The mansion on the hill

chapter 1 – The Mansion on the Hill

AVA CARTER – POV

The rain came harder the moment I stepped out of the cab, like the sky itself was trying to send me back. The wind snapped at my umbrella, yanking it backward until one of its spokes twisted with a sharp metallic snap. It wasn’t going to survive much longer.

The cab driver didn’t even pretend to care. He popped the trunk, muttered something under his breath about the storm, and sped off, leaving behind nothing but the smell of wet gravel and exhaust. He didn’t help with my suitcase. He didn’t even say goodbye.

I was alone.

Standing there on the edge of a long gravel road, I lifted my head toward the towering iron gates in front of me. The sharp, black bars reached high above, coiled with vines and rust that looked deliberate—like even the rot had been designed. Beyond the gate, partially cloaked in fog and rain, stood the house.

No.

The mansion.

Blackwood Estate loomed on the hill like it had been pulled from the pages of a gothic horror. Its gray stones were darkened with rain, windows shut tight, no light escaping through any of them. The hedges were trimmed with unsettling precision, almost too sharp. And yet, there was no movement. No servants. No animals. Not even the wind dared to whistle through the trees that framed the property like a forest too scared to creep closer.

My suitcase handle dug into my palm as I stared up. I could turn back. I should’ve turned back.

But I couldn’t.

I had nowhere else to go.

Only a week ago, I’d never even heard of Damon Blackwood. A name that sounded more like a villain from a Brontë novel than a real person. Then I found the job listing—or rather, I stumbled across the company that had mentioned his daughter needing care. No name. No details. Just a discreet posting asking for a live-in nanny who could start immediately, no questions asked.

I sent my email anyway. I told them I had experience with children. I lied and said I had references. I said I was ready to relocate immediately.

Desperate people don’t get to be choosy.

To my surprise, I got a reply not from an agency—but from Damon himself. A one-sentence message:

“If you’re serious, be here by Sunday.”

That was it.

I tried searching his name, but all I found were whispers—business reports, real estate holdings, a scandalous tabloid photo from years ago. And one grainy image of him standing beside a vintage car, expression carved from ice.

Sharp cheekbones. Cold eyes. Straight-backed and solemn. He looked more like a statue than a man.

And now… I was about to meet him.

A buzzing noise snapped me from my thoughts, followed by a heavy groan as the gates began to creak open on their own. I stepped forward cautiously, dragging my soaked suitcase behind me. My boots crunched on the gravel with every step as I crossed through the threshold. It felt like stepping into another world.

The walk to the front door was longer than it looked. Trees flanked the path like guards, and above me, the mansion stretched toward the sky. Towering columns. Stone gargoyles. A slate roof blackened by age. The kind of house built to outlast wars and whispers.

By the time I reached the front door, my fingers were numb, my coat drenched, and my suitcase wheels clogged with wet pebbles. I raised my hand to knock, but the door opened before I could touch it.

And there he was.

Damon Blackwood.

Even in a simple black button-down and slacks, he looked like a man built from steel and secrets. His sleeves were rolled neatly to his forearms, his posture straight but relaxed in that controlled way people have when they’re used to being obeyed.

He didn’t smile.

Didn’t blink.

He just stood in the doorway, one hand in his pocket, the other resting lightly on the frame like it belonged to him—like everything did.

“You’re early,” he said.

His voice was deep, each word crisp and measured, as if he weighed them before speaking aloud.

“I… I’m sorry,” I stammered, trying to pull my coat tighter around me. “The rain started early. I figured it was better to get here now than wait.”

“You weren’t expected tonight. I told the agency Monday.”

“I didn’t come through the agency,” I said, quickly correcting him. “I emailed you. Directly. You responded.”

His jaw tensed, just slightly. A flicker of annoyance—or confusion—passed through his expression.

“I read hundreds of emails a day,” he muttered.

“Well… mine said I’d come tonight. And I did.”

It wasn’t defiance. It was fatigue. I was cold. Wet. Tired. Grieving. Homeless.

His silence stretched between us like a rope being pulled tight. I wasn’t sure if he was about to send me back out into the rain or ask me why I came in the first place.

Finally, he stepped aside.

“Come in before you freeze to death.”

I didn’t hesitate.

The warmth of the house wrapped around me instantly. Hardwood floors gleamed under my feet. The walls were painted in muted earth tones, accented with dim lights and gold fixtures. Everything smelled faintly of cedarwood and old books. The air felt… still. Like even time walked quietly here.

He closed the door behind me, sealing out the storm.

“No one else is here tonight,” he said, already walking down the hallway. “The staff leaves at five. My daughter’s asleep.”

“Okay,” I said softly, trailing behind him.

I studied the house as we moved. The halls were wide, ceilings high, and every piece of furniture looked antique and untouched. Art lined the walls, all black and white—portraits, landscapes, strange abstract pieces. Nothing about the house felt warm, despite the heat. It felt like a museum. A memory. A trap.

Damon said nothing more until we reached a grand staircase made of dark wood.

“You’ll stay upstairs,” he said. “End of the right wing. The room is already prepared.”

“Thank you,” I whispered.

“There are rules,” he added, turning to face me.

His gray eyes locked onto mine. They were sharp. Flat. Dangerous.

“You do your job. You don’t wander. You don’t ask personal questions. And you don’t go near the east wing. Ever. Understand?”

My stomach dropped.

“Yes,” I replied, the word coming out as barely a breath.

“You’ll meet my daughter in the morning. You’ll keep her safe. Happy. Away from cameras. She doesn’t go to school. She doesn’t talk to strangers. And you—”

He stepped closer.

“—don’t become anything more than an employee.”

The space between us disappeared. I could smell his cologne—woodsy, clean, expensive. The heat of his body sent a shiver down my spine. Not from attraction.

From danger.

“I won’t,” I whispered.

He stared at me a moment longer. Like he was measuring my soul.

Then finally, he nodded.

“Good. Welcome to the mansion, Miss Carter.”

And with that, he turned and walked away, his footsteps fading down the corridor until I couldn’t hear them anymore.

I stood frozen in the entryway.

Soaked.

Shivering.

And already tangled in something I didn’t fully understand.

But one thing was certain:

Damon Blackwood wasn’t just a billionaire.

He was a man with secrets.

And I’d just stepped into the center of them.