Christiana

If hell had an address, it would look exactly like this.

Jordan Pierson’s mansion rose out of the hills like some gothic nightmare—a sprawling fortress of stone, glass, and iron gates taller than my father’s dignity but it was beautiful.

The car doors opened, and I stepped out, my heels crunching on the perfect gravel driveway. Staff lined up like soldiers, their black uniforms crisp, their faces unreadable.

Great. My welcoming committee.

One of them—a butler, judging by the stiff bow—said, “Welcome, Miss Moretti.”

I plastered on my best fake smile. “Oh, thank you. I was worried I’d get lost in the castle.”

No one laughed. Not even a smirk.

Tough crowd.

Then he appeared. Jordan Pierson himself, descending the front steps with all the grace of a king returning to his throne. Perfect suit, perfect posture, perfect smugness.

“Christiana,” he greeted smoothly, like we were old friends instead of enemies. “Welcome home.”

“This is not my home,” I shot back.

One corner of his mouth tilted up. “Not yet.”

God, I hated that smile.

He gave me the grand tour, which, in his language, meant: look at all the things I own, and by extension, you.

“This is the west wing,” he said as we walked past endless hallways of oil paintings and marble floors. “Your room is here. You’ll find the wardrobe fully stocked.”

“I have my own clothes,” I muttered.

“Yes,” he replied smoothly, “and I burned them.”

I stopped dead. “You what?”

His lips twitched. “Relax. They’re still in your closet. For now.”

I glared. “You’re not funny.”

“I am,” he said mildly, “you just don’t like that I am.”

The audacity. The absolute audacity.

We passed a gallery of glass windows that overlooked a pristine garden, every hedge trimmed like it was auditioning for a royal wedding.

“This place is ridiculous,” I muttered. “What do you even do with a house this big? Get lost in it?”

“Occasionally,” he said. “Keeps the staff active.”

I almost choked. Was that… was that a joke?

We turned a corner, and I froze. A little girl sat curled on the bottom step of a staircase, a book clutched in her lap.

Big green eyes—his eyes—stared up at me with open suspicion.

She couldn’t have been older than seven.

“Christiana,” Pierson said quietly, “this is Sophia. My daughter.”

The girl’s small arms crossed her chest. “She’s not my mom.”

“You said you were bringing my mom home.”

The words hit harder than they should have.

“She’s here to steal you away like the other woman.”

I crouched down, ignoring the sharpness in my throat. “You’re right. I’m not your mom. But I’m also not here to steal your dad’s attention, promise.”

Her little frown deepened, but she didn’t reply. She slid off the step and darted away down the hall like a spooked rabbit.

I straightened slowly. “Well. That went great.”

“She’s cautious with strangers,” Pierson said. His tone was even, but there was a flicker in his expression—something soft, protective. “Don’t push her.”

I rounded on him. “You think I’d hurt her? What kind of monster do you take me for?”

“The kind that doesn’t like cages,” he said simply. “And Sophia is fragile. She doesn’t need your battles bleeding into her life.”

That stung. Badly.

“My battles are not with her,” I snapped. “They’re with you.”

He tilted his head, amused. “Good. Because I can take it.”

God give me strength.

Later that evening, after choking down the most awkward dinner of my life (three courses, two forks, one hostile silence), I locked myself in my new room—a suite bigger than my entire apartment.

The walls were white, the furniture sleek and modern, like everything else in this mausoleum of wealth. And yet it felt cold. Lifeless.

I sat on the edge of the bed, buried my face in my hands, and whispered, “What the hell am I doing here?”

…

Near midnight, I woke to the sound of low murmurs drifting through the walls. Curious, I crept into the hall and followed the sound until I reached a half-open door.

Sophia’s room.

I should have walked away. But I didn’t.

Through the crack, I saw him—Jordan Pierson, sitting on the edge of his daughter’s bed. His suit jacket was gone, his sleeves rolled up, his expression softened in a way I’d never seen before.

His voice was low, steady. “Bad dreams again?”

Sophia nodded, clutching a stuffed rabbit.

He smoothed her hair back gently. “Dreams can’t hurt you. I won’t let anything hurt you.”

“Promise?” she whispered.

“Promise.”

I swallowed hard, my chest tightening.

This was not the same man who’d blackmailed me into marriage. Not the same man who manipulated the press and smiled while destroying lives.

This was a father. A good one.

It was disarming. Disturbing. Dangerous.

Because for the first time, I wondered if there was more to Jordan Pierson than the devil I thought I knew.

And that thought scared me more than anything.