The sunlight filtering through the curtains was soft and golden, yet Oakley woke with a heaviness pressing on her chest. She lay still for a long time, eyes open, heart strangely uneasy.
The room was warm, comfortable even. A quiet luxury blanketed everything — the velvety pillows, the faint scent of lavender drifting from the sheets, the soft hum of silence.
But something wasn't right.
She sat up, glancing around. Nothing had changed. The dress shirt she wore was still draped over her knees, her empty tray from last night now gone.
She hadn't heard anyone come in.
Oakley rose slowly, stretching stiff limbs. Her fingers brushed against the bedside table. A glass of water had been placed there — full, untouched.
She hadn't poured it.
Her stomach clenched. Maybe the maid came in early. Maybe she was just tired. She forced herself to breathe.
Don't be paranoid, she told herself.
Still, the feeling clung to her skin like a cold film — the sense that someone had been in her room. Watching her.
The day passed slowly.
Oakley stayed mostly in her room, unsure if she was allowed to leave. The few times she poked her head out, the hallways were quiet — like the mansion was a museum, meant only to be looked at, never touched.
At lunch, a young maid brought in a tray of food. Oakley blinked when she saw it.
Two small sandwiches. A bowl of strawberries. Chamomile tea.
Not what she asked for.
She hadn't asked for anything at all.
The maid smiled tightly. "The Master's orders."
Oakley blinked. "What do you mean?"
"The Master prefers his house guests well-nourished."
"…Guests?"
The maid didn't respond. She bowed and turned to leave.
"Wait," Oakley called, but the girl was already gone, the door closing behind her with a soft click.
The rest of the afternoon blurred by in quiet, lonely minutes.
Oakley tried reading a book she found tucked in the corner of the bookshelf — but couldn't concentrate. She ran her fingers along the silky curtains. Stared at the ornamental clock ticking softly on the wall.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
The silence was almost too perfect.
She moved to the corner of the room where a tall cabinet stood, trying to distract herself. But as she opened one of its doors, her eyes caught something at the top of the wall near the ceiling.
A black circle.
Tiny. Almost unnoticeable unless you were looking for it.
A camera.
Her mouth went dry.
When night finally came, Oakley stood by the window, her thoughts spiraling. The mansion lights cast long shadows across the garden outside. She could see the trimmed hedges, the glint of a fountain, the dark trees beyond.
She hadn't seen Daniel today. Or Anthony. Or that strange man from yesterday — Ian.
She hadn't seen anyone.
She was starting to feel like she didn't exist.
She waited until the mansion had gone still. No footsteps. No maids.
Just quiet.
That was when she stepped toward the door.
Just to test it. Just to see.
Her hand closed over the knob and turned.
Click.
Nothing.
She frowned. Turned it again.
Still nothing.
Locked.
From the outside.
A chill ran down her spine.
She knocked softly, then harder. "Hello?" she called.
No answer.
She leaned her ear to the wood.
Silence.
And then— shhfft.
She stepped back as a small piece of paper slid beneath the door. Folded neatly. White against the hardwood floor.
Oakley froze.
Slowly, she crouched down and picked it up.
In clean, almost graceful handwriting, it read:
Do not attempt to leave. Sleep well.
That was it.
No name.
No explanation.
No sound on the other side of the door.
Just the quiet and the pressure building behind her ribs.
She let the note fall from her hand. Her breath came in shallow pulls. Not panicked — not yet — but scared in a way she hadn't allowed herself to feel in days.
This wasn't just wealth or mystery anymore.
This was control.
She wasn't a guest.
She was a possession.
And the Devil… was watching.