Chapter 4: Welcome Home, Mrs Wolfe.

The mansion was less of a home and more of a castle dropped into the edge of the city all white walls, high windows, and gates that clicked shut like secrets locking themselves in.

Ava stared from the passenger seat, clutching the strap of her purse like a lifeline. Her eyes followed the endless white stone fences, the sharp angles of the house that rose like it didn’t need permission to exist. It was beautiful, yes but also intimidating. Like something out of a glossy magazine or a N*****x series where the rich play pretend.

“This is where you live?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Grayson didn’t even glance at the estate as the gates opened, parting smoothly to let them in like they knew him. Like they’d been expecting royalty.

“Where we live now,” he corrected.

Her stomach did a small, confused twist. We.

The car curved up a long stone driveway flanked by manicured hedges, fountains, and the kind of flowers you only saw in wedding magazines. When they finally stopped, a suited valet opened her door. The man’s posture was perfect, his face impassive, trained not to react  even when his eyes fell on Ava’s thrifted flats and worn purse.

Another staff member appeared beside her with gloved hands, offering to carry her things.

Ava hesitated.

She had two bags. Just two. Neither was designer. One had a broken zipper. The other still had a sticker from when she’d bought it secondhand. And suddenly, they felt loud. Embarrassing. Like bringing street noise into a classical concert.

But the staff didn’t blink. Just took them with practiced grace and disappeared into the mansion like it was routine. Like girls like her walked into this place every day.

Inside, the silence was rich.

Marble floors. Gold-framed artwork. Walls that stretched too high for voices to echo. A chandelier hung above the living room no, salon  so elaborate it looked like it belonged in a palace, not suspended over expensive silence.

She turned slowly, drinking it all in.

This wasn’t just wealth.

This was curated wealth. Intentional. Cold. Clean. Untouchable.

Everything had a place. And she was already sure she didn’t know hers.

“Do I take off my shoes or… bow or something?” she joked, her voice a little too sharp, a little too loud in the hush.

Grayson didn’t smile. “You’ll get used to it.”

She wasn’t so sure.

He led her down a hallway that stretched like a hotel corridor  long, echoey, lined with art she couldn’t name. She passed tall doors, antique mirrors, and more polished surfaces than she knew what to do with. The place smelled like expensive soap and fresh lilies. And money. It smelled like old money.

At the very end of the hallway, Grayson stopped in front of double doors and pushed them open.

The room was stunning.

A four-poster bed dressed in white and silver. A walk-in closet with lights that flicked on automatically. A vanity table with crystal perfume bottles already placed just-so. A balcony that overlooked the sprawling estate grounds  endless green, trimmed hedges, stone paths that curved around the house like a maze.

“This will be your room,” he said simply, already turning to leave.

She stepped in, her shoes silent on the thick carpet. Then she paused. “My room? We’re married, remember?”

Grayson looked back at her, his expression unreadable. Cool. Like he’d flipped a switch back to businessman mode. “This isn’t a love story, Ava. We don’t have to play house unless the cameras are watching.”

Her heart gave a tiny, traitorous drop.

Why did that hurt?

“Right,” she said lightly, forcing a smile. “No need for cuddles and candlelight.”

He nodded once, and then the door clicked shut behind him.

Leaving her alone.

And somehow… lonelier than she expected.

Ava exhaled, then dropped onto the edge of the bed, letting her purse fall beside her with a quiet thud. She looked around at the glittering room that didn’t match her at all. It was too clean. Too white. Like it was designed for someone who’d never spilled anything or cried into their pillow at night.

She didn’t belong here.

Not really.

But she was here anyway.

Later that evening, after unpacking and trying (and failing) to figure out which of the six remotes worked the TV, Ava wandered the mansion. Her bare feet padded softly across marble and carpet. She found a sunroom with untouched books arranged in perfect symmetry, a pool that shimmered under moonlight, and a kitchen so clean it looked like it had been staged for a photoshoot.

It was beautiful.

But none of it felt lived in.

She almost turned back to her room but then she heard footsteps.

Instinctively, she ducked behind the archway of the kitchen, her breath catching in her throat.

Grayson walked in.

He hadn’t seen her. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, his tie loosened. Hair slightly messy like he’d raked a hand through it in frustration. He looked… different. Undone. Unaware. Like a man instead of a contract.

He opened the fridge, pulled out a bottle of water, and drank not elegantly, not carefully. Just like a tired man in his kitchen. And for the first time, she didn’t see Grayson Wolfe the billionaire, the businessman, the man with ice in his voice.

She saw a person.

And it made her heart skip.

He wasn’t always cold.

There was someone under the perfect suit. Someone who came home to silence and stood in spotless kitchens drinking water like it could quench something deeper.

Maybe… maybe she’d figure him out.

Not by force.

Not by charm.

But one lie at a time