Chapter 4 Permission Denied

Rachel POV

I tore through the large drawer, pushing aside endless layers of clothes before rushing across the room. My college books and worn textbooks sat stacked on the desk, waiting. I shoved them into my tote, a nervous excitement buzzing under my skin.

My phone sat on the cozy, oversized bed, my father's voice crackling through the speaker.

"I hope he's treating you well," Dad said, his tone thick with worry.

"I guess," I murmured, grabbing my skirt and tugging it on. "He hasn't done anything. In fact, I haven't even seen him these past few days. He's rarely around. Unlike his son."

"Son?" came my father's confused reply.

I let out a small, nervous laugh. "Apparently, the mafia king has a little boy. He calls me 'Mama.' It's... strange."

The line went silent for a moment as I brushed my hair and sat at the vanity. My reflection looked composed-a stark lie my frantic pulse betrayed.

"I-I'm sorry, Rachel," Dad said suddenly, his voice cracking. "This is all my fault."

I sighed softly. "It's fine, Dad. I made this choice. It was either me or you getting hurt, and he wouldn't-" I stopped mid-sentence, the words catching in my throat. "He wouldn't hurt me," I finished quietly. "At least... I hope not."

"I'll fix this," Dad promised. "I'll find a way to pay him back and get you out of there. I'll be better for you and your brother, I swear."

I smiled faintly, the sound of his words too familiar. I'd heard that promise all my life-after every lost job, every bad bet, every broken temper.

"It's fine, Dad," I said softly. "We'll talk later, okay? I need to head to college."

"Oh?" he asked, pausing. "Did he agree to that?"

I froze, the lip gloss tube poised in my hand.

Did he agree to that?

My heart fluttered nervously as I remembered the rule Mr. Vance had stated so clearly: Always ask permission.

I stared at my reflection, my glossed lips trembling. I hadn't asked.

And I had no idea how to.

I stepped out of my room, tote slung over my shoulder. The two guards at their usual post by the staircase straightened, alert and unreadable.

One glanced at my clothes-the modest blouse and long skirt, my books tucked neatly in my arm. "You're dressed up, Mrs. Montrel?"

I offered an awkward smile. "Yes. I have lectures to attend."

The younger of the two frowned slightly, exchanging a look with his partner. "You'll need to request permission from the boss first," he said carefully.

I sighed, annoyed but trying to stay polite. "And where is the boss?"

The older guard straightened. "In his office. We'll escort you there."

My pulse quickened.

Of course, he was.

I'd avoided that office since the day I arrived. The dark hallway leading to it always felt colder, heavier, as if the house itself warned me away.

Still, I nodded. "Alright."

As we walked down the corridor, I felt their eyes on my back-not threatening, just watchful. Every step echoed against the marble floor.

By the time we reached the large wooden doors of his office, my palms were damp.

One of the guards gave a short nod. "He's inside. Just knock once."

Just once.

As if more might wake a sleeping beast.

I swallowed hard, faced the door, and knocked.

"Enter."

The word came low and firm through the wood, quiet but enough to make my stomach twist.

I pushed the door open slowly.

Damien sat behind a grand mahogany desk, sleeves rolled up, the faint smell of smoke and ink clinging to the air. His attention was fixed on the papers before him, his pen gliding across a document with precision.

He didn't look up. "You need something, Mrs. Montrel?"

I hesitated. "Yes... I was hoping to ask permission to attend my lectures today. I'm in my second year, and missing more classes might-"

"Denied."

The single word dropped like a hammer.

My fingers tightened on the strap of my tote. "You didn't even let me finish."

Now he looked up-slow, deliberate. His dark eyes met mine, cold and assessing. "I don't need to. You made a deal. You stay here until I decide otherwise."

I took a shaky breath, forcing my voice steady. "That deal didn't mean I had to stop living my life. You can't expect me to just-"

He stood.

The chair scraped softly as he moved from behind the desk, each step measured. The air shifted, growing colder, heavier.

"Careful, Mrs. Montrel," he murmured. "You forget whose house you're standing in."

My heart pounded, but I refused to step back. "I'm not your prisoner."

A hint of amusement flickered in his gaze. He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping. "Aren't you?"

I swallowed hard, my defiance faltering under his closeness. His presence was overwhelming-the quiet authority, the scent of his cologne, the danger lingering in the space between us.

The door clicked open before I could answer.

"Mr. Montrel," came a calm voice. "Perhaps we could discuss this rationally?"

Mr. Vance stepped in, ever composed, a silver tray in one hand as though he hadn't just walked into a storm.

Damien straightened, annoyance flashing across his face. "You have something to say, old man?"

"Yes," Vance said simply, setting the tray down. "Mrs. Montrel is studying child development and care. That's the reason her bond with Master Leo is so natural. Allowing her to continue her education would only help the boy-and help you."

Damien's jaw tightened, but he didn't respond.

Vance continued gently, "You brought her here for Leo, didn't you? To give him something real."

For a moment, silence filled the office.

Then Damien spoke, his voice lower. "Leo will be alone. He has no one to play with, old man."

The words were rougher than he intended-softer somehow.

Before I could stop myself, I blurted, "He doesn't go to school?"

The question hung in the air.

Damien's gaze snapped toward me, sharp as glass. "I decide what's best for my son," he said evenly.

I froze, realizing I'd crossed a line, but Mr. Vance's measured tone softened the moment.

"He has a private tutor, Mrs. Montrel," Vance said gently.

Damien's eyes shifted to him, cold but strained. "The authorities are breathing down my neck. I can't risk anyone connected to me being out there-not her, not Leo."

I blinked, trying to grasp his meaning. Was it fear? Or control?

Vance met his gaze, unflinching. "She's a young woman, sir. For her own well-being, she needs to go out sometimes. Don't keep her shut in, or you'll-"

"Enough," Damien cut in sharply.

The old man's mouth closed, but his eyes held a quiet sadness.

Damien turned back to his desk, his voice low. "That will be all."

Vance bowed slightly. "Yes, sir."

I lingered by the door, unsure whether to thank them or simply disappear. The tension pressed on my skin, heavy and suffocating.

Finally, I turned the handle and slipped out. The door clicked shut, sealing in the unspoken words.

But just as I started down the hallway, I caught Mr. Vance's voice, low and gentle, carrying truth like a weight.

"You're not him, son."

The words stilled me.

I froze mid-step, glancing back at the closed door. You're not him.

The sentence replayed in my mind, heavy and strange. Who was "him"? And why did it sound like it hurt to say?

I pressed a hand to my tote, the textbooks inside suddenly feeling useless. I'd come to ask about school, about the outside world-but now, even that hope felt small.

The hallway stretched before me, quiet and endless. Outside, a slice of blue sky was visible through the tall windows, bright and far away.

I hadn't stepped beyond these walls since the night I arrived. Suddenly, the idea of sunlight on my skin felt like a memory I might never reclaim.

I let out a shaky breath, swallowing the sting in my throat.

Mr. Vance's words echoed again, softer this time, like a warning I wasn't meant to hear.

You're not him, son.

Whoever "him" was, I had a feeling he was the reason this house felt haunted.

"Mama!"

Leo's small voice broke the silence. I turned as he ran toward me, stuffed bear in hand, curls bouncing.

I forced a smile and crouched to meet him, wrapping my arms around his little frame. His warmth eased something inside me, if only for a moment.

"Where were you?" he asked, looking up with wide hazel eyes.

"Just talking to your papa," I whispered.

He smiled, content, and tugged my hand. "Can we play now?"

I nodded, letting him lead me down the hall. His laughter echoed softly, but my smile didn't reach my eyes.

Because even as I walked beside him, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was living in a house full of ghosts-and that Damien Montrel was still fighting one of his own.