Chapter 5: The Stranger in the Mansion

“This place is too quiet,” I muttered, my voice barely carrying across the cavernous hallway.

Mike didn’t bother turning around. He was halfway up the grand staircase, his steps echoing in the emptiness, his posture rigid and unwelcoming.

The ornate chandelier overhead cast a cold, sterile glow on the polished marble floors and towering walls lined with art too abstract to appreciate.

"It's anything but a jungle gym," he answered briefly. "You'll become accustomed to it."

I shuddered at his tone, looking as he vanished into the upper floor without even a retrogressive look. The quiet surrounded me once more, weighty and choking.

The head servant, a more seasoned man with silver hair and an articulation as indistinguishable as Mike's made a sound as if to speak.

"Will I show you to your room, Mrs. Rowling?"

The title ground on my nerves, yet I gestured, grasping the handle of my bag. "Lead the way."

He moved with rehearsed accuracy, his cleaned shoes tapping softly against the floor as we wound through a maze of foyers.

The manor was a magnum opus of riches and taste, yet it seemed more like a gallery than a home. Each corner was carefully organized, from the glimmering figures to the incomprehensibly perfect carpets.

At last, we halted before a bunch of swinging doors. The steward pushed them open to uncover a room fit for sovereignty.

A huge four-banner bed ruled the space, its flawless white cloths flanked by rich end tables. Weighty curtains outlined the floor-to-roof windows, offering a perspective on the rambling grounds underneath.

"Assuming there's anything you want, simply ring," the head servant said prior to withdrawing discreetly, letting me be.

I set my bag on the edge of the bed, looking around the room. It was wonderful, no question about that, yet it seemed dormant — like all the other things in this house.

The entryway squeaked open behind me, and I twirled around to find Mike resting up against the casing. His tie was relaxed, and the slightest shadow of depletion gripped his elements.

"You'll be agreeable here," he said, his tone without any trace of warmth.

"Agreeable," I rehashed, allowing the word to linger palpably. "Is that what you call this game plan?"

His eyes were limited, however, he didn't answer. All things considered, he ventured inside, his presence occupying the room such that caused the air to feel heavier.

"This is impermanent," he said at long last. "The sooner we sort out some way to endure one another, the better."

I folded my arms, figuring out his look. "You're expecting I need to endure you."

The side of his mouth jerked, however, it wasn't exactly a grin. "Great to know we're in total agreement."

He went to leave, yet I wasn't done. "For what reason would you say you are doing this, Mike? Truly?"

He stopped, his hand on the door handle, however he didn't think back. "You settled on your decision, Cath. Presently live with it."

The entryway clicked shut behind him, and I let out a disappointed murmur. Living with it — that was the simple aspect. Living with him? That was another story.

I went through the following hour unloading, attempting to cause the space to feel less outsider.

Individual contacts felt awkward here, yet I attempted, at any rate, to set a little photograph of Mia on the end table.

Her grin was a little sign of why I was here, why I was unable to bear to let Mike — or Kaila — break me.

At the point when I branched out later, the manor was frightfully calm, the sort of calm that caused your own strides to feel excessively clear. 

I meandered capriciously, taking in the lavish environmental factors. Everything shouted cash and power, however there was no glow, no indication of something going on under the surface.

In the long run, I wound up in an enormous report fixed with shelves that extended to the roof. A fire snapped in the hearth, creating glimmering shaded areas on the dim wood framing.

Mike was there, situated in a calfskin easy chair with a glass of golden fluid in his grasp. His tie was gone, his shirt unfastened at the neckline, and he looked more human than I'd seen him up to this point.

"Investigating?" he asked without turning upward from his glass.

"Attempting to sort out what sort of individual lives in a spot like this," I answered, resting up against the door jamb.

He laughed, a low, stuffy sound. "Also, what have you finished up?"

"That it's a sorry home."

His look flicked to me then, sharp and evaluating. "It wasn't intended to be."

The heaviness of his words hung among us, and briefly, I recognized a gleam of something clearly — something helpless. However, it was gone as fast as it showed up.

"How about you pose your inquiries, Cath?" he said, his tone solidifying. "Dive head first into it."

"Fine," I expressed, venturing into the room. "For what reason do you can't stand me?"

His demeanor didn't change, yet the pressure in his jaw was telling. "Disdain is areas of strength for a."

"More grounded than what you're feeling?"

He put his glass down on the table next to him, inclining forward with his elbows kneeling down.

"This isn't private. It's business. You needed something, and thus did I. Presently we're left with the results."

"Also, what precisely did you need, Mike? A gorgeous spouse to march around?"

His eyes were obscured. "You know nothing about me."

"Then, at that point, tell me," I tested, my voice rising.

He stood suddenly, overshadowing me as he shut the distance between us. "Watch out, Cath. You probably won't care for the responses."

I gulped hard, declining to withdraw. "Perhaps I will not, however, I have the right to understand what I've found myself mixed up with."

Briefly, I figured he could really tell me. However, at that point he ventured back, running a hand through his hair. "Head to sleep, Cath. It's been a drawn-out day."

I gazed at him, sitting tight for more, however it was clear the discussion was finished.

As I left the review, my brain hustled with questions. There was something else to Mike Rowling besides what he let on, and not entirely set in stone to sort out what it was.

At the point when I arrived at my room, I tracked down a collapsed note on the end table. The penmanship was new, yet the message was clear:

Be careful who you trust in this house.