Chapter 2 - Inside the Fortress of SolitudeThe gates of the Vance estate didn't creak; they hummed with an expensive, low-voltage menace. To Mila’s utter shock, the heavy iron pedestrian gate swung open automatically as she approached, as if her sheer aura of caffeine-deprived fury had tripped a biometric scanner.
"This is a trap," Kate hissed, tiptoeing behind her like a cartoon character trying to sneak past a sleeping dragon. "We're walking right into the grinder. Look at those security cameras, Mila! They’re tracking the pores on our faces!"
"Let them look," Mila muttered.
The grounds of the mansion were breathtakingly ostentatious—landscaped gardens that probably cost more than her nursing school tuition, a infinity pool that mirrored the bruised purple twilight sky, and absolute, dead silence.
Except for one sound.
Crunch. Slurp. Satisfied sigh.
Following the auditory trail of betrayal, Mila and Kate rounded the corner of a massive stone patio. There, lounging on a custom-built, orthopedic outdoor dog bed the size of a king-sized mattress, was the culprit.
His name, as Mila would later learn, was Brutus.
Brutus was currently resting his massive, blocky head on his paws. Before him sat the empty ceramic insert of Mila's slow cooker, licked so clean it looked sterilized. The carrot was gone. The potatoes were history. The gravy had vanished into history. Brutus blinked slowly, his amber eyes locking onto Mila with a gaze that felt less like an animal and more like a Supreme Court justice evaluating a weak legal argument.
"You," Mila whispered, marching across the patio. "You absolute criminal."
Brutus didn't flinch. He didn't bark. He merely gave his tail one heavy, rhythmic thump against the deck, as if welcoming a subordinate to a meeting.
"Mila..." Kate grabbed her shoulder, eyes wide. "Look behind you."
Mila turned. Standing in the sliding glass doorway of the mansion was a man who looked like he had been chiseled out of cold granite and expensive tailoring.
Victor Vance.
May you like
Silver-streaked hair, a sharp jawline, and eyes the color of a winter ocean. He held a glass of amber liquid in one hand, and his expression was an unreadable mask of absolute, terrifying calm.
"Can I help you ladies?" Vance’s voice was a low, smooth baritone that sounded like expensive leather sliding across a mahogany floor. "Or do you usually break into high-security compounds to stare at my dog?"
