The mansion on the hill
Chapter 1 – The Mansion on the Hill
The rain intensified the moment Ava Carter stepped out of the cab, as if the storm itself sought to drive her back. The wind ripped at her umbrella, snapping one of its metal spokes. It wouldn't last long. Neither, she feared, would her resolve.
The cab driver offered no help, no farewell. He popped the trunk, mumbled something about the weather, and sped off, leaving behind only exhaust and damp gravel.
She was utterly alone.
Ava's eyes lifted toward the looming iron gates ahead. The black bars stood tall, twisted with rust and overgrown vines that clung like forgotten memories. Beyond the gate, shrouded in fog and rain, was the house.
No—the mansion.
Blackwood Estate sat like a relic from another century, crouched atop the hill with brooding silence. Rain darkened its gray stone facade, windows shuttered tightly as if holding in secrets. The manicured hedges were trimmed with eerie precision. Nothing moved. No lights. No sound. Even the forest surrounding it seemed afraid to approach.
Gripping her suitcase handle, Ava hesitated. She could leave. She should leave.
But she had nowhere else to go.
Only a week ago, she'd never heard the name Damon Blackwood. It sounded more like a gothic villain than a living man. Then she came across a discreet job posting: a live-in nanny was urgently needed for a young girl. No details, no agency.
In desperation, she'd lied about her experience, invented references, and sent an email.
To her surprise, Damon Blackwood responded directly.
If you're serious, be here by Sunday.
No greeting. No signature. Just that single sentence.
She'd searched his name. Found a few corporate records, vague mentions of real estate and tech ventures, one scandalous tabloid image—and a photo of him beside a vintage car, all ice and angles.
Sharp cheekbones. Cold eyes. A man carved in stone.
Now, she was minutes from meeting him.
A buzzing sound broke through the rain, and with a groan, the iron gates slowly creaked open on their own. Clutching her suitcase, Ava stepped forward. Her boots crunched over gravel as she crossed the threshold.
The walk to the front door felt endless. The mansion seemed to grow taller with every step. Gargoyles leered from above. Towering columns framed the entry like the gates of some ancient temple.
By the time she reached the doorstep, she was soaked. Her fingers were stiff, her coat drenched. She raised a hand to knock—
But the door opened first.
Damon Blackwood.
He stood framed in the doorway, wearing a crisp black shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms. His build was lean but solid, his face emotionless. One hand rested on the doorframe, casual but commanding.
"You're early," he said.
His voice was deep, every syllable deliberate.
"I… I’m sorry," Ava stammered. "The rain came early. I thought it was better to get here now than risk delays."
"You weren’t expected tonight. I told the agency Monday."
"I didn’t come through an agency," she corrected quickly. "I emailed you. Directly. You replied."
He studied her. A flicker of something unreadable passed through his eyes.
"I read hundreds of emails a day," he muttered.
"Mine said I’d come tonight. And I did."
Not defiant. Just exhausted. She had nowhere else to go, and she wasn't going to beg.
Silence hung between them.
Then he stepped aside.
"Come in before you freeze."
Ava crossed the threshold.
Warmth enveloped her. The entry hall was dimly lit, the scent of cedarwood and antique books in the air. The floor gleamed. The walls, painted in earthy hues, whispered of old money and quiet rules.
He shut the door behind them.
"No one else is here tonight," Damon said, walking ahead. "Staff leaves at five. My daughter’s asleep."
Ava followed. The corridors were wide, adorned with black-and-white art, each piece unsettling in its own way. The house felt more like a museum than a home—cold, curated, watchful.
They reached a grand staircase.
"You’ll stay upstairs. End of the right wing. The room is ready."
"Thank you," she said, voice barely audible.
He turned back. His eyes locked onto hers, unflinching.
"There are rules. You do your job. You don’t wander. You don’t ask questions. And you never, ever enter the east wing."
A chill spread through her.
"Understood," she said.
"You’ll meet my daughter in the morning. She doesn’t attend school. She doesn’t talk to strangers. And you—"
He stepped closer.
"You are not family. You are not a friend. You are an employee. Nothing more."
His presence consumed the space between them. The scent of pine and control. He wasn’t trying to intimidate her.
He simply was intimidating.
"I understand," Ava said.
Damon nodded once. "Welcome to Blackwood Estate, Miss Carter."
He turned and vanished into the corridor.
Ava remained in the hall, soaked, trembling, suitcase at her side.
Already, she knew this wasn’t just a job.
Damon Blackwood wasn't merely a reclusive billionaire.
He was a man with secrets.
And she had just stepped into the heart of them.