Chapter 1 THE MAN AT THE DOOR

By the time the car slows in front of the gate, my body feels hollowed out.

Not tired exactly, more like wrung dry. Like I’ve left pieces of myself behind at bus stations and airports and quiet bathrooms where I stared at my reflection too long. The driver says my name softly, as if afraid I’ll break.

“We’re here, Miss Winters.”

I look up.

The house rises out of the dark like it’s watching me.

Mansion feels like the wrong word. Mansions belong in movies, not in real life, not waiting for girls who don’t know where they fit anymore. This place is all sharp lines and glass and shadow. Cold even from a distance. The lights glow low and controlled, not warm. Not welcoming.

Not home.

I swallow and push the door open myself. My bag feels heavier now, like it knows it doesn’t belong here either.

The front steps are wide. Too wide. Every footstep echoes as I climb them, the sound bouncing back at me like a question I don’t have an answer to. I pause at the door, fingers curled around the handle, and breathe in.

This is fine, I tell myself. It’s just a house. Just a visit.

Just my mother’s new marriage.

I knocked.

The sound disappears into the quiet. For a moment, nothing happens, and my chest tightens with a strange hope that no one will answer. That I’ll turn around and laugh and tell the driver there’s been a mistake.

Then the door opens.

It’s not my mother.

The man standing there fills the doorway in a way that feels deliberate, like the house was built around him. He’s tall. Broad-shouldered. Dressed simply in a dark shirt and slacks, sleeves rolled up, forearms marked with faint lines I don’t have time to examine.

He looks at me the way people look at locked doors measuring, assessing.

“Seraphina,” he says.

My name lands heavy.

I blink. “I…”

“You’re late,” he continues calmly. Not annoyed. Not surprised. Just stating a fact.

I tighten my grip on my bag. “I didn’t realize I had a curfew.”

One corner of his mouth twitches, like he almost smiles but decides against it. “You don’t.”

Then why does it feel like I do?

He steps aside slightly. Not enough to be polite. Enough to let me pass if I choose to. The space between us feels charged, like static waiting to snap.

“Come in,” he says.

I hesitate, then cross the threshold.

The house smells like polished wood and something sharper underneath. Not flowers. Not food. Control. That’s the word that comes to mind, ridiculous as it sounds.

The door closes behind me with a soft click that echoes too loud.

I turn to face him properly, forcing myself to lift my chin. “I’m Seraphina. My mom Catherine said she’d be here.”

“I know who you are,” he replies.

That unsettles me more than it should.

He studies me openly now. Not rudely. Thoroughly. Like he’s taking inventory. My coat. My worn sneakers. The way I stand like I’m bracing for impact.

I straighten. “And you are?”

“Damon Blackwood.”

The name settles into the room like it belongs there.

“Right,” I say. “You’re… her husband.”

“Yes.”

The word sits between us, heavy and final.

He gestures toward the hall. “Your room is ready. You’ll want to rest.”

Something about the way he says your room sends a ripple through me. Like he’s already placed me somewhere in this house. Categorized me.

“I didn’t ask for a tour,” I say before I can stop myself.

His gaze sharpens. Not angry. I'm interested.

“No,” he agrees. “You didn’t.”

Silence stretches. I wait for him to react, to correct me, to assert himself. Instead, he just watches, dark eyes steady.

Finally, he says, “Your mother was called away unexpectedly. She’ll be back tomorrow.”

Of course she will.

I nod, pretending that doesn’t sting. “I’ll manage.”

“I’m sure you will.”

There it is again. That faint edge. Like he knows something about me I don’t.

I shift my weight. “Look, I’m tired. If you’ll just tell me where…”

“Second floor. End of the hall. Left side.”

I frown. “You memorized that awfully fast.”

Another almost-smile. “I like order.”

Figures.

I start toward the stairs, then stop. Something itches at the back of my mind.

“How did you know my name?” I ask without turning.

The pause is brief. Calculated.

“Catherine talks about you.”

That should make me feel better. It doesn’t.

I glance back. He’s still standing where I left him, arms crossed now, expression unreadable. The light casts shadows across his face, making him look carved rather than alive.

“Oh,” I say quietly.

“Good night, Seraphina.”

My name sounds different in his voice. Slower. Weighted.

“Good night,” I reply, and head upstairs.

The room is large. Too large. Everything is pristine and untouched, like no one ever planned to really live here. I drop my bag at the foot of the bed and sit, listening to the silence press in from all sides.

This house isn’t empty.

It’s watching.

I lie back, staring at the ceiling, replaying the moment at the door. The way he looked at me. The way he said my name like it mattered.

I tell myself I’m imagining things. That I’m tired. That tomorrow will be normal.

But as I drift toward sleep, one thought settles deep in my chest, cold and undeniable.

The man who opened that door isn’t just my mother’s husband.

He’s my stepfather.

And the word feels dangerous the moment I claim it.