Alesia's POV.
I signed the contract.
I gripped the hem of my black silk gown so tightly my knuckles went white. I refused to look at the man lounging beside me in the back of the Maybach, legs spread like he owned the entire world. Which, in this city, he practically did.
"We are here," the driver announced, tires crunching over gravel as the gates swung open.
The mansion rose ahead of us like a cathedral built for sin—three stories of matte black stone, windows tinted darker than midnight, spotlights bleeding crimson across the façade. It looked like the kind of place people disappeared into and were never seen again.
I didn't wait for anyone to open the door. I shoved it myself and stepped onto the driveway, the cold night air slapping my bare shoulders. My heels clicked against the polished obsidian tiles.
"My bags," I snapped at the two silent drivers already unloading the trunk.
