“And Kristie?” the voice asks.
Grant lets out a quiet laugh.
“She doesn’t believe John has the standing to override her,” Grant adds. “Her words, not mine.”
A faint shift, like someone leaning back against the wall. “So whose request am I supposed to follow?”
Grant doesn’t hesitate. “That’s up to you.”
The voice responds. “You know me. I make my own rules.”
“I know,” Grant says. “Which is why I’m telling you. Kristie will contact you soon.”
there's a brief pause.
“Don’t do anything too extreme before she calls,” Grant finishes. “She wants to see it.”
A low hum ofacknowledgment answers him.
“I’ll decide what we do with her for now,” the voice says.
Grant’s footsteps begin to retreat down the hall. “I figured you would. Have fun brother.”
The space outside the study goes quiet. A single set of slow footsteps approaches the door. I straighten in the chair as much as the zip ties allow. My pulse hammers in my ears. The handle turns. The door opens.
A tall man walks in. His posture is relaxed, and his expression is calm. His hair is sandy blond. He wears a light-colored polo and pressed pants. His face is clean-shaven. His movements are polished and relaxed. He looks like he comes from old money. He closes the door behind him and looks at me as if he is examining a new object.
“You’re Brooke,” he says. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”
I keep my eyes on him.
“I’m Elliot, I run the Manor. I want you to understand this clearly. The Manor is a safe place. I’m here to watch over you and guide you through your stay.”
He speaks gently.
“You’ll meet my colleagues who live here,” he adds. “They help me maintain structure.”
He opens the door and steps to the side. Three people stand waiting in the hallway. The first steps forward. He is tall and lean, with light brown hair slicked neatly back from a high forehead. His face is narrow, almost boyish, with pronounced cheekbones and a mouth pulled into an eager, unsettling smile that shows too many teeth.
“Hey, I’m Knox,” his tone is friendly, but it sounds forced.
The next is a young woman with dark hair pulled high into a tight knot, a single braid falling over her shoulder. She wears a fitted black top and black slacks. Her makeup is flawless, dark liner sharpens her green eyes, and her lipstick is a deep muted red. She looks over me before she speaks.
“Hi, I’m Sophie.” Her smile is restrained, professional, and cool. “I’ll help you settle in.”
The last man steps into view. He has a buzz cut and a thick, muscular build. His posture is relaxed, shoulders loose, head slightly angled as if he is listeningmore than watching. His expression holds a faint, unreadable calm, neither friendly nor hostile.
“I’m Asher,” he says.
All three watch me, but none of them show open hostility. Their politeness feels fake, like they have been taught to greet people this way.
“They’re here to assist you,” Elliot explains. “You’ll learn the routine. Everything is scheduled. Once you understand the structure, your days will feel predictable.”
A guard approaches the doorway. “Her room is ready.”
Elliot nods. “Good. We’ll take her there now.”
He looks back at me with the same light expression. Nothing in his voice carries threat. Everything about him feels designed to appear calm and approachable.
