The Proposal

Dahlia

The Hollis estate looked like a gilded fortress built to keep the rest of the world at bay. High wrought-iron gates swung open without a sound as Rafe’s custom Maybach glided up the winding, tree-lined driveway. Rain slicked the ancient oaks framing the perimeter, casting long, distorted shadows across the stone courtyard.

Sitting in the passenger seat, I kept my hands folded neatly in my lap. Beside me, Rafe hadn't spoken any words since we left my office. He didn't need to. His presence filled the silence with a heavy, suffocating weight—a quiet warning that I was stepping over a line I wouldn't be allowed to recross.

The car stopped in front of the massive double doors of the manor. Before the driver could even step out to open my door, Rafe shifted in his seat, turning his dark eyes onto me.

"Before you step out of this car, Dahlia, we will establish ground rules," he said, his voice flat, devoid of any warmth. "You signed the contract that makes you an asset inside this house, but it does not make you an equal."

I turned my head slowly, meeting his cold gaze without flinching. "I'm an independent contractor, Mr. Hollis. Not your prisoner."

A ghost of a smirk touched his lips, gone as quickly as it appeared. "Inside these walls, the distinction is purely academic." He held up his hand, ticking off points on long, precise fingers.

"Rule one: You do not enter my private study on the third floor under any circumstances. The door stays locked, and if I find you near the east wing corridor, your contract is terminated immediately without the remaining balance."

"Understood," I said smoothly. Third floor, east wing. Duly noted.

"Rule two: You do not speak to my grandmother, Maelis Hollis, alone. If she approaches you in the gardens or the library, you find an excuse to leave. Maelis looks through people for a living, and she will tear your little performance apart before you finish your first sentence."

"I'm quite good under pressure," I replied, leaning slightly closer. "Is the old lady really that terrifying, or are you just afraid she'll see right through you, too?"

Rafe leaned in, closing the distance between us until I could feel the heat radiating off his jaw, the subtle, sharp scent of cedar and rain filling my lungs.

"Rule three," he whispered, ignoring my jab entirely. "My older brother, Orin. You do not ask about him. You do not bring up his past, his business, or his place in this family. If he speaks to you, keep your answers short and your eyes down."

"Sounds charming," I murmured, keeping my voice steady despite the sudden prickle of adrenaline down my spine. "Anything else?"

"Rule four," Rafe continued, his gaze dropping to my lips for a fraction of a second before locking back onto my eyes. "There are personal items belonging to my late mother throughout the estate. You do not touch them. You do not ask about her."

"And rule five?" I asked, testing the air.

Rafe paused. The shift in the car was instantaneous. The air grew thick, cold, almost violent in its stillness. His jaw tightened, a muscle jumping along his sharp cheekbone as his eyes turned dark as pitch.

"Never mention the name Nerys," he said.

His voice was low. The sheer venom underlying that single word made the temperature in the car plummet. It wasn't just a rule; it was an ultimatum.

I felt a sudden, sharp spike in my pulse. I knew that name. I knew it intimately, though he had no way of knowing that. Seeing the raw, dangerous reaction it pulled from a man who otherwise seemed carved out of ice was a revelation. His reaction to that name wasn't just cold—it was personal. It was a raw, jagged wound hidden beneath three-thousand-dollar tailoring.

I swallowed the lump in my throat, keeping my face a mask of mild curiosity. "Nerys? Who is—"

Before I could finish the sentence, Rafe’s hand shot out. His fingers clamped around my wrist—not hard enough to bruise, but firm enough to pin me entirely in place. The shock of his cold skin against mine made my breath hitch.

"I didn't invite questions, Miss Mercer," he growled softly, his thumb resting over my racing pulse. He could feel how fast my heart was beating, and he knew it. "I gave you boundaries. Speak that name in this house, and I will personally see to it that your firm is erased from this city before sunrise."

He held my wrist for one long, suffocating second, letting the threat settle heavy in the air, before letting go. He smoothed down his cuffs as if nothing had happened, turning to look out the window as the driver finally opened his door.

"Welcome to the family, Dahlia," he said quietly, stepping out into the rain. "Try not to drown."