Ivy woke up in a bed soft enough to make her suspicious.

For three full seconds, she stared at the ceiling trying to figure out where she was. The mattress didn’t squeak. No pipes rattled behind the walls. No neighbor screamed about sports betting through thin drywall.

Then she saw the fireplace.

Right.

Mafia mansion.

Fantastic.

She rolled onto her back and groaned into the pillow.

A sharp knock hit the bedroom door.

“I’m dead,” she announced to the ceiling. “Tell Rosie she can have my boots.”

Marta’s voice came through the wood. “You have ten minutes before breakfast.”

Ivy blinked at the clock beside the bed.

8:03 a.m.

“Who eats breakfast this aggressively?”

“Mr. Moretti dislikes waiting.”

“Mr. Moretti sounds emotionally exhausting.”

Silence.

Then Marta said, very carefully, “That is not an inaccurate statement.”

The door clicked shut again.

Ivy dragged herself upright and stared blearily around the room. Somebody had unpacked her bag overnight. Her clothes hung neatly inside the wardrobe. Her shoes lined the wall.

Absolutely horrifying behavior.

She stumbled toward the bathroom and nearly walked face-first into a marble sink the size of a canoe.

“Jesus Christ.”

The shower had six different knobs.

Six.

Rich people had turned bathing into engineering.

Twenty minutes later, Ivy walked downstairs wearing black jeans, boots, and a sweater she found folded neatly on the chair beside her bed. It fit perfectly again.

Still creepy.

The mansion remained painfully quiet in daylight. Sunlight spilled through massive windows across polished floors and expensive paintings of dead ancestors who all looked moments away from condemning peasants.

Ivy passed a guard near the staircase.

He nodded once.

She nodded back awkwardly.

“Good morning, terrifying hallway man.”

No response.

Tough crowd.

The smell of coffee reached her before the dining room did.

Strong coffee.

Good coffee.

Her steps slowed automatically.

Lucien sat alone near the windows with a newspaper folded beside one hand and yesterday’s untouched whiskey still sitting on the table.

Interesting.

He looked up when she entered.

Not startled.

Like he had already known the exact second she would arrive.

That should not have affected her as much as it did.

Ivy dropped into the chair across from him.

“You know,” she said, “most rich people just buy yachts during midlife crises.”

Lucien sipped coffee calmly.

“Good morning to you too.”

“Oh my God. You do know sarcasm.”

“Only in small doses.”

“Tragic.”

A plate appeared beside her almost instantly. Eggs. Toast. Fruit arranged with terrifying precision.

Ivy looked around.

“Does somebody live inside the walls?”

“Marta heard you walking.”

“That’s somehow worse.”

Lucien folded the newspaper.

Snow drifted softly outside behind him. Morning light cut across the sharp angles of his face, catching silver in his watch and pale gray in his eyes.

Annoyingly attractive man.

Deeply inconvenient.

Ivy reached for toast.

“So. About me absolutely not staying here.”

“You are staying here.”

“Nope.”

“You have nowhere else to go.”

“I have an apartment.”

“You have eviction notices.”

She froze mid-bite.

Lucien took another sip of coffee.

“You investigated me?”

“You’re collateral attached to a missing three-million-dollar debt.”

“That is still insane to hear out loud.”

“You’re adjusting well.”

“I’m actually close to throwing bread at you.”

“That would disappoint Marta.”

Ivy glanced toward the kitchen doorway instinctively.

Lucien noticed.

A tiny shift touched the corner of his mouth.

Not a smile.

Close enough to be dangerous.

“You’re amused,” Ivy accused.

“Occasionally.”

“That feels medically concerning.”

He set the coffee cup down carefully.

“You’ll stay here until your father is found.”

“You keep saying that like I’m luggage.”

“You’re leverage.”

“Well, that’s romantic.”

Lucien’s gaze lingered on her face for half a second too long.

Then he looked away first.

Interesting.

Very interesting.

Ivy stabbed aggressively at scrambled eggs.

“So what exactly am I supposed to do all day? Sit dramatically by windows? Learn tax fraud?”

“You could make coffee.”

“There it is.”

Lucien ignored the comment.

“You’ll have access to the east wing and grounds.”

“Oh good. Outdoor prison privileges.”

“You’re not a prisoner.”

“You have armed guards.”

“You insulted me within thirty seconds of meeting me.”

“That’s unrelated.”

“Debatable.”

Ivy leaned back in her chair.

“You know what this place actually feels like?”

Lucien lifted one brow slightly.

“A luxury prison for emotionally constipated billionaires.”

Silence.

Then—

Matteo choked somewhere behind her.

Ivy turned.

He stood in the doorway holding coffee and trying very hard not to laugh directly into the cup.

Lucien closed his eyes briefly.

Not angry.

Worse.

Resigned.

“Oh, she’s definitely staying,” Matteo announced.

“I object,” Ivy said immediately.

“Denied,” Lucien replied.

Matteo slid into the chair beside her.

“You insulted him before breakfast?” He sounded impressed. “Usually people build toward that.”

“He started it.”

Lucien looked at her flatly.

“You called my house a prison.”

“It feels emotionally unavailable.”

“That is not a sentence.”

“It absolutely is.”

Matteo grinned into his coffee.

Lucien stared at Ivy for a long moment.

Most men would’ve looked irritated.

Lucien looked… focused.

Like every expression she made registered somewhere under that controlled face whether he wanted it to or not.

That realization slid strangely through her chest.

Dangerous territory.

Abort immediately.

Ivy pointed at his untouched whiskey glass from last night.

“You drink before breakfast?”

Matteo muttered, “Jesus.”

Lucien didn’t even glance at the glass.

“You ask many questions.”

“You leave visual clues.”

“It’s from dinner.”

“It’s eleven in the morning.”

“Eight-thirty.”

“That somehow makes it worse.”

Matteo leaned toward her slightly. “You should know most people are afraid to speak to him this way.”

Ivy looked at Lucien.

Then at Matteo.

Then back at Lucien again.

“Well, that feels unhealthy for everyone involved.”

Lucien’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“Fear keeps people alive.”

“That sounds like something written on a motivational poster for serial killers.”

Matteo laughed outright this time.

Lucien slowly turned his head toward him.

Matteo immediately looked down at his coffee.

Amazing.

Absolutely amazing.

Ivy hid her smile behind the mug.

Lucien noticed anyway.

Of course he did.

That unsettling stillness settled over him again. The one that made it feel like the room bent slightly around his attention.

“You aren’t afraid of me,” he said quietly.

Not a question.

Ivy shrugged one shoulder.

“You haven’t murdered me yet.”

“Strong standards.”

“I work customer service. My standards died years ago.”

Something flickered in Lucien’s eyes again.

That same strange thing from last night.

Recognition.

Like every joke she made landed somewhere old inside him.

He looked away first.

Again.

Matteo definitely noticed.

Interesting.

Very interesting.

Breakfast ended shortly after that. Lucien disappeared into another meeting with men in dark suits who looked allergic to joy. Matteo wandered off while answering three phones at once.

Marta handed Ivy a small silver keycard.

“For the east wing doors.”

Ivy stared at it.

“You people really commit to the prison aesthetic.”

“You’ll survive.”

“That’s what concerns me.”

By noon, Ivy had explored enough of the mansion to confirm several things:

One: rich people owned entirely too many rooms.

Two: every hallway looked designed for murder mysteries.

Three: someone absolutely vacuumed in straight lines here.

She wandered through a library bigger than her old school gymnasium, two sitting rooms nobody actually sat in, and a sunroom filled with plants so healthy they felt judgmental.

One corridor ended at tall black double doors.

Locked.

Interesting.

Ivy glanced around.

No guards nearby.

No cameras she could immediately spot.

Which probably meant there were twenty cameras.

She tested the handle anyway.

Locked solid.

“Okay,” she murmured. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

A voice behind her spoke quietly.

“That wing is off-limits.”

Ivy jumped hard enough to smack her elbow against the door handle.

“Jesus Christ!”

Lucien stood several feet away holding a folder beneath one arm.

No sound.

No footsteps.

The man moved like expensive nightmares.

“How do you do that?”

“You were distracted.”

“You materialized.”

His gaze shifted briefly toward the locked doors.

Then back to her face.

“Did Marta not explain the rules?”

“She gave me prison permissions, yes.”

“You enjoy calling this house a prison.”

“It keeps proving me right.”

Lucien walked closer slowly.

Ivy noticed immediately how much space he occupied without touching anything. The hallway suddenly felt narrower.

“Curiosity causes problems here,” he said.

“See?” Ivy pointed at him. “That. Villain dialogue.”

His eyes lowered briefly to her hand still resting against the door handle.

Then—

very gently—

he removed her hand himself.

Two fingers around her wrist.

Bare skin against bare skin.

Cold.

So cold.

Ivy stopped breathing for half a second.

Lucien did too.

The pause barely existed.

Still there.

His fingers loosened instantly.

Interesting.

Again.

“You should stay away from this part of the house,” he said quietly.

Ivy rubbed her wrist automatically after he let go.

“You hiding dead bodies?”

“Yes.”

She blinked.

Lucien walked past her calmly.

“Wait. Seriously?”

“No.”

“That sounded extremely serious.”

“It was convincing?”

“You’re deeply unsettling.”

“Noted.”

He kept walking.

Ivy followed him automatically.

“You can’t just say yes to murder and keep moving.”

“It appears I can.”

“You’re enjoying this.”

“No.”

“You absolutely are.”

Lucien glanced sideways at her.

Sunlight cut briefly across his face as they passed the tall windows. For one second, she caught it clearly—

the exhaustion under his eyes.

Not from lack of sleep.

Something heavier.

Something old.

Then the moment disappeared behind that controlled expression again.

Ivy slowed slightly.

“So what’s actually in there?”

Lucien stopped walking.

The hallway fell silent around them.

When he turned toward her this time, something colder had settled into his face.

Not anger.

Warning.

“You ask questions like you’ve never been told no.”

“My father believed in personal freedom.”

“Your father owed dangerous men millions.”

“Fair point.”

Lucien watched her another second.

Then—

unexpectedly—

he stepped closer.

Very close.

Close enough that Ivy caught cedar and smoke beneath the clean scent of his shirt.

Close enough that her heartbeat suddenly felt embarrassing.

“You should learn something quickly, Ivy,” he said softly.

The softness made it worse.

“Some doors inside this house stay closed for a reason.”

The air shifted between them again.

Tight.

Charged.

Ivy swallowed once.

Then ruined the moment immediately.

“Wow. That sounded incredibly sexy and threatening.”

A long silence followed.

Lucien stared at her.

Then something impossible happened.

His mouth twitched.

Tiny.

Brief.

Gone almost instantly.

But real.

Ivy pointed dramatically.

“Oh my God. You almost smiled.”

Lucien stepped back immediately.

“You’re imagining things.”

“No, no. That was definitely a human emotion.”

“I have work.”

“You were this close to becoming approachable.”

He turned and walked away down the hallway.

Faster this time.

Ivy watched him go.

Then looked down at her wrist where his fingers had touched her skin.

Cold.

Still cold.

Behind her, the locked west wing doors remained completely silent.