Sold To The Monster: My Silent Nightmare

Kole.

She formed the name in her mind, a shield against the darkness.

Come back.

Eva Bowen ran her fingers along the edge of the Egyptian cotton sheet. She didn't just touch it; she inspected it with the sensitivity of a bomb disposal technician.

One wrinkle.

It was barely visible, a hairline fracture in the pristine white landscape of the master bed, but it was there.

She snapped her fingers, the sound sharp in the silent room. She pointed at the corner.

The new maid, a girl named Clara whose hands hadn't stopped shaking since orientation, looked at the bed and then back at Eva.

"It looks fine," Clara whispered, her voice cracking. "Please. My back is killing me. If we redo it again, we'll be late for the west wing."

Eva didn't blink. She shook her head once, a precise, mechanical movement. She raised a hand and pointed a slender finger toward the ceiling corner.

The red light of the camera blinked back at them. A silent, unblinking eye.

Clara followed the gesture. Her face paled, draining of what little color the Crawford estate hadn't already sucked out of her.

"I... I didn't see it," Clara stammered. She grabbed the corner of the sheet, her knuckles white.

Eva walked to the floor-to-ceiling window while the girl scrambled to fix the mistake. She adjusted the heavy velvet curtain, ensuring the gap was exactly two inches wide.

Through the thick, bulletproof glass, the iron gates of the Crawford Estate loomed in the distance. They were black teeth biting into the grey sky.

Five years.

Her hand drifted to her pocket, fingers tracing the outline of the old, dented pocket watch hidden deep inside her apron. The metal was warm against her hip.

One more day.

The contract review was tomorrow.

The vibration of heavy footsteps in the hallway reached her before the sound did. It traveled through the floorboards, up through the soles of her cheap service shoes, and settled as a cold knot in her stomach.

Eva stiffened. Her spine locked into a straight line. It was a physiological response she couldn't control, conditioned over eighteen hundred days of terror.

Clara was still fussing with the pillow, muttering under her breath about "psychotic standards."

Eva spun around. She brought a finger to her lips, her eyes widening, hardening into steel. Shut up.

The double doors flew open. They didn't just open; they slammed against the stoppers with a violence that made the crystal chandelier tremble.

Alek Crawford walked in.

He brought the winter air with him, clinging to his wool coat, mixed with the acrid scent of expensive cigars and old whiskey. He was a large man, broad-shouldered and imposing, taking up too much oxygen in the room.

Clara jumped. Her elbow knocked into the silver water bucket on the nightstand.

It happened in slow motion. The bucket tipped. The water sloshed out in a clear, devastating arc.

It landed on the cuff of Alek's bespoke charcoal trousers.

The room