The morning light filtering through Elira's windows held a soft golden hue, the kind that made the world look gentle and manageable for a while. She stirred beneath the covers, half-dreaming, her fingers curling around the edges of her comforter before her phone buzzed on the nightstand. Groaning, she stretched an arm out and squinted at the screen.
Unknown Number: You will be picked up today at 2:00 PM instead of 6:30. You will be compensated for the change. Further details will be discussed at the mansion.
She blinked at the message, rereading it once, twice. The same tone as every other message she'd gotten about this job: direct, void of emotion, and somehow creepier because of it. She sighed and rolled over, mumbling into her pillow.
"Just don't be a cult. Just don't be a cult."
After a few minutes of lying motionless, she sat up and ran a hand through her hair. The apartment was still, save for the occasional distant car honking below. The idea of being picked up earlier for storytelling duties was already strange. But getting paid extra for it? That meant they expected her to stay longer. Possibly a whole day.
She stood and padded across the room, brushing her teeth and pulling her robe tighter around her waist. Her thoughts spiraled with possibilities.
What if Aleksei couldn't sleep again? What if he wanted a horror breakfast? Did billionaires get bored of threatening the stock market and turn to bedtime fables at noon now?
She shook her head with a half-laugh, flicking on the shower. A curl of steam rose up, fogging the mirror. As the water pounded against her skin, she tried not to think too hard about the growing weirdness of it all. It was a job. A ridiculous, oddly intimate job, but still.
When she stepped out, her skin warm and pink, she dressed in a simple black sweater dress with long sleeves and paired it with her usual boots. She left her curls loose today, figuring she might as well look less buttoned-up for a change. She packed her tote bag with the same materials—her handwritten story drafts, a notebook, a pen, and a paperback or two for inspiration.
At precisely 2:00 PM, the sleek black car appeared outside her apartment like a phantom on cue. She glanced out the window just in time to see the driver already stepping out, walking toward the door with a level of punctuality that was borderline surgical.
Elira took one last look around her apartment, sighed, and slung her bag over her shoulder. "Please don't be a cult," she muttered again as she locked up and descended the stairs.
The driver, same as always—tall, expressionless, and utterly silent—opened the back door for her. She slid in, adjusting the strap of her bag and nodding a polite thanks. No reply. No words. Just that same eerie quiet and the soft hum of the engine.
The ride was smooth, almost too smooth, like the car didn't actually drive but glided over the pavement. The city blurred by outside the tinted windows. Trees soon replaced buildings, and once again, Elira found herself approaching the looming Volkov estate.
The gates opened without a word exchanged, revealing the familiar expanse of manicured grounds and stone paths. The car rolled to a stop beneath the grand awning, and the same routine played out.
Two guards waited. She was searched. Her bag was rummaged through. Her phone was taken and sealed in the velvet-lined box with a numbered tag.
One of the guards glanced at a clipboard and then looked at her. "You're expected in the study today."
"Mixing it up," she muttered, following him through the grand hallways she was beginning to memorize. The mansion's silence was its own form of intimidation—the kind that made you whisper without knowing why.
She was led down a corridor and into a large wooden door carved with swirling leaves and what looked like slumbering beasts. The guard knocked once, then opened it.
Inside, the study looked exactly as it had the first time she saw it: heavy bookshelves lining the walls, a towering fireplace, and a thick rug that probably cost more than her entire apartment's rent. Behind the mahogany desk sat Aleksei Volkov, sleeves rolled up, forearms inked and braced on a notebook.
He looked up when she entered.
"You're early," she said dryly.
"You're on time," he replied.
Fair enough.
He motioned to the chair opposite his desk, the same leather armchair she'd sat in before. She lowered herself into it, crossing her legs and resting her bag beside her.
"So… new schedule?" she asked.
He leaned back, eyes studying her like he was trying to decide what to do with a new piece of furniture.
"Your hours are changing," he said. "You'll stay here now. At the estate."
Elira blinked. "Sorry?"
"You'll move in. Temporarily."
"Temporarily," she repeated slowly. "Why?"
Aleksei didn't answer immediately. He stood and moved to the window, clasping his hands behind his back like a villain about to deliver a monologue. "I don't like disruptions. I sleep better with routine. You'll tell me a story in the morning. Another in the afternoon. And again before bed."
She stared at his broad back, trying to wrap her head around it. "That's… a lot of stories."
"You'll be paid accordingly."
Of course. Money always came up when things got weird.
"I need to go home and pack," she said.
"You'll be escorted. The staff will help."
"Wow. You thought of everything."
He turned, eyes locking with hers. "I think of everything I care about."
Elira's breath hitched slightly, but she masked it with a shrug. "You care about being read to?"
"I care about sleeping," he said simply.
And somehow, that was more honest than she expected.
She leaned back in the chair, her thoughts racing. Moving in. Living here. Reading to Aleksei three times a day. Sleeping… maybe just down the hall from him.
"I hope you have a good library," she said at last. "I'm going to run out of stories fast."
His lips twitched, barely. "We have shelves that haven't been touched in decades."
She could imagine it now—tall, dusty volumes, forgotten tales, things whispered in candlelight. A haunted castle filled with books and shadows. And her, the hired voice that wandered the halls.
"Alright," she said. "But I draw the line at blood oaths and sacrificial altars."
He raised an eyebrow. "What about vampire folklore?"
She gave him a slow smile. "Only if I get to be the one biting."
The flicker in his eyes was unreadable, but something shifted between them. A hum of energy, like two magnets not quite touching.
"Your new room is being prepared," he said. "You'll be escorted home in an hour. Return tonight."
She nodded slowly. "Okay."
And just like that, the shape of her life bent again, wrapped tighter around this strange mansion, its cold master, and the stories that bound them.
---
One hour later, she was in the car again, backseat still warm from her earlier trip. This time, her mind buzzed with anticipation.
Living at the estate.
Three stories a day.
And Aleksei Volkov—still a riddle wrapped in shadows, still somehow pulling her closer.
Whatever this was becoming, she wasn't sure.
But she was ready to find out.
Even if it meant she'd never have another normal day again.
-------
Elira stood in the center of her apartment with her arms crossed, staring at the empty suitcase like it had insulted her. The silence was thick, broken only by the distant hum of city life drifting through the open window. For the longest moment, she didn't move—still processing the conversation that had just unfolded in Aleksei Volkov's grand, fire-lit study.
She was going to live there now. In that fortress of stone and shadows. With him.
Her apartment—though small, cracked, and sometimes too quiet—had been her sanctuary for years. A place filled with her books, thrifted tea cups, crooked photos, and the faint scent of cinnamon from the potpourri she never bothered replacing. Saying goodbye to it, even temporarily, felt like shedding a piece of herself.
Still, the pay was ridiculous.
And... there was something else.
Something about Aleksei Volkov.
Not just the wealth. Not just the darkness he seemed to breathe like oxygen. There was a pull—quiet, magnetic, the kind that made your curiosity lean forward even when common sense screamed run. She didn't understand him, and maybe that was the problem. She wanted to.
Elira shook her head and exhaled. "Alright. Let's pack before this starts to feel like the beginning of a horror story."
She pulled her suitcase from the closet with a grunt. The zipper was stubborn as ever. She tossed it on the bed and got to work.
She folded her favorite oversized sweaters with care, stuffed in enough socks to last weeks, and debated for five solid minutes whether to bring her skull-print pajamas. Ultimately, she did. If she was going to be a live-in bedtime horror narrator, she might as well dress the part.
Jeans. Comfortable lounge clothes. A couple of dresses. Her notebook, pens, USB charger, a paperback of Shirley Jackson's short stories. And, of course, her lucky tea mug with the faded constellation print. She paused, turning it over in her hands before tucking it into her tote with a little smile.
When everything was packed, she zipped the suitcase closed and sat down on the edge of her bed. The room suddenly felt... emptier. Like it knew she was leaving. A knot tightened in her chest.
"Okay," she muttered aloud, grabbing her phone. "Now comes the hard part."
She found Dianna's name in her contacts and hit the call button.
It rang once. Twice.
"Yo!" Dianna answered, her voice bright. "You didn't die!"
Elira laughed. "Nope. Still breathing."
"So? What happened?"
Elira lay back on her bed, phone pressed to her ear. "You're not going to believe this."
"Oh god. It is a cult, isn't it?"
"No—well, I don't think so. Yet."
"Elira."
"Okay, listen." She sat up again, chewing on her bottom lip. "So I get there, right? Same car, same driver, same search routine. And they lead me to his study."
"Wait—you mean the study? Like his secret mafia lair with guns in the desk and heads mounted on the wall?"
"It's actually very clean. Minimalist. Mahogany desk. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. A globe bar in the corner."
"You just described every Bond villain's hideout."
Elira laughed, then sighed. "Anyway. He tells me that my schedule is changing. Starting today, I'll be living at the estate."
Dead silence on the other end.
"...You'll be what?"
"Living. There. At the estate. I'm supposed to tell him stories three times a day—morning, afternoon, and bedtime. And I'm being paid a lot more."
"Elira," Dianna said slowly, like she was addressing a child playing with matches. "Are you hearing yourself? You're about to move into the mansion of a guy who listens to horror stories like it's aromatherapy."
"I mean, yeah. I thought it was weird too."
"Weird? That's not weird, that's cult-adjacent. That's human taxidermy levels of sketchy."
Elira rolled her eyes and lay back on the bed again. "D, come on. If it were a cult, I'd have been given a robe by now."
"You could be the robe recipient. You might be the first sacrifice."
"Don't be dramatic."
"I'm literally your best friend. Dramatic is in my job description."
There was a pause. Then Dianna's voice shifted, turning serious. "Okay, listen to me. If you're really doing this—and I can't stop you because I know that tone in your voice—then we're setting some rules."
"Rules?"
"Safety protocols. Contingency plans. Friendship laws."
Elira grinned. "You're serious, aren't you?"
"As a heart attack. First of all, you're going to send me the address. The full estate location. GPS coordinates if you can."
"Done."
"Second, I want a picture of the license plate of the car that picks you up."
"Sure."
"And third," Dianna added with extra emphasis, "I want a picture of this Russian dude who hired you. A clear one. Not blurry like those Bigfoot sightings."
"He's not really the selfie type."
"I don't care. Pretend it's for a LinkedIn article. Something. If you go missing, I need a face to give to the news."
Elira snorted. "Noted."
"I also expect texts. Calls. Multiple. Throughout the day. Especially after each 'session.' I want to hear your voice and see your face."
"Video calls?"
"Damn right. I need to see your pupils aren't dilated from poison and make sure no one's standing behind you holding a cue card that says, 'I'm fine.'"
"Okay, okay," Elira said, laughing now. "You're going full FBI."
"I'm being thorough. If this ends up being some billionaire psycho experiment and you disappear into the walls of a secret underground library, I'm not having it."
There was a long beat, and then Dianna's voice softened. "Just… be careful, okay?"
Elira swallowed the lump in her throat. "I will."
"You're too brilliant and weird and wonderful to become the opening chapter of someone's true crime podcast."
"I'll take that as a compliment."
"You better. Also, bring pepper spray. Or a haunted object. Something to protect yourself."
Elira smiled. "I think I'll bring both."
They talked for a few more minutes—about Elira's packing, what kind of stories she might prepare next, and whether Aleksei's assistant was actually an android disguised in lipstick. By the time they said goodbye, Elira felt a little steadier. Grounded.
She had someone looking out for her. Someone who would notice if she went missing. Someone who'd burn the mansion down if she didn't check in.
She stood and zipped up her suitcase.
The sun had begun to dip low in the sky, casting golden light across her living room floor. She walked over to the window and looked out at the street.