“You’ll get used to it,” he said.
“I doubt that.”
He turned at that, eyes sweeping over me slowly, taking in the suitcase, the stiff set of my shoulders, the way I hovered near the door as if it might still open for me.
I didn’t move.
The house breathed cold around me, silent and sure of its owner.
And I stood there feeling swallowed whole.
Gideon walked ahead, hands loose at his sides, steps quiet on the concrete floor. His voice carried through the open space, steady and even, like he recited terms on a contract.
“This is the kitchen.”
He gestured toward a long slab of marble that ran beneath a window facing the lake. Stainless appliances gleamed under recessed lights. Everything looked unused. My reflection caught in the glass door of the fridge—small, pale, out of place.
His words floated toward me, detached from the air that held them.
“Stocked yesterday. You can request whatever you want delivered.”
Delivered. Like supplies.
My pulse thudded once, heavy.
Gideon didn’t pause to check if I followed. He moved to the adjoining room, a shift of his hand guiding me along.
“Living areas.”
A sunken lounge spread across the floor in wide, low cushions arranged around a stone fireplace. Floor-to-ceiling windows wrapped the space, showing nothing but the dark lake and the night pressing down on it. The glass reflected Gideon’s silhouette, tall and unmoving. Mine hovered behind his, faint as a ghost.
My boots scuffed the edge of a rug. The sound cracked through the quiet and vanished too fast. Everything swallowed noise here.
He kept walking, pace unhurried.
“There are extra spaces upstairs. Workrooms. Storage. You’ll figure out what you need.”
I barely heard him. His voice stretched in my mind, thin and remote, like sound carried underwater.
We reached a long hallway lined with closed doors. Soft lights glowed along the floor, guiding a path forward. Each door looked identical—smooth wood, silver handle, no labels. A row of choices none of which felt like mine.
He opened the first door on the left.
“Guest room.”
A large bed. Crisp bedding. A window that framed more dark water. The room smelled faintly of cedar and cleaning product. No personal touches. No warmth. A place built for occupancy, not living.
He stepped aside so I could look in. His presence filled the hall even when he didn’t move, then continued down the hall, opening another door.
“Second guest room.”
Another bed. Another window. Another echo of nothing.
My ribs tightened.
Gideon’s voice carried down the hall as he opened a third.
“And this one has its own bath.”
