The rules of the house
Chapter 2 – The Rules of the House
The silence trailed Ava as she ascended the staircase, her damp clothes clinging to her skin. Every step creaked beneath her weight, the echo swallowed by the vast emptiness of the mansion. Damon Blackwood’s warning lingered in her mind like a bruise.
Don’t go near the east wing. Ever.
The corridor stretched long and narrow, lined with towering portraits of stern-faced ancestors. Their painted gazes followed her as if judging her presence. She paused in front of the final door on the right, fingers tightening around the brass knob. It opened smoothly, revealing a bedroom that looked more suited to royalty than a nanny.
A queen-sized bed with a velvet headboard stood beneath a glittering chandelier. A fire crackled in the hearth, casting shadows against soft pink walls and thick curtains. Ava stepped inside hesitantly. The fire was already lit, though the staff had supposedly left. She glanced behind her.
No one.
She set her suitcase down and peeled off her soaked coat, hanging it on the back of a chair. Her boots landed heavily on the polished floor. In the bathroom, she splashed cold water on her face and stared at her reflection. Her expression was pale, eyes rimmed with exhaustion. She brushed her teeth and changed into clean clothes—a hoodie and leggings—before crawling into the massive bed.
Sleep didn’t come.
She stared at the ceiling, trying not to think of the man whose voice had held the sharpness of a blade. Damon Blackwood. His presence filled the house like smoke—impossible to pin down, but everywhere.
She was still awake when the knock came.
Three sharp raps.
She sat up, disoriented. The morning light had just begun to filter in.
“Miss Carter?” a voice called.
She opened the door to find a woman in a crisp gray uniform. Her hair was pulled into a tight bun, her eyes sharp.
“I’m Margaret,” she said, stepping inside with a breakfast tray. “Mr. Blackwood asked me to wake you. You’ll meet Miss Emilia shortly.”
“Thank you,” Ava said, clearing her throat.
Margaret set the tray on the table. “Breakfast. You’ll join them for lunch in the solarium. Miss Emilia is currently in the playroom. Left wing, third floor. Do not wander beyond the route I’ve given.”
There it was again. Rules.
“Understood,” Ava replied.
Margaret paused, her gaze cool. “Don’t get too comfortable. No one lasts long here.”
The words chilled her more than the cold floor had.
--
The playroom was drenched in morning light. Ava found the child sitting cross-legged on a rug, not playing, just staring at a detailed dollhouse—an eerie replica of Blackwood Estate.
Emilia looked up. She was delicate, with solemn eyes and long black hair.
“You’re the new one,” she said flatly.
Ava approached slowly. “I’m Ava. I’m here to help.”
“You won’t stay.”
“Why do you think that?”
The girl shrugged. “Nobody does.”
Ava sat beside her. “Do you want to play together?”
Emilia shook her head. “You can just sit.”
So Ava did.
Minutes passed. Maybe longer. Emilia moved the miniature furniture with slow precision.
“Do you miss her?” Ava asked gently.
The girl didn’t look up.
“She’s not here.”
“But do you—”
“Daddy says we don’t talk about her.”
Ava held her tongue.
--
Lunch in the solarium was quiet. Sunlight spilled across the table. Damon sat at the head, Emilia at his side, Ava opposite. Damon watched Ava closely.
She helped Emilia cut her chicken. Answered her softly spoken questions. Avoided his stare.
“She hasn’t spoken that much to anyone in weeks,” he finally said.
Ava met his eyes. “She’s lonely.”
“She’s protected. There’s a difference.”
Ava bit her lip, choosing silence.
“Margaret says you followed instructions.”
“I did.”
“Don’t call me sir,” he said. “I’m not your employer. I’m your warning.”
Emilia looked up sharply. “Daddy.”
Damon’s gaze shifted. Something softened. Almost.
“Eat your food, Emmy,” he said quietly.
--
Ava awoke to soft shuffling.
She checked the time: 2:17 AM.
Footsteps. Faint. Not near her door, but down the hall. East.
Don’t go near the east wing.
She rose, heart hammering. Barefoot, she crept to the door and cracked it open. The hallway was dim.
Shuffle. Pause. Shuffle.
She followed the sound.
Past the watching portraits. Past her better judgment.
The door to the east wing was ajar.
She pushed it open.
A woman stood at the far end of the corridor.
Long hair. Pale nightgown. Bare feet.
She turned slowly.
Eyes met.
And she vanished.
Ava stumbled backward, breath catching in her throat. Her spine met the wall.
Then—a voice, low and dangerous:
“I told you never to come here.”
She whirled.
Damon stood in the shadows, eyes unreadable.
“Now you’ve seen what you shouldn’t have.”