The rain is coming down in fat, heavy drops as Damien steps onto the grand porch of the estate. His leather jacket does little to block the cold, and his dark hair is already damp from the storm.
Perfect.
A full month in the middle of nowhere with no phone, no car, and no one to cater to his every need. Victor Langley must be laughing himself sick right now.
Damien exhales, shaking out his wet sleeves. He should've seen this coming. Victor never did anything halfway. When he made a bet, he made damn sure there was no easy way out. And now, thanks to his own cocky overconfidence, Damien was stuck in this eerie, oversized house with nothing but the sound of rain for company.
With a sigh, he pushes open the heavy double doors and steps inside.
The place is massive.
Tall ceilings. A winding staircase. A ridiculous amount of antique furniture. It smells faintly of old books and something floral—like someone had been here recently, though the place is supposed to be empty.
His boots echo against the polished floor as he takes in the dimly lit space. He drops his duffel bag near the entrance and runs a hand through his damp hair. "Alright, let's see what kind of disaster I just walked into."
Then he hears it.
A soft sound.
Like someone moving in the next room.
Damien stills. His pulse kicks up just a little.
He's supposed to be alone.
Slowly, he turns toward the noise, his eyes narrowing. A flickering candle sits on a side table, casting long shadows. His gaze lands on a partially open door at the end of the hall.
And that's when he sees her.
A woman stands by the window, her back to him, framed by the glow of the storm outside.
Damien takes a step forward, intrigued.
She's small—delicate, almost—but there's something strong about the way she holds herself. Like she's not afraid. Like she expected him.
She knows he's here.
Leaning casually against the doorframe, Damien crosses his arms. "You know, I was told this place was empty," he muses, his voice smooth, playful. "Either I was lied to, or you're a very dedicated ghost."
The woman exhales slowly before turning.
And damn.
She's stunning.
Not in the flashy, high-maintenance way he's used to, but in a way that makes him pause. Dark eyes. Full lips. Skin kissed by the soft glow of the storm. She's wrapped in an oversized sweater, sleeves pulled over her hands, but there's nothing soft about the way she looks at him.
Unimpressed. Wary.
Like she's already decided he's a problem.
"You need to leave," she says flatly.
Damien raises a brow. "I just got here."
"Then you should turn around and go back."
He smirks. "Can't. Lost a bet."
She folds her arms. "That's your problem, not mine."
He steps closer, taking in the way she grips the windowsill like she's debating whether to throw him out herself.
"You live here?" he asks.
A pause. "I take care of the place."
Damien tilts his head. "So you do live here."
She exhales sharply. "It doesn't matter. What matters is that you're in my house, and I don't do well with unexpected visitors."
He chuckles. "Good thing I'm not just any visitor."
She blinks, unimpressed. "Right. You're a billionaire who thinks he can do whatever he wants."
"Ah, so you do know who I am."
She rolls her eyes. "The world knows who you are. Damien Blackwood. Billionaire, playboy, business genius, or whatever title they've given you this week."
Damien grins. "So you have been paying attention."
She glares. "You're impossible."
"And you're kind of fun to mess with." He studies her for a beat. "What's your name?"
She hesitates. For a second, he thinks she won't answer.
Then, finally—"Elara."
"Elara." He tests the name on his tongue. "Pretty."
Her lips press into a thin line. "You can stay in the east wing. Stay out of my way, and I'll stay out of yours."
Damien grins, stepping even closer, just to see if she'll flinch. She doesn't. "Oh, sweetheart. You really think we're going to stay out of each other's way for a whole month?"
Elara doesn't answer.
Instead, she turns and walks off, leaving him standing there, amused and very intrigued.
***
Later that night, Damien finds himself standing by the grand fireplace in the study, staring at the dying embers.
The storm hasn't let up. The rain pounds against the windows, the wind howling through the trees.
Elara has barely spoken to him since their first encounter, which, if he's being honest, only makes him more interested. She's a puzzle—one he intends to figure out.
He wonders what her story is.
Why she's here.
Why she looked at him like she wanted him gone immediately.
It's not like he's a stranger to distrust—he's had people question his motives before. Women who wanted his money, rivals who wanted his empire. But this?
This felt different.
Like she wasn't just wary of him, but of people in general.
Damien takes a sip from the glass in his hand, swirling the amber liquid before setting it down. He hears movement behind him, and when he turns, Elara is standing in the doorway, watching him.
She's changed into a long cardigan, her dark hair spilling over one shoulder, bare feet silent against the wooden floor.
For a moment, neither of them speaks.
Then—
"You're drinking," she observes.
He smirks. "Was that forbidden in the house rules?"
She exhales, stepping into the room. "No. Just… don't leave glasses everywhere."
"Ah. So you do care."
She glares. "I care about cleaning up after your mess."
Damien chuckles, lifting his drink in a mock toast. "Duly noted."
Elara watches him for another second before glancing at the fireplace. "You should add more wood before the fire dies."
Damien raises a brow. "You're worried about me getting cold?"
"I'm worried about the smell of smoke if it burns out too fast," she replies dryly.
He chuckles again, setting his glass down before grabbing a log from the basket. As he crouches down to adjust the fire, he can feel her watching him.
The silence stretches, comfortable yet tense.
Finally, Damien speaks. "You always live out here in the middle of nowhere?"
Elara shifts. "I like the quiet."
"That's not an answer."
She exhales, looking away. "It's the only answer you're getting."
Damien smirks but doesn't push. Not yet.
One month.
One month to crack whatever walls she's built.
This just got a whole lot more interesting.