Mr. Grey-Book I

23

Emilia

I couldn't believe Mrs. Grey had been serious about the whole safe house thing. Yet here I was, wedged in the backseat of a sleek black sedan, flanked by two stone-faced guards who seemed to have taken a vow of silence. The car glided through unfamiliar streets, taking me to God knows where.

For all I knew, this could be an elaborate trap. My imagination ran wild with possibilities, each more outlandish than the last. I leaned my head against the cool glass of the window, trying to quell the nervous energy coursing through my veins.

What could possibly be worse than what awaited me? Two weeks and seven months. Alone. In a house. With Damien.

Damien. Just thinking his name sent a shiver down my spine. The most mercurial, unpredictable person I'd ever encountered. One moment, he could charm you with a rare smile that lit up his entire face. The next, he'd freeze you out with a glacial stare that made you question your very existence. Bipolar didn't even begin to cover it.

I must have dozed off at some point because the next thing I knew, someone was gently shaking my shoulder.

"Emilia! Emilia! Wake up," a voice called, piercing through the fog of sleep. I blinked groggily, my eyes slowly focusing on the face of one of the guards – Alex, I think his name was. "We've arrived," he announced, offering a hand to help me out of the car.

I stumbled out, my legs stiff from the long ride. As I straightened up, I got my first good look at our "safe house." My jaw nearly hit the ground.

This was no ordinary safe house. This was the kind of place paranoid billionaires built when they decided their regular mansions weren't secure enough. A fortress masquerading as a home, with towering gates bristling with more high-tech gadgets than a military compound.

The house itself was an imposing structure of yellow brick, its windows glinting like watchful eyes in the late afternoon sun. I couldn't help but think that behind those walls, the inhabitants might feel safe from external threats, but at what cost? They'd built themselves a beautiful prison.

"Come on, let me show you to your room," Alex said, gesturing for me to follow him inside. I nodded mutely, still trying to process the surreal nature of my new reality.

As we walked, Alex kept up a steady stream of chatter, pointing out various features of the house. I caught snippets about state-of-the-art security systems and panic rooms, but most of it washed over me in a daze.

The interior of the house was a stark contrast to its fortress-like exterior. Warm wood tones and plush furnishings created an atmosphere of cozy opulence. For a moment, I could almost forget the circumstances that had brought me here.

We climbed a sweeping staircase to the second floor. Alex came to a stop in front of a modern wooden door, fumbling slightly with the keycard. "Here we go," he said, swinging the door open. Then, almost as an afterthought, he added in a low voice, "Right next to Damien's."

My eyes darted to the neighboring door – sleek, grey, and somehow radiating an aura of intimidation. Just like its occupant.

I stepped into my new room, and my breath caught in my throat. The space was cavernous, more reminiscent of a luxury hotel suite than a bedroom. Tasteful artwork adorned the walls, and a massive bed dominated one corner. But despite its grandeur, the room felt oddly impersonal, as if it had been designed to impress rather than comfort.