Chapter 1 The New House

Vicky Pov

The gate opened like the house already knew we were coming.

Mom's SUV rolled up a long private drive lined with trimmed hedges and cameras that didn't even pretend to be hidden. The place at the end of it looked like something ripped out of a magazine-glass, stone, perfect angles. Too perfect. Like nobody actually lived here. Like it was staged.

Mom exhaled like she'd been holding her breath for years. "Isn't it beautiful?"

"Sure," I said, because she wanted me to say it. Because today was her victory lap.

She'd married Adrian Vale three months ago. I'd met him twice. Both times he'd been polite in that controlled way rich men used when they didn't want to show you what they were thinking. Now we were moving into his house-our house, Mom kept correcting me-like it was the most normal thing in the world.

The front door opened before Mom could knock.

Adrian stood there in a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms, like he'd been waiting in that exact position for the exact second we arrived. No smile, not really. Just a calm look that made you feel like you were the one being inspected.

"Marissa," he said, and leaned in to kiss Mom's cheek.

Then his eyes shifted to me.

"Vicky."

My stomach tightened at the sound of my name coming from him. Like he'd practiced it.

"Hi," I said, forcing my voice to stay light. "Nice house."

"It's secure," he replied, like that was the compliment he cared about.

Mom laughed, a little too bright. "Adrian did everything himself. The security, the systems, the renovations-he's obsessive."

"I prefer prepared," he said, still looking at me.

Behind him, the entryway was wide and spotless. A sleek console table. A bowl of keys no one had touched. A faint scent of lemon polish. The kind of clean that didn't feel welcoming-more like a warning.

As we stepped inside, a soft chime sounded overhead.

Adrian's gaze flicked up for half a second. "Motion sensors. You'll get used to it."

"Do they chime every time someone breathes?" I asked.

Mom shot me a look. Adrian didn't react-just held the door while we crossed the threshold, like he was counting us in.

The living room was all glass and sharp edges. Floor-to-ceiling windows facing the back woods. No neighbors. No street noise. Just quiet.

My skin prickled.

Mom wandered through like she was already imagining where her photos would go. "Vicky, look at this kitchen. Look at the island!"

I looked, because it was impossible not to. Marble so white it looked expensive just to exist. A wine fridge. A drawer that slid open silently when Mom brushed it.

Adrian followed a step behind us, hands loose at his sides, not touching anything. Like he didn't need to. Like the house already belonged to him in a way people didn't.

He paused near the hallway and pointed. "Your room is upstairs. Second door on the left."

"And yours?" I asked before I could stop myself.

For the first time, something like amusement touched his face. It didn't soften him. It sharpened him.

"Marissa and I are down the hall," he said. "There are a few areas that are private."

Mom waved a hand. "He means his office. Don't worry, honey. We'll all settle in."

Private areas. In a house Mom kept calling ours.

I glanced down the hall. Three doors. Then a blank stretch of wall. Then another door at the end with a keypad.

No handle.

Adrian noticed my stare. "That wing stays locked."

"Why?" I asked.

"Because I said so," he replied, still calm.

Mom laughed again, trying to turn it into a joke. "Vicky, don't start. He's just particular."

Particular wasn't the word I would've used. But I swallowed it.

Upstairs, my room was bigger than my last apartment. A bed made tight enough to bounce a coin. Matching lamps. A closet that smelled like new wood. Even the air felt controlled.

Mom's voice floated up from downstairs, excited and breathless, as she talked about curtains and dinner plans and how lucky we were.

I dropped my suitcase and walked to the desk.

A folder sat there, neatly placed, like it had been waiting. Inside was a printed floor plan of the house. Clean lines. Labels. Little icons for cameras and sensors.

Of course.

I traced the layout with my finger, more out of boredom than interest-until I reached the section marked "West Hall."

There was a room drawn between the office and the locked wing.

No label. Just a rectangle of space.

I frowned and stepped into the hallway, floor plan in hand.

Office door. Check.

Blank wall.

Locked wing door with keypad. Check.

I stared at the wall again. Ran my eyes along the molding, the paint, the exact symmetry.

There was no door.

But on the paper, there was definitely a room.

And for the first time since we pulled through the gate, the house didn't feel staged.