The guest suite in the West Wing was larger than the entire apartment Kaia had once shared with her grandfather. It was decorated in shades of gray and silver, with a king-sized bed, a marble bathroom, and a walk-in closet. Luxurious, opulent, and as cold and impersonal as a tomb. A beautiful prison cell.
She walked to the tall window and looked out at the sprawling grounds, now cloaked in darkness. The manicured perfection of the gardens seemed menacing under the moonlight. She was trapped.
A memory surfaced, unbidden. A traveling fortune teller in the village where she grew up—a woman with cloudy eyes and a reedy voice—had read her palm once. "You're a jinx, child," the woman had cackled. "Bad luck follows you and spills onto those around you." The Linwoods had loved that story, using it as a whip against her for years. Looking at the dark, imposing manor, Kaia felt a bitter laugh rise in her throat. Maybe the old woman was right.
A soft knock startled her. She opened the door to find Gable placing a silver tray on a small table in the hall. He gave her a stiff nod and departed without a word. The dinner was exquisite—poached salmon, asparagus, wild rice—but she had to force every bite down. She needed her strength for whatever came next.
The next morning, she awoke to find the closet filled with new clothes in her size. Simple, elegant pieces from brands she recognized from magazines but could never afford. All the price tags had been meticulously removed. She was being outfitted, uniformed for her new role.
She chose a simple navy dress and made her way downstairs. In the grand foyer, she found Duncan speaking with a tall, impeccably dressed woman in her fifties who radiated old money and effortless authority. When the woman saw Kaia, her polite smile didn't quite reach her eyes.
"This is my aunt, Genevieve Norton," Duncan said, his tone flat. He gestured dismissively toward Kaia. "And this is Kaia Harper."
Genevieve's smile was a work of art—perfectly pleasant and utterly meaningless. "Miss Harper. Now that you're here, it's time you fulfilled your duty. Augusta is at the hospital. She's been very anxious to meet you." Her voice was smooth as silk but with an undercurrent of steel.
A knot of resistance tightened in Kaia's chest. The thought of being paraded before a sick old woman was repellent. "I... I'm not feeling very well."
Duncan's cold eyes fixed on her. The old fortune teller's words echoed in her head, and in a moment of reckless, self-deprecating defiance, she blurted, "Perhaps I shouldn't go. I might be a jinx. I could bring her bad luck."
The words were out before she could stop them. She regretted them instantly. Genevieve's polite mask hardened.
But it was Duncan's reaction that terrified her. His face became a thundercloud, and the air around him seemed to drop ten degrees. He propelled his wheelchair forward with a menacing silence that made the pressure in the room unbearable.
"Say that again." His voice was a low, dangerous growl.
Kaia stumbled back, her heart hammering.
Duncan's voice softened, but each word was a shard of ice. "In this house, there is no such thing as luck. There are only results. And things that bring bad results... I have a habit of disposing of them. Personally."
The implication was brutal and clear. A chill snaked up her spine.
Genevieve stepped in, her voice smooth. "Duncan, don't frighten the girl." She turned to Kaia, her smile back in place, but her eyes were firm. "Miss Harper, the car is waiting. Shall we?" A perfectly manicured hand rested on Kaia's back—a "friendly" gesture that was, in fact, a firm push toward the door.
Kaia shot a desperate, pleading look at Duncan. He met her gaze with an unyielding stare. The message was simple: Obey. This was her first test of compliance, and she could not afford to fail.
Defeated, she allowed Genevieve to guide her out of the mansion and into the back of a gleaming black Bentley. The ride into the city was silent and suffocating. Genevieve stared out the window, leaving Kaia to stew in her own fear.
The car bypassed the main entrance of a prestigious private hospital in Manhattan, pulling directly into a secure VIP garage. Genevieve led her to a private elevator, pressing the button for the penthouse floor. The doors slid open, and the sterile, antiseptic smell of the hospital hit her first. But beneath it, her unusually sensitive nose detected something else—faint, almost imperceptible. A cloying sweetness, like flowers beginning to rot, tinged with something acrid and wrong. A smell that didn't belong.
