Kelvin followed Alexander Morrowgate into the study, his heels clicking against the polished marble floor.
The room was enormous—floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, a massive oak desk, and a fireplace that looked like something made only for royalty.
Everything about this place screamed ‘money’.
Everything about this place screamed ‘danger’.
“Sit.” Alexander gestured to a leather armchair across from his desk.
It was not a suggestion.
Kelvin sat.
He kept his posture straight, his hands folded in his lap, his legs pressed together like Manager Victoria had drilled into him.
‘Women sit with their knees together.
Women don’t slouch.
Women don’t manspread.’ He felt like a puppet.
Alexander settled into his chair on the opposite side of the desk.
For a long moment, he just ‘looked’ at Kelvin.
His gaze was heavy, analytical, like he was reading a balance sheet and finding the numbers unsatisfactory.
“You’re prettier than your photo,” he said finally.
Kelvin’s brain short-circuited.
‘Did he just—?’ “Thank you?” he managed, his voice coming out higher than necessary.
“The photo was taken at an angle that made your jaw look wider.
You’ve also lost weight since then.
Good.
The camera adds pounds.” Alexander’s eyes flickered down to Kelvin’s hands.
“Your nails are bitten.
Get them done.” ‘Get them done?’ Kelvin looked at his nails.
They were ragged, sure.
He’d been secretly biting them nervously for hours.
Manager Victoria would have killed him if she found out, because it ruin all the perfect work the nail technician did on them.
But ‘get them done’?
Like he was a car that needed an oil change?
“I’ll…
schedule an appointment.” “Do it tomorrow.
My grandfather and my elder brother are visiting on Saturday.
You need to look presentable by then.” ‘Presentable.’ The word stung.
But Kelvin swallowed his pride.
‘For Gabriella.
You’re doing this for Gabriella.’ “Of course,” he said, forcing another smile.
Alexander pulled out a folder and slid it across the desk.
Kelvin opened it.
Inside was a list—long, detailed, and terrifying.
Rules of Residence: 1.
Curfew is 10 PM.
No exceptions.
2.
No guests without prior approval.
3.
Meals are to be taken together in the main dining room.
4.
Public appearances require 48 hours’ notice.
5.
Personal questions about Mr.
Morrowgate’s private life are strictly forbidden.
6.
Physical contact beyond what is required for public appearances is prohibited.
7.
The east wing is off-limits.
Kelvin’s eye twitched.
“A ‘curfew’?
I’m twenty-six years old.” “In this house, you are twenty-six years old ‘pretending’ to be my fiancée.
That means you follow my rules.” “I’m not a child.” “Then stop acting like one.” Alexander’s voice was cold, final.
“You are here for one purpose.
To convince my grandfather that our relationship is real.
If you fail, you don’t get paid.
If you embarrass me, you don’t get paid.
If you step out of line even once…” He paused, letting the threat hang in the air.
“You don’t get paid.” Kelvin’s fingers curled around the edges of the folder.
His jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached.
‘You son of a bitch.’ But he couldn’t say that.
He couldn’t say anything.
He just nodded, keeping his expression neutral.
“I understand.” “Good.” Alexander stood, signaling the meeting was over.
“Your room is on the third floor.
The second door on the left.
A maid will show you where everything is.
Dinner is at seven sharp.
Don’t be late.” He walked out of the study without another word, leaving Kelvin sitting alone in the massive, cold room.
The moment the door closed, Kevin let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.
“Okay,” he muttered to himself, staring at the rules.
“Okay.
I can do this.
One year.
Three hundred and sixty-five days.
Eight thousand seven hundred and sixty hours.
I can survive eight thousand seven hundred and sixty hours of this asshole.” He crumpled the edge of the folder in his fist.
“And then I’m burning this place to the ground.” The third floor of the Morrowgate mansion was a labyrinth of hallways and identical doors.
The maid—a quiet, older woman named Mrs.
Ahn—led Kelvin to his room with professional efficiency.
“This will be your room, Miss Austin,” she said, opening the door.
“If you need anything, use the intercom by the bed.
Mr.
Morrowgate prefers that guests do not wander the halls after midnight.” ‘Guests.’ Not ‘fiancée.
‘Guests.’ Kelvin nodded, forcing another smile.
“Thank you, Mrs.
Ahn.” The maid bowed slightly and disappeared down the hallway, her footsteps silent on the polished marble floors.
Kelvin stepped into the room and froze.
It was enormous.
A king-sized bed draped in white linens dominated the center of the space.
A vanity table sat against one wall, covered with professional-grade makeup products—clearly stocked by Manager Victoria’s team.
A walk-in closet stood open, revealing rows of dresses, blouses, skirts, and shoes, all in his size.
All purchased for him.
There was even a bouquet of fresh flowers on the nightstand.
White roses.
Kelvin walked over and touched a petal.
It was real.
“For a second,” he muttered, “I almost feel like a princess.” Then he caught his reflection in the vanity mirror.
A beautiful woman stared back at him.
Delicate features.
Soft lips.
Long, silky black hair.
He looked nothing like himself.
He looked like a stranger.
Kelvin reached up and touched his face.
The foundation felt heavy on his skin.
The eyeliner made his eyes look bigger, almost doll-like.
He had never worn makeup before this.
He had never needed to.
He hated it.
But he also couldn’t look away.
‘Who are you?’ he asked the reflection.
The reflection didn’t answer.
A sharp knock on the door made him jump.
“Miss Austin?” Mrs.
Ahn’s voice came through the wood.
“Mr.
Morrowgate requests your presence in the dining room.
Dinner is being served in ten minutes.” Kelvin’s stomach dropped.
‘Dinner.
With him.
Alone.’ “Coming!” he called out, his voice too high, too cheerful.
He studied his reflection one last time.
A slight tug here, a quick adjustment there, and the wig settled exactly where he wanted it.
He ran his palms down the front of his dress, smoothing away invisible creases.
His lipstick had faded during the night, leaving only traces of color behind.
Clicking open the nearest tube he could find, he frowned briefly.
Was it the same shade?
He couldn’t tell.
Not that it mattered.
He brushed the color across his lips anyway, bringing them back to life with a fresh coat of crimson.
‘You can do this.
You can do this.
You can—’ His stomach growled loudly.
Okay, maybe he could do this ‘after’ dinner.
****** The dining room was just as extravagant as the rest of the house—a long mahogany table that could seat twenty people, crystal chandeliers overhead, and a fireplace crackling softly at the far end of the room.
Alexander was already seated at the head of the table, a glass of wine in his hand.
He didn’t look up when Kelvin entered.
“You’re late.” “It’s been four minutes.” “Four minutes is late.” He finally raised his eyes, and Kelvin felt that weight again—that cold, analytical gaze sweeping over him.
“You changed your lipstick.” Kelvin blinked.
“What?” “Your lipstick.
It was pink earlier.
Now it’s rose.” Alexander took a sip of his wine.
“The pink was better.
Change it back tomorrow.” Kelvin’s eye twitched.
“Noted.” He took a seat across from Alexander, as far away as possible while still being at the same table.
A server appeared immediately, placing a bowl of soup in front of him.
It smelled incredible.
His mouth watered.
There was also stake on the table.
Delicious looking stakes.
“Your manners,” Alexander said dryly, just as Kelvin was about to shove a second forkful of meat into his mouth.
“Excuse me?” “You’re eating like a construction worker.
Sit up straight.
Use your napkin.
Take smaller bites.” Alexander’s tone was bored, like he was reciting a grocery list.
“You’re supposed to be a refined woman, not a starving dog.” Kelvin’s grip on his fork tightened until his fits went completely pale.
‘Violence is not the answer.
Violence is not the answer.
Violence is—’ “You’re right,” he said through gritted teeth, forcing a smile.
“I apologize.
I’m just…
nervous.
Meeting you for the first time, you know.
It’s overwhelming.” He picked up his spoon with exaggerated elegance.
Took a tiny, delicate sip of soup.
“Better,” Alexander said, and returned to his own meal.
The rest of dinner passed in agonizing silence.
Once Kelvin got back to his room, the wig was off.
The makeup was removed.
The dress was hanging in the closet like a costume waiting for its next performance.
Kelvin had scrubbed his face so hard in the bathroom that his skin was now raw and pink, but at least he looked like ‘himself’ again.
He lay in his ridiculously large bed, staring at the ceiling.
The silk sheets were too soft.
The pillows were too fluffy.
The room was so quiet that he could hear his own heartbeat.
Back in his real apartment—a cramped, moldy semi-basement in a dodgy neighborhood—he slept on a thin mattress on the floor with a single lumpy pillow and a blanket that smelled like instant noodles and despair.
He hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in months.
But here, in this palace of luxury and excess, sleep refused to come.
His mind was racing.
‘One year.
Three hundred and sixty-five days.
Eight thousand seven hundred and sixty hours.’ He pulled out his phone and stared at the photo on his lock screen.
Gabriella.
Smiling.
Healthy.
Before the accident.
“I’m doing this for you,” he whispered into the darkness.
“I’m going to get you that surgery, and you’re going to play piano again, and we’re going to forget this nightmare ever happened.” His phone buzzed.
It was a text from an unknown number.
[Unknown: How was your first day, fiancée?
😊] Kelvin’s blood ran cold.
He sat up, staring at the message.
The smiley face made his skin crawl.
He typed back: [Who is this?] The reply came instantly.
[Unknown: Just a friend who wants to make sure you’re comfortable in your new home.
The walls have ears, you know.] Kelvin’s eyes darted around the room.
The shadows in the corners suddenly seemed deeper.
The silence felt heavier.
[Unknown: Don’t worry.
I’m on your side.
For now.] [Unknown: Sleep well, Kelvin.
Or should I say…
Kelly?] The phone slipped from his fingers and landed on the silk sheets with a soft thud.
His heart was pounding so hard he could hear it in his ears.
‘Someone knows.’ ‘Someone knows who I really am.’ He grabbed his phone again, fingers trembling, and typed: [What do you want?] Three dots appeared.
Disappeared.
Appeared again.
Then nothing.
The message was read.
But no reply came.