Chapter 1: A NEW LIFE BEGINS.

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      The car rumbled along the quiet road, tires screening over ancient cobblestones. I sat straight in the backseat, fingers knotting themselves in my lap until the knuckles turned white. My stomach churned — that acidic, pre-interview feeling, except this interview couldn't be rescheduled. 

America felt lifetimes away. The passport in my bag might as well have been someone else's. Every unfamiliar street sign, every snatch of Italian from passing pedestrians hammered it home: you don't belong here.

The driver's silence wasn't just quiet - it was the thick, loaded kind that makes you wonder what he knows that you don't. As the city lights faded, so did the crowds, until it was just us and these absurdly high walls scrolling past like some aristocratic prison perimeter. What kind of people needed walls like that? My fingers found a hangnail to worry at.

Then the car slowed.

My lungs seized—don’t hyperventilate, don’t you dare—I warned myself, before my eyes caught on the gates— the massive golden gates.

Moonlight slid like oil over the gold bars, catching on the embossed letters:  

HAWTHORNE EMPIRE.

Too grand. Too permanent. My fingers twisted in my coat fabric, the wool rough against my clammy palms. This is really happening.

The buzz of the mechanism made my shoulders hitch. The gates parted with a whine, revealing a driveway too perfect, hedges cut with military precision. Unnatural. The car crept forward, and my exhale came out ragged, my breath fogging the window for half a second before vanishing. 

The estate unfolded like a fever dream—those towardly white pillars glowing bone-pale in the faint moonlight, gold trim catching the light in a way that felt deliberately showy. The fountain's water glittered like liquid mercury. Every carefully placed light, every manicured shrub screamed at me: You don't belong here. 

Every single thing screamed—power. Wealth. Authority.

The car finally stopped. My heart hammered so hard I could feel it in my chest.

For three shaky breaths, I didn't move. What if they took one look at me and send me back? Or what if I wasn't good enough? Or what if my voice cracked during introductions? The driver's pointed throat-clearing jolted me back to reality.

I pried my fingers open— half-moon indents from my nails marking my palms. This is happening. Slowly I reached for the door handle and stepped out.

The evening air slapped my cheeks, shockingly crisp after the car's stale heat. Before I could take in more impossible details —the imported stonework, the armed guards lurking in faint shadows— a silhouette detached itself from the doorway. 

A woman. 

She didn't just stand there. She observed,  the way a chess player studies the board before their first move.

Her skin—that rich, warm ebony—seemed to absorb the evening light rather than reflect it. Those sharp brown eyes didn’t just look at me; they measured—no judgement, just an observance. Her gray streaking cropped hair wasn’t age, but evidence, like silver medals earned in battles I couldn’t imagine. When she shifted her weight, her posture carried a kinda undeniable strength.

I instinctively straightened.

She stepped forward, studying me carefully before speaking.

“Are you sure you want this job?”

The question caught me off guard.

Why would she ask that?

I tightened my grip on my luggage. “Yes.”

She hummed, as if weighing the truth behind my answer. Then, a small smile tugged at her lips.

“Good." She extended a hand. "I’m Nadina Romano, but everyone calls me Nadia. I manage the estate and oversee the staff."

I’ll be showing you around. But before we step inside—” she leaned in slightly, lowering her voice “—Mr. Blake Hawthorne, the owner of this empire isn’t an easy man. He’s particular. If you can’t handle pressure, I suggest you leave now.”

A chill down my spine just from her tone alone—and the way her gaze lingered on my left hand, where my nervous tremor always started. I forced a smile, the kind that made my cheeks ache.

“I’ll be fine.” The lie tasted like the stale airplane coffee I’d choked down hours ago.  

She studied me long enough. Then, a slight nod. “Alright then. Welcome to Hawthorne Manor.”

When she stepped aside, my first real step into the estate landed too heavily, my shoes scuffing marble that probably cost more than anything thing I had probably owned my whole life.

I had no idea—couldn’thave known—how thoroughly this place would unravel me.  

The mansion stood like a fortress on the rolling hills of Tuscany. And surrounded by manicured vineyard rows swaying in the warm breeze too perfect to be real. The jasmine scent was overwhelming, cloying mixing with the distant aroma of espresso from somewhere in the estate.

Armed bodyguards in black suits were stationed discreetly at the gates and near the entrance, their watchful eyes—thou hidden by their sunglasses scanned every movement.

“Follow me.” Nadia’s voice snapped my attention to the steps. Each one was worn slightly concave in the center.

Inside, the air smelled like money—not the sharp, new-car kind, but the quiet, lethal scent of old wealth: beeswax polish and something faintly metallic beneath it. The dark glass walls allowing a perfect view of the Italian country side. Sunlight sliced through the tall arched windows, exposing every dust mote floating in sterile perfection.  

Those twin staircases coiled upward like mating snakes—but a bit straighter, the elevator between them— sleek and modern. My reflection in the glass looked small, smudged—already fading into the house’s blueprint. 

Mr. Hawthorne values privacy," Nadia explained as we walked past the entrance hall. "You won’t find much personal photos or decorations. He prefers things… minimalistic."

Minimalistic was an understatement.

 The living room felt like a museum—fireplace going, TV mounted, but no real warmth. The black couches looked like it's barely ever sat on.  A whole wall of books, but not a single crease in the spines. And that one portrait: a very beautiful woman with sharp cheekbones and a stare that followed you. 

I swallowed. “Who’s that?”

Nadia’s steps slowed. For a second, she just looked at the painting, her face unreadable. Then, quieter: “Caterina Hawthorne. His mother.”

The way she said it—like the name itself was fragile—made me drop it.  

“Come on,” she said, turning away. “Kitchen’s this way.”

Our footsteps echoed as we crossed the shiny marble floor to the kitchen. Everything was black and sleek—fancy cabinets, a big island in the middle. The gas stove looked like it cost more than former apartment. Through a glass door, I could see rows and rows of wine bottles standing like soldiers.

"This'll be your main spot," Nadia said, opening a cabinet. Her nails tapped against the wood. "Mr. Hawthorne wants everything fresh. Breakfast at eight sharp, lunch at one, dinner at eight." She gave me a look. "If he asks for something between meals? You make it quickly, understand?"

I nodded, trying to remember the times.

"Oh, and groceries?" She closed the cabinet with a soft thud. "You tell me what you need. No leaving the property without permission."

That made me pause. "Why's that?"

Her mouth went tight. "Safety reasons. Just follow the rules and you'll be fine."

I let out a slow breath, my fingers tightening around my luggage. The pay was good— really good — but yet something about this place felt different.

"Anyone else live here?" I asked.

"For now, not really," Nadia shrugged. "Mostly just me and Mr. Hawthorne. The others do come by, but don't stick around long."

"Just you two?" My eyebrows shot up. "In this enormous place?"

Nadia gave a dry laugh. "Day staff comes in, but nights? Just us. Well...plus the security guys."

I peeked out the window. The guards moved between the gates like clockwork, their steps measured. It should've made me feel safer. So why did I feel nervous?

"Did Mr. Blake build this place?"

"Oh no, honey. His father built it. Blake just...redid things his way." Her voice went careful on that last part.

My eyes drifted back to the canvas outside. "What about the statue out front?"

Nadia's face softened just a little. "That's for his Mother."

His way of honoring her," Nadia said simply.

A son who built statues for his mother but lived in a house devoid of warmth. The contrast intrigued me.

We kept walking down the hallway, doors lining both sides. "Your room," Nadia said, stopping at one on the second floor. "Mine's downstairs if you need me."

I pushed the door open and froze. The space was huge—bigger than my whole old apartment. A massive bed took up the center, fancy nightstands on either side with a fireplace at the foot. There was a closet bigger than my old bathroom, and actual doors leading to both a private bathroom and a balcony.

"All this... for me?" I spun slowly, taking it in.

Nadia nodded. "Mr. Hawthorne takes care of his staff."

I wasn't expecting that.

Setting my suitcase down, I bit my lip. "Nadia... honestly. Do I stand a chance here?"

She looked me up and down, then sighed. "Mr. Blake? He's... particular. People get fired for less. But you?" A small smile. "I think you'll do okay."

It should've made me feel better. It didn't.

"Just follow the rules," she added.

Rules. Of course.

I turned back to the room, the weight of this chance settling on my shoulders. This was my fresh start. My ticket to something better.

I could do this. No choice but to try.

As I started unpacking, the sound of tires on gravel made me look up towards the window. A black shiny Alfa Romeo rolled to a stop out front. When the door opened, a tall figure stepped out. Even from this far away, there was no mistaking him.

Blake Hawthorne was here.

And suddenly, the air felt different. Like everything was about to change….

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