Phoebe
The car glides through iron gates that are tall enough to keep out giants. They close behind us with a heavy, final clang. A death sentence delivered in wrought iron and steel.
Isaac’s mansion is nothing like our family home. The Sterling estate is old world, all dark wood, velvet, and secrets soaked into the walls. This place is a fortress of glass and white marble. It’s brutally modern, cold, and sterile. It doesn’t feel like a home. It feels like a museum, or a mausoleum.
Isaac says nothing as he leads me through a cavernous entryway. The click of my heels on the marble floor is the only sound, each step an echo in the crushing silence. He gestures to a sweeping staircase that looks like the bleached spine of some long dead beast.
“Your suite is on the second floor. East wing,” he says, his voice flat, devoid of any emotion. He does not offer to show me the way.
“My wing,” I say, the words a soft challenge. “Am I not to be trusted in the other parts of the house?”
His eyes, dark and cold, meet mine. “These are your rooms. Do not wander. The staff will bring you anything you need.”
It is not a request. It is a command. My husband, the warden.
“Of course,” I say, my voice dripping with false sweetness. “I wouldn’t want to get lost.”
He gives a short, sharp nod and turns, disappearing into a hallway without another word. I am left standing alone in the vast, empty space, a bride abandoned at the threshold of her new life. My new prison.
I make my way up the stairs alone. The east wing is a long, silent hallway. I find the door with my name already on it. Not Phoebe Lorne. Just Phoebe. A small, telling detail. I am a resident, not family.
The suite is enormous. A bedroom, a dressing room the size of my old apartment, and a private sitting room. All of it decorated in shades of grey, cream, and silver. It is beautiful, expensive, and completely without personality. A cage, but a gilded one.
A light knock comes from the door.
“Come in.”
The door opens and a young woman steps inside. She’s maybe a few years younger than me, with Isaac’s dark hair but with a warmth in her eyes he lacks. She offers a small, hesitant smile.
“Phoebe? I’m Sofia. Isaac’s sister.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Sofia.”
“I wanted to welcome you properly,” she says, stepping further into the room. Her eyes scan the space, then me. “I know this must be… difficult.”
Difficult. That’s a polite word for it. “It is a time of adjustment for everyone,” I say, choosing my own polite words carefully.
“Yes.” She fiddles with the sleeve of her sweater. “I just wanted to say, I’m glad you’re here. Truly. This war… it’s taken too much from both our families.”
Her kindness feels genuine, but there is a steeliness in her gaze that reminds me of her brother. She is not just a sweet girl offering a welcome.
“Peace is always the goal,” I murmur.
“Yes,” she agrees, her smile tightening just a fraction. “Isaac deserves some peace. He’s been through so much since our father… well. He carries the weight of everything now. I hope you can make him happy.”
There it is. The gentle, smiling warning. Be good for him. Don’t cause trouble. She is fiercely protective, a loyal soldier in her own right.
“A husband’s happiness is a wife’s duty,” I reply, the words tasting like poison. I give her the serene, placid smile of a porcelain doll.
She seems to relax at that, convinced I am exactly what I appear to be. Harmless.
“If you need anything, please ask for me,” she says, her smile genuine now. “The staff are loyal to Isaac, but I can be a friend.”
A friend. In this house, a friend is either a weakness or a weapon. I have not yet decided which she will be.
“Thank you, Sofia. That’s very kind.”
She leaves, and the silence descends again. I am alone. Truly alone.
I do not unpack. My belongings can wait. First, I need to understand my new territory.
I start in the sitting room. I run my fingers over the silk wallpaper, the cool marble of the fireplace mantle. I walk to the large, bulletproof windows. They overlook a meticulously manicured garden. Beyond that, a high wall topped with razor wire.
From this vantage point, I can see the guards. Four of them, patrolling the perimeter. They move with military precision. Their routes are staggered, overlapping. Never a blind spot. I watch for twenty minutes, memorizing their patterns, the time it takes for one to complete a circuit.
Next, the suite itself. I move through each room, not as a bride settling in, but as a strategist mapping a battlefield. I count the doors, check the locks. I note the placement of the smoke detectors. Too high to reach without a ladder. And in the corner of each main room, a camera. Small, discreet, but unmistakable. They are watching me. Of course they are.
I feel a cold smile touch my lips. They are watching, but they are not seeing. They are looking for a prisoner, a victim. They are not looking for a threat.
I save the sitting room for last. It is the most likely place for a private conversation, the place where I might feel safe enough to lower my guard. I let my eyes drift over every surface. The heavy velvet curtains, the plush area rug, the ornate crystal lamp on a side table.
Something is wrong.
It is almost imperceptible. A tiny detail that a normal person would never notice. But my father, for all his faults, taught me to see the world as a series of details. To look for the flaw, the imperfection, the thing that is out of place.
The baseboard molding, just behind a heavy armchair. It is a perfect, seamless line of carved wood that runs the length of the wall. Except for one tiny section. The grain of the wood is off by a single millimeter. The paint is a fraction of a shade too bright.
My heart does not beat faster. My hands do not tremble. A calm, cold certainty settles over me.
I kneel, pretending to adjust the hem of my dress. I run my fingers along the baseboard, my touch light. I feel it. A faint vibration. An almost silent, high frequency hum. The telltale sign of active electronics.
I stand up, smoothing my dress, and turn away. I do not look at it again. I do not give any indication that I have found it.
They have placed a sophisticated listening device in my private sitting room. They want to hear my secrets. They want to listen to my phone calls. They expect me to cry, to complain, to plot my escape.
They think they have set a trap.
Fools. They have given me a stage.
I walk over to my handbag and take out my personal phone. Not the new, sterile one they provided me with, but my own. I know this one is also being monitored, but they expect it to be my link to my old life.
I dial the number for my cousin, Isabella. She manages the legitimate side of the Sterling businesses, the part of our world that is all spreadsheets and stock prices, not bullets and blood. She is the only one I trust.
She answers on the second ring.
“Phoebe? Are you alright?” Her voice is tight with worry.
“I’m wonderful,” I say, my voice light and airy. I walk over to the window, gazing out at my prison garden as I speak. I know they are listening. I want them to hear every word. “It’s all so beautiful, Izzy. You should see this place. It’s like something out of a magazine.”
There is a pause. Isabella is smart. She knows me. She knows my real voice from the one I use for performances.
“Oh. Well, that’s… good,” she says, her tone shifting, catching my cue. “And your… husband?”
“Isaac has been the perfect gentleman,” I say, almost laughing at the absurdity of the lie. “He’s very busy, of course. So much responsibility.”
I let out a theatrical little sigh.
“I just feel a bit at loose ends, you know? I was thinking, maybe I’ll do some redecorating. This room is all grey. I need some color. What do you think of a floral pattern for the curtains? Something in a soft blue, perhaps?”
I am performing for my unseen audience. I am painting them a picture of a shallow, spoiled girl concerned only with trivial things. Let them listen. Let them record every meaningless word about fabric swatches and flower arrangements.
“Blue would be lovely,” Isabella says, playing her part perfectly. “Listen, Phoebe, if you need anything…”
“I’m fine, really,” I cut her off gently. “Just settling in. I’ll call you next week and we can talk about the wedding gifts. So many to sort through! Talk to you soon.”
I end the call and place the phone on the table. I stand in the middle of the room, in the dead center of their surveillance, and I feel a surge of power so potent it is almost dizzying.
They think these walls are my prison. They think they hold the key.
But they have no idea. Every word I speak in this room will be a weapon. Every conversation will be a carefully crafted lie designed to make them underestimate me, to dismiss me.
I am not a prisoner in Isaac Lorne’s house.
I am the ghost in his machine.
