Chapter 2 - THE HOUSE OF VOSS
-2-
The black SUV glided through the wrought-iron security gates of the Voss compound like a shadow slipping through a crypt. Located on a heavily wooded bluff overlooking the icy expanse of the Detroit River, the estate was surrounded by a ten-foot brick perimeter wall topped with razor wire and motion-tracking thermal cameras. Even through the tinted windows of the vehicle, the sheer scale of the property was staggering—a sprawling, limestone-and-glass fortress that looked more like a European embassy than a private residence.
My heart hammered a frantic, erratic rhythm against my ribs as the SUV crunched to a halt on the heated cobblestone driveway.
"Step out, please, Miss Callaway," the guard in the front passenger seat said, his tone entirely polite, which only made it more menacing.
When I opened the door, the freezing winter air hit me like a slap, but it was nothing compared to the shock of stepping out onto the heated stone. The guards escorted me up a grand, sweeping staircase flanked by towering marble columns and massive bronze lanterns. Heavy oak double doors swung open automatically before we even reached them, revealing a cavernous, cathedral-like foyer dominated by a crystal chandelier that must have cost more than the entire block of apartments where I rented my drafty studio.
Standing in the center of the foyer was an older woman with iron-gray hair pulled back into a severe, immaculate bun, wearing a dark navy dress and a tailored blazer. Her posture was so rigid she looked like she had swallowed a steel rod, and her eyes swept over my dirt-stained diner uniform and my cheap cotton jacket with an expression of cold, clinical appraisal.
"Mrs. Gable," the guard leading me said, nodding respectfully. "Mr. Voss wants her settled in the east wing suite. He’s with Dr. Aris checking on Miss Belle."
Mrs. Gable didn't address the guard. She fixed her pale, piercing blue eyes entirely on me. "A waitress from the west side," she said, her voice dry as parchment. "Mr. Voss turned his entire motorcade around for a waitress."
"I found his daughter dying on a garage floor," I shot back, a sudden surge of defensive adrenaline overriding my terror. I was exhausted, freezing, and terrified, but I wasn't going to stand in a marble palace and let some frozen-faced housekeeper treat me like a stray dog. "If I hadn't stopped, she wouldn't be breathing right now. So you can spare me the attitude, Mrs. Gable."
A flicker of genuine surprise crossed the housekeeper’s face—a micro-expression that suggested nobody in that house had spoken to her with that kind of spine in decades. Instead of snapping back, a thin, tight smile touched the corners of her mouth.
"Fierce," Mrs. Gable noted quietly. "Mr. Voss always did appreciate a stray with teeth. Come along. I’ll have a maid bring you dry clothes and hot tea before Mr. Voss summons you to his study."
"Summons me?" I balked, planting my boots firmly on the polished marble. "I’m not staying here. I need to go home. My phone is probably ringing off the hook with my landlord threatening to evict me—"
"Your landlord is currently receiving a very large check from the Voss legal department that will cover your rent for the next five years," Mrs. Gable interrupted smoothly, turning on her heel and gesturing for me to follow her down a hallway lined with priceless oil paintings. "And your car—or rather, the rusted-out Ford Focus that barely passes state inspection—is being towed to our private garage for a complete mechanical overhaul. As for your job at the diner, your manager has been politely informed that you have resigned."
I stopped dead in my tracks. The sheer audacity of it made my head spin. "Resigned? Without my permission? You can't just—"
"In this house, Miss Callaway, Mr. Voss can do precisely what he wishes," Mrs. Gable said over her shoulder, her tone dropping into a chilling, absolute gravity. "You entered his orbit tonight by an act of extraordinary coincidence. Or fate, if you prefer romantic delusions. But you must understand something very clearly: Harlan Voss does not have loose ends. And right now, you are the loosest, most dangerous end in the city of Detroit."
She led me up a sweeping spiral staircase that felt like it went on forever, depositing me into a guest suite so enormous it could have swallowed my entire apartment. There was a king-sized bed draped in velvet, a roaring gas fireplace, and a private bathroom lined with Carrara marble and plush white towels.
"Use the shower," Mrs. Gable instructed, placing a folded stack of soft cashmere loungewear on the edge of the bed. "A maid will bring you food in twenty minutes. When Mr. Voss’s study door opens, you will go inside. Do not lie to him. Do not steal anything. And above all else, do not mention the mother."
The door clicked shut, locking automatically behind her with a heavy, mechanical deadbolt.
I stood alone in the luxurious silence of the east wing suite, the roaring fire casting long, dancing shadows across the ceiling. My hands were still shaking. I walked over to the floor-to-ceiling window, staring out at the dark, turbulent waters of the Detroit River rushing past the distant perimeter wall.
I had fifteen dollars in my bank account. My landlord was a slumlord who terrorized his tenants. I worked fourteen-hour shifts serving burnt coffee to ungrateful truck drivers. And yet, less than two hours after missing the last bus home, I was locked inside the most feared man’s fortress in the Midwest, waiting for a summons that felt less like a thank-you note and more like a death sentence.
Ten minutes later, a soft knock rapped against the heavy double doors.
A young maid entered, keeping her eyes respectfully cast downward, carrying a silver tray laden with roasted chicken, steaming rice, and a crystal glass of water. She set it on the bedside table, curtsied slightly, and hurried out without uttering a single word.
I didn't touch the food. My stomach was tied in too many knots. Instead, I paced the room, my bare feet sinking into the thick Persian rug, running through a dozen different escape scenarios in my head. The windows were reinforced with ballistic glass—I tested it with a heavy brass lamp, and the glass didn't even scratch. The doors were deadbolted from the outside.
At precisely 2:15 AM, the digital clock on the bedside table flicked to a new minute.
A sharp, three-note chime echoed from the hallway speakers—an intercom system.
May you like
"Miss Callaway," Harlan Voss’s voice cut through the quiet suite, smooth, low, and terrifyingly close. "Study is open. Come down now."
I swallowed hard, wiped my palms against the soft cashmere trousers Mrs. Gable had left for me, and walked out into the dark, silent hallway to face the master of the house.
