002

ELIJAH

The car stopped in front of the mansion, and for a few seconds, I just stared.

It’s massive, all glass and steel, clean lines and quiet money.

The kind of place where every surface looks like it’s been polished by someone paid to disappear before you notice them.

I turn to Mila, still trying to process it. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

She doesn’t even blink. “Wipe that look off your face.”

“I thought your parents were, what…middle class? You said your mom lived abroad.”

She exhales, adjusting her hair in the mirror. “I said a lot of things. You believed what you wanted.”

“Mila,” I say quietly, “what is this?”

Her voice is calm, rehearsed. “This is my home. My family’s home. They’re well known, and yes, rich. Don’t make it a big deal.”

“You hid this from me.”

She looks at me now, her expression somewhere between apology and annoyance. “I didn’t hide it. I just didn’t tell you. There’s a difference.”

I let out a small, humorless laugh. “Right. Huge difference.”

“Eli,” she says, softer now. “Please don’t start. We’ll talk when we’re alone. Just remember the plan.”

“What plan?”

Her eyes narrow slightly. “You’re my driver. That’s it. Be respectful. Don’t ask questions. Don’t act surprised. Got it?”

I stare at her for a second. “Driver?”

“It’s easier this way,” she mutters, pushing open the door before I can say anything else. “Come on.”

I got out after her, the cool evening air cutting through my confusion.

The place feels unreal, perfectly trimmed hedges, a driveway wide enough to land a plane on.

My reflection stares back at me in the car window, same jacket, same face, just more out of place than ever.

The front doors open before we even reach them.

A woman in black, probably staff, steps aside silently.

Camila walks in like she owns the ground, shoulders straight, face unreadable.

Inside, the air smells faintly like something expensive I can’t name.

The floors are marble, the walls lined with art that probably cost more than my college tuition.

Then I saw her.

A woman too young for her age.

Mila's mother. Marisol.

She was standing at the far end of the hall, tall and sharp in a white suit.

For a second, I didn't place her.

Then it hit me, I’ve seen her face before.

Maybe in a magazine, a headline, something about an empire.

Her eyes found me instantly. Cold. Precise.

“Camila,” she says. “Who is this?”

Camila?

Her name is Camila!?

Mila’s smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “Mother, this is Elijah. He’s my new driver.”

The word hits me like a slap. I glance at her, but she doesn’t look at me.

Marisol studies me. “Your driver?”

“Yes,” Mila says smoothly. “He’s reliable. I needed someone I could trust. He's my friend too.”

Marisol’s gaze doesn’t move. “And you trust him?”

Mila nods. “Completely.”

Marisol’s attention shifts to me. “I value privacy, Mister..?”

“Elijah,” I said, my voice a little stiff.

“Elijah,” she repeats, like testing it. “Privacy means no questions, no curiosity, and no trouble. Are we clear?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good.”

Then she turns to Mila. “We’ll talk privately.”

Mila nods and follows her down a corridor without another glance in my direction.

Their voices fade, leaving me alone in the middle of this cold, perfect house.

For a second, I just stand there, trying to get my head around everything. Mila’s wealth. The lie. The way she slipped into it so easily.

I didn't know where to go, so I sit on the edge of one of the couches, careful not to touch too much, like I might leave fingerprints.

The silence stretches.

I stare at the floor, at the flawless reflection staring back at me. My stomach knots tighter with every second.

Then I heard footsteps.

Slow, confident.

I looked up.

A man walks in, tall, dark hair, sharp suit, the kind of presence that fills a room without saying a word.

His footsteps echoed against the marble, slow, measured, confident.

He looks like he was built for rooms like this.

Three-piece suit, dark charcoal. Every thread sits exactly where it should.

His black hair is cut neat, every strand in place.

There’s something about him that radiates control, like he doesn’t just walk through the world - he edits it to fit him.

For a moment, I forgot to breathe.

He crossed the room, not looking at me at first.

His expression was calm, unreadable, but there’s weight in the way he moves — quiet power, the kind that doesn’t need to announce itself.

I notice the details because they’re impossible not to.

The clean line of his jaw.

The subtle muscle definition beneath the tailored fabric.

Full lips that don’t soften his face, only make his coldness more striking.

And those eyes, dark, almost black, sharp enough to pin me in place.

And finally, our eyes met, and for a split second, everything stopped.