he corrected.
He left without another word.
Amara stayed in the conservatory long after he was gone. She sat in the wicker chair, Half of a Yellow Sun open in her lap, but she didn't read.
She stared at the koi drifting in lazy circles.
This mansion wasn't a home. It was a fortress. A stage. A cage.
And she was beginning to understand that Dominic Blackwood wasn't the jailer.
He was as trapped as she was.
Her phone vibrated in her pocket.
Unknown number.
She opened the message with trembling fingers.
Enjoying the view, little sister? Careful. Castles have dungeons too.
—V
Amara's blood turned to ice.
She looked up at the mansion towering behind the glass walls—beautiful, silent, watching.
And for the first time, she felt the full weight of how deep she had fallen into someone else's life.
A stranger's mansion.
A stranger's marriage.
A stranger's secrets.
And somewhere in the shadows, Victoria Langford was waiting for her to make the first mistake.