Rachel POV

My eyes fluttered open to a sensation of warmth and a bed far softer and richer than anything I'd ever slept on. For a brief moment, I sighed in relief, letting the comfort swallow me whole.

Then my mind caught up with my body.

This wasn't my bed.

The sheets were too silky, the room too quiet.

I sat up sharply, heart pounding as I took in my surroundings. The room was enormous, bright, elegant, and utterly unfamiliar. Gold drapes framed tall windows. A chandelier glittered above me like a captive star.

And then, the memories crashed down.

The gun.

The deal.

Damien Montrel.

He'd made me follow his men to his mansion right after the incident. I must've cried myself to exhaustion on the ride here.

My gaze landed on the nightstand, where my phone lay face down- showing ten missed calls.

Dad.

I tried to call him back, but before I could press the screen, a sharp knock made me flinch.

The door opened before I could even answer. Two men stood there.

One was tall and elderly, his silver hair slicked neatly back. His black suit fit perfectly, and though age had softened his face, his posture carried a quiet strength. His green eyes studied me with a kind of amused calm, as if he'd seen all this before.

Beside him stood a younger man in a turtleneck and dark trousers. He looked far more intimidating, with a cold stare and a guarded stance. He held a sheet of paper in his gloved hand.

"Good morning, Miss..." The older man began, his voice deep and steady. "You may call me Mr Vance. I work directly under Mr Montrel."

I nodded nervously, unsure whether to speak.

Mr Vance smiled faintly and gestured for the younger man to hand me the paper.

When I saw it, my heart nearly stopped.

A marriage certificate.

"You were asleep for a while," Mr Vance said kindly, as if this were normal. "So Mr Montrel went ahead and signed his part. You only need to do the same."

For a moment, I couldn't breathe. My name sat neatly beside his-Rachel Owens and Damien Montrel. The signature of the man who had threatened my father stared up at me like a death sentence.

My voice shook. "You're serious about this?"

"Mr Montrel never jokes," Mr Vance said. "This guarantees your father's safety."

My hand trembled as I picked up the pen. I stared at the paper until my vision blurred, then forced my name across the line.

When I looked up, both men were still watching me.

"Is something the matter?" I asked, my voice small.

Mr Vance chuckled softly. "Nothing of concern, Mrs Montrel. No need to be anxious. We all serve you now. Don't let us intimidate you."

The younger man finally spoke, his voice clipped and businesslike. "We're to inform you of the rules, ma'am. Per the boss's orders."

"Rules?" I repeated, frowning.

"Feel free to roam the house, the gardens, and the west wing," the young man said. "The east wing, however, is restricted. Do not enter. The boss conducts his business there, and he won't like to be disturbed."

I nodded quickly, understanding that "business" meant things I never wanted to see.

Mr Vance continued, his tone polite but firm. "Contact with the outside world will be limited. You'll require permission to leave the estate, and when you do, our men will accompany you for your safety. Mr Montrel prefers the world forget this place exists."

My stomach dropped. "But I have college-and work-and my family-"

Mr Vance's eyes softened, though his expression didn't waver. "I'm aware, Mrs Montrel. But those things belong to your past. Your life now... belongs here."

I stared at Mr Vance, still trying to process everything-the paper I'd signed, the rules, the feeling that my whole life had been quietly erased.

"Mr Vance," I said, forcing my voice steady, "is that all?"

He hesitated, then exchanged a glance with the younger man. "Almost. There's one more person you'll need to meet."

"Who?" I asked warily.

The younger man's lips twitched with faint amusement, like he knew a secret I didn't.

"Master Leo," Mr Vance said. "Mr Montrel's son."

I blinked. "His son?"

He gave a small nod. "A good boy. Five years old. You'll find him in the playroom. Master Damien thought it best you meet him right away."

Before I could form a question, the younger man opened the door and gestured for me to follow. My heart pounded as we walked through long, echoing hallways lined with portraits and closed doors. The deeper we went, the quieter the house became.

Finally, Mr Vance stopped before a white door decorated with stickers and tiny hand-drawn stars. For a moment, his expression softened.

"He doesn't speak to many people," he said quietly. "But he's gentle. Try not to frighten him."

I nodded, unsure what to expect. The younger man opened the door.

Sunlight split into the hallway, warm and soft. Inside, a little boy sat on the floor surrounded by colored blocks. He looked up at me with wide hazel eyes, curls falling across his forehead.

For a heartbeat, everything stopped-the mansion, the fear, even my thoughts. All I saw was this small, quiet child blinking up at a stranger.

Mr Vance smiled faintly behind me. "Mrs Montrel," he murmured, "meet Master Leo."

The room fell quiet after Mr. Vance's words.

"Mrs. Montrel, meet Master Leo."

For a moment, neither of us moved. Leo stared at me, small and still, his wide hazel eyes full of curiosity.

Mr. Vance cleared his throat gently. "We'll leave you two to get acquainted," he said, gesturing for the younger man to follow.

As they reached the doorway, Mr. Vance leaned closer and murmured, "He needs a mother, Mrs. Montrel. Not another caretaker."

Then he left, closing the door softly behind him.

The silence that followed was awkward and delicate. Leo fidgeted with a toy car, pretending not to look at me.

I stood frozen, shocked that Damien Montrel, the feared mafia boss, had a son no one had ever heard about.

I forced myself to move. Crouching down, I tried not to seem too forward.

"Hey there," I said gently. "You've got quite the collection of toys."

He didn't answer. His little lips pressed together in a pout.

After a pause, he asked, almost accusingly, "Are you another nanny?"

The tone caught me off, guard. It wasn't rude, just sad.

"I told Papa I don't want another one," he added, crossing his small arms.

Something inside me tugged. His voice carried a loneliness no five-year-old should know.

I smiled, slipping into the calm tone I used at the daycare. "Oh? You don't like nannies? Why's that?"

Leo glanced at me, wary. "They always get mad at me. They say I don't listen."

"Maybe you don't," I teased lightly.

"I do!" he protested, defensive. "It's not my fault they didn't like my pranks."

I blinked. "Your pranks?"

He nodded toward the big TV mounted on his blue wall. "Sock Man likes pranks."

Under my breath, I muttered, "I guess we'll have to do a little digging into the cartoons you watch." 

I turned back to him, biting back a laugh. "Well," I said softly, "good thing I'm not your nanny, then."

His eyes widened, his head snapping up. "You're not?"

I shook my head, still smiling.

For a second he looked confused, then hopeful. "Then... are you my mama?" He whispered, "Papa said Mama was coming back soon."

The question hit harder than I expected. My smile faltered.

I could have corrected him. I could have said something safe. But when I looked at his face, at the way he was searching for an answer he desperately wanted to believe, my chest ached.

So I nodded. "Yeah," I whispered. "I'm your mama."

Leo's face lit up instantly. He ran straight to me, small arms wrapping around my waist. The sudden warmth made my breath hitch.

"Where were you?" he asked against my shirt, his voice trembling. "Papa said you were gone."

I froze, unsure how to answer, but his hold only tightened. Slowly, I hugged him back.

"It's okay," I murmured, resting my chin on his soft curls. "I'm here now."

For the first time since I'd arrived at this mansion, my fear faded, replaced by something gentler and something far more dangerous.

Damien POV

I watched the security screen in silence.

Rachel knelt beside Leo, the boy clinging to her as if he'd known her forever.

Mr. Vance stood beside me, arms folded. He was my most trusted man.

"You were right about her," he said quietly.

"At least the old drunk managed to raise one decent child," I muttered, tapping my finger against the thick folder marked Owens Family.

Mr. Vance's mouth curved into a small smile. "One parent's mistakes don't decide a child's future. You, of all people, should know that."

I exhaled sharply, tired of his lectures. "Enough, old man. Go check on the father and make sure he remembers our deal."

He nodded and left the room.

Alone, I turned back to the screen.

Rachel was still there, holding my son.

And for reasons I didn't want to name, I didn't look away.

Rachel POV

I sat on the carpet among Leo's toys as he stood in front of me, waving his hands while telling an animated story. His whole face glowed with excitement.

"And then the hero used his powers and saved the day!" he finished with a dramatic pose.

I laughed softly and clapped. "That was amazing, Mr. Storyteller."

Leo grinned proudly, then grabbed my hand and tugged. "Come on, Mama-let's go steal some extra cookies!"

I blinked. "No stealing."

He gave me a mischievous smile. "Papa doesn't have to know. He's always working anyway."

The mention of his father made my stomach twist. I forced a light smile. "Oh? What kind of work does Papa do?"

Leo hummed, already pulling me toward the door. "I don't know. But it's boring. He's too serious."

His honesty made me smile, half amused and half uneasy. Maybe it was better that he didn't know what his father really did. He was just a child, after all.

We stepped into the long hallway of the manor, the floor shining like glass beneath the morning light. As we walked, I noticed two men in suits a few paces behind us. Their eyes followed our every step, and the reminder of where I was made my heart race again.

Leo didn't seem to notice. He skipped ahead, giggling, until we reached a massive iron gate guarded by three more men.

"Mama, watch this!" he said, laughing.

Before I could stop him, he ran straight toward the gate. One of the guards caught him easily, lifting him into the air. Leo squealed with laughter as the others chuckled.

"He's impossible," one of them said, shaking his head with a smile.

The guard carrying him turned to me. "Boss doesn't appreciate the kid coming near this area, Mrs. Montrel."

The name Mrs.Montrel still felt strange. I nodded quickly, nerves tightening in my chest as I looked past them at the heavy doors behind the gate.

The east wing.

So this was the place they warned me about.

Leo wriggled in the guard's arms, pouting. "They always say that, Mama. Papa says the east wing is boring, too!"

The man set Leo back on his feet, and I gently took his hand. His fingers were small and warm against mine, grounding me.

As we turned to leave, I couldn't help glancing once more at the massive iron doors. The guards' eyes followed me until we disappeared around the corner.

A strange chill ran through me.

What could be so secret in there that even a child wasn't allowed near it?

Leo tugged on my hand, breaking my thoughts. "Mama," he said softly, "can we still get cookies?"

I smiled, pushing the unease aside. "Of course, sweetheart."

Rachel POV

I tore through the large drawer, pushing aside endless layers of clothes before rushing across the room. My college books and worn textbooks sat stacked on the desk, waiting. I shoved them into my tote, a nervous excitement buzzing under my skin.

My phone sat on the cosy, oversized bed, my father's voice crackling through the speaker.

"I hope he's treating you well," Dad said, his tone thick with worry.

"I guess," I murmured, grabbing my skirt and tugging it on. "He hasn't done anything. In fact, I haven't even seen him these past few days. He's rarely around. Unlike his son."

"Son?" came my father's confused reply.

I let out a small, nervous laugh. "Apparently, the mafia king has a little boy. He calls me 'Mama.' It's... strange."

The line went silent for a moment as I brushed my hair and sat at the vanity. My reflection looked composed-a stark lie my frantic pulse betrayed.

"I-I'm sorry, Rachel," Dad said suddenly, his voice cracking. "This is all my fault."

I sighed softly. "It's fine, Dad. I made this choice. It was either me or you getting hurt, and he wouldn't-" I stopped mid-sentence, the words catching in my throat. "He wouldn't hurt me," I finished quietly. "At least... I hope not."

"I'll fix this," Dad promised. "I'll find a way to pay him back and get you out of there. I'll be better for you and your brother, I swear."

I smiled faintly, the sound of his words too familiar. I'd heard that promise all my life-after every lost job, every bad bet, every broken temper.

"It's fine, Dad," I said softly. "We'll talk later, okay? I need to head to college."

"Oh?" he asked, pausing. "Did he agree to that?"

I froze, the lip gloss tube poised in my hand.

Did he agree to that?

My heart fluttered nervously as I remembered the rule Mr. Vance had stated so clearly: Always ask permission.

I stared at my reflection, my glossed lips trembling. I hadn't asked.

And I had no idea how to.

I stepped out of my room, tote slung over my shoulder. The two guards at their usual post by the staircase straightened, alert and unreadable.

One glanced at my clothes-the modest blouse and long skirt, my books tucked neatly in my arm. "You're dressed up, Mrs. Montrel?"

I offered an awkward smile. "Yes. I have lectures to attend."

The younger of the two frowned slightly, exchanging a look with his partner. "You'll need to request permission from the boss first," he said carefully.

I sighed, annoyed but trying to stay polite. "And where is the boss?"

The older guard straightened. "In his office. We'll escort you there."

My pulse quickened.

Of course, he was.

I'd avoided that office since the day I arrived. The dark hallway leading to it always felt colder, heavier, as if the house itself warned me away.

Still, I nodded. "Alright."

As we walked down the corridor, I felt their eyes on my back-not threatening, just watchful. Every step echoed against the marble floor.

By the time we reached the large wooden doors of his office, my palms were damp.

One of the guards gave a short nod. "He's inside. Just knock once."

Just once.

As if more might wake a sleeping beast.

I swallowed hard, faced the door, and knocked.

"Enter."

The word came low and firm through the wood, quiet but enough to make my stomach twist.

I pushed the door open slowly.

Damien sat behind a grand mahogany desk, sleeves rolled up, the faint smell of smoke and ink clinging to the air. His attention was fixed on the papers before him, his pen gliding across a document with precision.

He didn't look up. "You need something, Mrs. Montrel?"

I hesitated. "Yes... I was hoping to ask permission to attend my lectures today. I'm in my second year, and missing more classes might-"

"Denied."

The single word dropped like a hammer.

My fingers tightened on the strap of my tote. "You didn't even let me finish."

Now he looked up-slow, deliberate. His dark eyes met mine, cold and assessing. "I don't need to. You made a deal. You stay here until I decide otherwise."

I took a shaky breath, forcing my voice steady. "That deal didn't mean I had to stop living my life. You can't expect me to just-"

He stood.

The chair scraped softly as he moved from behind the desk, each step measured. The air shifted, growing colder, heavier.

"Careful, Mrs. Montrel," he murmured. "You forget whose house you're standing in."

My heart pounded, but I refused to step back. "I'm not your prisoner."

A hint of amusement flickered in his gaze. He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping. "Aren't you?"

I swallowed hard, my defiance faltering under his closeness. His presence was overwhelming-the quiet authority, the scent of his cologne, the danger lingering in the space between us.

The door clicked open before I could answer.

"Mr. Montrel," came a calm voice. "Perhaps we could discuss this rationally?"

Mr. Vance stepped in, ever composed, a silver tray in one hand as though he hadn't just walked into a storm.

Damien straightened, annoyance flashing across his face. "You have something to say, old man?"

"Yes," Vance said simply, setting the tray down. "Mrs. Montrel is studying child development and care. That's the reason her bond with Master Leo is so natural. Allowing her to continue her education would only help the boy-and help you."

Damien's jaw tightened, but he didn't respond.

Vance continued gently, "You brought her here for Leo, didn't you? To give him something real."

For a moment, silence filled the office.

Then Damien spoke, his voice lower. "Leo will be alone. He has no one to play with, old man."

The words were rougher than he intended-softer somehow.

Before I could stop myself, I blurted, "He doesn't go to school?"

The question hung in the air.

Damien's gaze snapped toward me, sharp as glass. "I decide what's best for my son," he said evenly.

I froze, realising I'd crossed a line, but Mr. Vance's measured tone softened the moment.

"He has a private tutor, Mrs. Montrel," Vance said gently.

Damien's eyes shifted to him, cold but strained. "The authorities are breathing down my neck. I can't risk anyone connected to me being out there-not her, not Leo."

I blinked, trying to grasp his meaning. Was it fear? Or control?

Vance met his gaze, unflinching. "She's a young woman, sir. For her own well-being, she needs to go out sometimes. Don't keep her shut in, or you'll-"

"Enough," Damien cut in sharply.

The old man's mouth closed, but his eyes held a quiet sadness.

Damien turned back to his desk, his voice low. "That will be all."

Vance bowed slightly. "Yes, sir."

I lingered by the door, unsure whether to thank them or simply disappear. The tension pressed on my skin, heavy and suffocating.

Finally, I turned the handle and slipped out. The door clicked shut, sealing in the unspoken words.

But just as I started down the hallway, I caught Mr. Vance's voice, low and gentle, carrying truth like a weight.

"You're not him, son."

The words stilled me.

I froze mid-step, glancing back at the closed door. You're not him.

The sentence replayed in my mind, heavy and strange. Who was "him"? And why did it sound like it hurt to say?

I pressed a hand to my tote, the textbooks inside suddenly feeling useless. I'd come to ask about school, about the outside world-but now, even that hope felt small.

The hallway stretched before me, quiet and endless. Outside, a slice of blue sky was visible through the tall windows, bright and far away.

I hadn't stepped beyond these walls since the night I arrived. Suddenly, the idea of sunlight on my skin felt like a memory I might never reclaim.

I let out a shaky breath, swallowing the sting in my throat.

Mr. Vance's words echoed again, softer this time, like a warning I wasn't meant to hear.

You're not him, son.

Whoever "him" was, I had a feeling he was the reason this house felt haunted.

"Mama!"

Leo's small voice broke the silence. I turned as he ran toward me, stuffed bear in hand, curls bouncing.

I forced a smile and crouched to meet him, wrapping my arms around his little frame. His warmth eased something inside me, if only for a moment.

"Where were you?" he asked, looking up with wide hazel eyes.

"Just talking to your papa," I whispered.

He smiled, content, and tugged my hand. "Can we play now?"

I nodded, letting him lead me down the hall. His laughter echoed softly, but my smile didn't reach my eyes.

Because even as I walked beside him, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was living in a house full of ghosts-and that Damien Montrel was still fighting one of his own.