TERESA'S P.O.V.
I decided to leave my old, beat-up 97 Toyota Corolla behind, opting instead to take a taxi. The car had seen better days, with its faded paint, cracked windows, and a persistent rattling sound that seemed to echo my own struggles. It was the kind of car that sputtered to life with a prayer and a bit of luck but it always took me where I needed to go, however today, my devil of a father would handle the ride to the end of my life. As I slid into the backseat of the taxi, I couldn't help but think about the next time I'd see it and my old apartment again, after five long months. The thought made me sigh.
The taxi ride was a nauseating combination of nervousness and anticipation. I sat stiffly, clutching my suitcase as the driver weaved through the busy morning streets. The clock read 5:45 AM. I couldn't be late. Not this time. If I was, my father wouldn't just punish me–he'd find a way to take it out on Luke too, and I couldn't let that happen. The man loved nothing more than wielding control like a hammer, and I refused to give him a reason to swing.
I arrived at the mansion at exactly 5:58 AM. My father's house loomed above me, grand, cold, and unnecessarily large-just like him. As I got out of the taxi, I took in a deep breath, the smell of fresh-cut grass and polished stone adding with the crisp morning air. I barely made it to the front door before my stepmother opened it, her lips pulled into a saccharine smile that didn't reach her eyes.
"Teresa, darling, you're right on time," she cooed, her voice sticky sweet. The same fake sweetness that always made my skin crawl. "Your father will be down shortly."
I nodded and stepped inside, feeling the familiar coldness of the house creep up my spine. It was spotless, of course, the smell of disinfectant strong, like the house was constantly trying to erase any trace of human life. I stood there, suitcase in hand, waiting under the grand chandelier that hung from the ceiling. The one thing I liked about the place, I suppose, was how the light shimmered off the crystals, casting tiny rainbows across the floor.
Then, my father appeared at the top of the staircase, descending like a king–if kings were obnoxiously rich men in their sixties with an ego the size of a small country. His gray hair was slicked back, not a strand out of place, and his suit–probably custom-made–looked like it cost more than most people's yearly salary. As usual, he didn't bother to acknowledge me with anything resembling warmth. His gaze barely flicked over me as he said in his usual sharp tone, "Let's go."
And just like that, he swept past me, heading straight for the front door. No 'hello,' no 'how was your night?' Nothing. I followed quietly, my stomach churning with a familiar wave of anger and resentment.
Outside, the driver–his assistant, really–was waiting with the car. And of course, it was a beauty. A sleek, black luxury sedan that practically gleamed in the morning light. The kind of car that screamed, "I'm better than you." I slid into the passenger seat as the assistant loaded my suitcase into the trunk. My father, predictably, sat in the back. The power move, as always.
As the car pulled away from the house, silence filled the air between us. I stared out the window, trying to calm my racing thoughts. I hated being in the same space with him. Hated the way my father treated me like an inconvenience, like I was something to be tolerated at best. I hated how much he controlled everything, how he wanted every decision in my life to revolve around him. And I hated that no matter how hard I tried, I could never be free of him. My fingers curled tightly around my seatbelt. There were days when all I wanted to do was run so far away-just vanish and never look back. But that wasn't an option. Not today.
The quiet tension hung in the air like a thick fog, suffocating. Every bump in the road felt like a punch to my chest, every minute dragged like an eternity. I kept glancing at the rearview mirror, where my father sat, stone-faced and distant. Where was he even taking me?
Finally, after what felt like hours, the car slowed, pulling up to an estate that made even my father's mansion look like a shack. My eyes widened as I took it in. It was massive-practically a palace. The security was intense, with cameras on every corner and guards stationed at every entrance. They moved with precision, clearly trained and alert. The place was locked down tighter than a vault.
A security guard approached the car, his uniform crisp, his expression all business. The assistant leaned out the window. "Appointment under Gregory Williams," he said. The guard checked his tablet, nodding before signaling to the others. The massive gates slid open, and we were waved through.
My heart pounded as we drove inside. The estate was overwhelming, with manicured gardens that looked like they belonged in a magazine. Everything was pristine, too perfect, like stepping into a world where mistakes didn't exist. And suddenly, I wanted to cry. What was this place? Why did they even need me as a maid?
The car came to a stop in front of a sprawling mansion even more extravagant than the one my father owned. My legs felt like they had turned to stone, and for a moment, I couldn't move. My father got out of the car, barely sparing me a glance before barking, "Get out."
I swallowed hard, my throat tight with fear, and forced myself to step out of the car. The driver handed me my suitcase, and I clutched it like my life depended on it. As I stood there, my father's voice cut through the air like a whip. "Keep your mouth shut and don't contradict me. Understood?" His eyes were cold, calculating. The same look he always gave me when he was about to make some sort of deal-except this time, I was part of the bargain.
Before I could even respond, the door to the mansion opened, and a middle-aged man in a black-and-white uniform appeared. The butler, I assumed. "Welcome," he said politely, taking my suitcase and gesturing for us to follow him inside.
The living room was enormous, with high ceilings and floor-to-ceiling windows that let in the early morning light. The couches looked impossibly comfortable, upholstered in rich fabrics that practically begged you to sink into them. The smell of leather and wood polish filled the air, and every surface gleamed like it had been scrubbed within an inch of its life. There was an ornate fireplace at one end of the room, with a massive painting of a landscape above it. Everything screamed wealth and power, just like my father loved.
We sat in silence, the tension heavy as we waited. Ten minutes passed, each one heavier than the last, until finally, the doors at the far end of the room swung open.
And then he walked in. Lucian Blackwood. Tall, handsome, and charismatic, with a smile that could charm the devil himself. My mouth went dry, my eyes widened and I felt my jaw drop in disbelief.
"Hello, Gregory," Lucian greeted with a cheerful grin as if this were a casual reunion between old friends.