CHAPTER TWENTY -FIVE

~Riya~

The drive felt endless. When the car finally stopped, I looked out the window and was amazed.

The mansion before us looked like something out of a magazine. It sat at the end of the road, modern and sharp-edged, all glass, steel, and stone. The place screamed wealth and power… and something colder.

“Welcome to the Steele residence,” Dorian said as he stepped out.

Leanna and I followed, our eyes darting around the vast property. It was empty and silent, no one in sight.

Dorian led the way inside. “You’ll be staying here until the restaurant is reopened,” he said. “The staff quarters were completely destroyed, so I expect you to make yourselves useful while you’re here.”

Leanna glanced at him. “Ehmm, sir… how?”

He stopped by the staircase, turning slightly toward us. “You’ll handle the house chores, cooking, cleaning, organizing. Riya will rest until she’s fully recovered.”

“I can help…” I started, but he cut me off.

“I said rest,” he repeated firmly. “Until the doctor says otherwise.”

For a brief moment, his eyes met mine, and I could still see the faint burns peeking through the edges of his bandages. “A nurse will come by every day to check on both of us. Don’t make her job difficult.”

Leanna nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“Although I'm fine but…” he paused curtly. “She’ll handle me as well.”

Before either of us could say more, his phone buzzed in his pocket. He stepped aside to answer it.

“What do you mean seven days?” His voice dropped, cold and sharp like a blade. “That’s unacceptable.”

“I don’t care about the supply delay. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

The call ended abruptly. His face was a mask of anger and chaos. “Excuse me,” he muttered, brushing past us.

It had only been a day since the fire. Yes, Dorian was hurt, burned on his legs and hands, but still, the ambitious CEO in him wouldn’t let him cater to his health. He immediately started renovations.

Through the tall windows, we watched him stride to his car. Moments later, the engine growled to life, and the car disappeared down the private road.

Leanna exhaled. “Well… that was dramatic.”

I forced a small smile. “At least he didn’t lock us up.”

She rolled her eyes. “Thank God for that.”

We started exploring the house together, trying to find our bearings. The mansion was stunning but eerily empty and coated with dust. It felt abandoned, like a museum no one visited anymore.

“Let’s start here,” Leanna said, rolling up her sleeves. “If the man wants the house spotless, he’ll get spotless.”

I nodded weakly. My body still ached, but I helped where I could, telling Leanna stories while she did most of the chores. I only lifted my fingers to pass her the mop and bucket sometimes.

By the time we reached the staircase, my legs felt heavy. Leanna noticed and slipped her arm under mine, supporting me up the steps.

“Don’t overdo it,” she murmured.

She cleaned the guest rooms first, then changed the sheets, opened curtains, and swept the floors. It was almost evening by the time we reached the last room.

“Go lie down,” Leanna said gently. “I’ll finish the rest.”

I didn’t argue. The bed felt like heaven beneath me, and I drifted off without realizing it.

When I woke again, faint sounds came from the hallway. It was Leanna’s singing. I followed it to another room and froze at the doorway.

She was in Dorian’s bedroom.

Everything about it screamed power and solitude, charcoal-gray sheets, minimalist design, and a massive window overlooking the woods. Leanna was dusting the shelves while stacks of papers lay scattered across the floor.

“Leanna, you’re still cleaning?” I croaked.

“Almost done,” she smiled. “Go back to bed, please.”

“At least let me help you pick those up.”

She sighed but nodded. “Fine. Just sit there and sort them into piles.”

I knelt beside the mess of papers, stacking them neatly, receipts, invoices, restaurant files. Then my eyes caught a thick brown folder with "DORIAN STEELE" typed on the label.

Curiosity got the better of me, and I flipped it open.

Inside were medical records.

Patient Diagnosis: Severe Asthma  

Treatment: Inhaler prescribed for acute attacks. Avoid smoke or excessive heat exposure.

My blood ran cold.

“Leanna…” I whispered. “He’s asthmatic.”

She looked up, confused. “What?”

I shoved the report toward her. “Look! If he’s asthmatic, how did he run into a burning building? He could’ve died!”

Leanna frowned, glancing at the paper. “Maybe it’s old. Maybe he’s fine now.”

“But what if he’s not?” I said. “Why would he risk his life like that?”

She set the folder aside. “Riya, we’ve had enough excitement for one week. Toss it away, okay? The man’s still breathing. Thank God, and move on.”

I bit my lip, staring at the file for a moment longer before sliding it back under the desk. “I just hope you’re right.”

“Come on,” Leanna said, brushing off her hands. “Let’s finish up before he comes back.”

By the time we were done, the sky outside had turned violet. We were exhausted, covered in dust, and starving.

“Let’s make dinner,” Leanna ordered. “Before Mr. Steele comes home and decides we’re lazy.”

We were halfway to the kitchen when we heard the low purr of an engine outside.

Leanna groaned. “Too late.”

The front door opened. Dorian stepped in, his expression was cold and exhausted, his phone still in his hand. He walked upstairs in long strides. Moments later, he reappeared, now dressed in crisp black trousers and a white shirt with rolled-up sleeves.

His eyes swept over us. “I can tell Riya hasn’t done much work.”

He waited for a reply, but none came.

“Silence answers the question,” he said, buttoning his jacket. “Since you’re not fit to do chores, you can at least be useful elsewhere.”

My heart skipped. “Sir?”

“You’re coming with me,” he said flatly. “There’s an opening event. I’ll need a personal assistant.”

Leanna whispered under her breath, “What? She just got back from the hospital…”

Dorian’s eyes snapped to her. “Excuse me?”

She froze. “Nothing, sir.”

“Good.”

He looked back at me. “You have five minutes. Change into something appropriate. I'm sure there are tons of dresses in the closet in your room.”

I hesitated, but one glance at his face told me arguing wasn’t an option.

Five minutes later, I came downstairs dressed in a simple black dress. Leanna whispered to me before I left, “Be careful,” she muttered. “He’s in a mood.”

Outside, the car waited again.

The drive was silent until we pulled up in front of a grand building bathed in golden light. The sign above read “Maison Verre,” a new restaurant opening. People dressed in elegant suits and gowns milled around, flashes of cameras bright against the night.

Dorian stepped out, blending into the crowd, and I followed just behind. He was instantly greeted by a tall man with silver-streaked hair.

“Dorian Steele!” the man boomed, pulling him into a brief hug. “I heard about the fire, my friend. I’m so sorry.”

“Thank you, Luther,” Dorian said evenly. “It’s under control.”

Luther smiled warmly. “I have no doubt. You’ve always had the touch of the goddess when it comes to rebuilding.”

They chatted for a while. Luther was one of the wolves just like Dorian who had migrated from their pack to the city to start something new.

As they continued to speak, Luther said, “There’s to be a Moon Rite Festival at the end of the year. The Alpha of Darkmoon himself extended the invitation. It would be an honor to have you there.”

Dorian’s face remained unreadable. "Oh, that's a great one.” Dorian faked a smile. “I appreciate it, but I’ll have to decline. My main focus right now is the restaurant, but I promise to send my best wishes to the Alpha.”

Luther sighed, disappointed. “You were always the difficult one.”

As they laughed lightly, my chest tightened.

The Moon Rite Festival.

I remembered my father’s words, the stories he used to tell me under the stars, the sacred dance, the unity of packs, the moment the moon goddess blessed her chosen heirs. I had dreamed of seeing it my whole life.

I’d never dated anyone, never had an interest in men. I always focused on training to succeed my father one day. The Moon Rite Festival was something I looked forward to for the chance to find a mate.

And now, standing there behind my boss, wearing a borrowed dress and pretending to belong in his world, that dream felt impossibly far away.

I looked at Dorian, his perfect composure, his cold powe

r, the mask he never let slip, and I realized something. Indeed, I was under servitude, and attending the Moon Rite Festival felt impossible.

Or at least, almost.