The snowstorm began the same hour Cassandra Beaumont signed her life away.
Wrapped in a crimson coat that screamed rebellion, she stood at the marble steps of the Ashford estate, trying not to punch the man she was about to marry. Julian Ashford, heir to the Ashford fortune and owner of the smuggest smirk on the Eastern Seaboard, didn't bother hiding his amusement.
"This is ridiculous," Cassandra muttered under her breath, eyeing the towering mansion. "You don't even like me."
"I don't even know you," Julian replied smoothly. "Which is frankly an advantage in this situation."
The situation, as it stood, was this: Cassandra, daughter of tech mogul Margaret Beaumont, and Julian, the reluctant golden boy of Ashford Industries, were about to enter a very public, very inconvenient marriage. The merger of their parents' companies demanded unity. Love was optional.
Or so they thought.
What neither of them knew was that the winter storm wasn't the only thing brewing. Someone didn't want this alliance to happen. And that someone was already inside the house.
"I'm not sleeping in the same room," she warned as they stepped inside.
Julian raised an eyebrow. "Of course not. That would imply we're getting along."
The lights flickered once. Twice. Then cut out completely.
Outside, the storm howled like a warning.
Inside, Cassandra and Julian were now trapped. Alone. In a house filled with secrets—and maybe something much darker.
"Perfect," Cassandra snapped as darkness swallowed the grand entryway. "Nothing says 'happy engagement' like total blackout."
Julian sighed. "Give it five minutes. This place has a generator. Or three."
"I'd believe you if I didn't already think this house wanted to kill me."
"That's just the ambiance."
Cassandra blindly reached for the stair rail and nearly grabbed Julian's hand instead. She recoiled like she'd touched fire. He didn't comment, but she swore she saw the corner of his mouth twitch.
A beam of yellow light danced across the walls—Julian had found a flashlight.
"Follow me," he said. "Try not to trip. The staircase has a personality. It likes to test the weak."
"Sounds like you."
They made it up to the second floor, footsteps echoing through the old house. Julian led her to the guest wing—her wing—and pushed open a creaky door.
It was surprisingly warm inside. Fire already lit. Bed made. A tray of tea sat untouched on the table.
"I didn't ask for tea," Cassandra said.
"No one said you did."
Julian tilted his head, then looked around, his brow furrowing.
"Was anyone supposed to be here before us?" she asked.
He shook his head. "Just the caretaker and Elise, the housekeeper. But I don't think they'd—" He stopped.
"What?"
"The fireplace. The logs are fresh. That fire was lit maybe an hour ago."
"Okay…?"
"I haven't called ahead. Neither did my father. So who prepped this room?"
The air between them shifted, cold despite the fire.
Then, from the hallway—a soft click. Like a door closing.
They both turned.
"Probably the wind," Julian said, though he didn't sound convinced.
"Of course," Cassandra replied, deadpan.
"It's always the wind. Or the creepy mansion. Or the killer hiding in the east wing."
"Don't be ridiculous," he said, stepping into the hall.
"And you're going toward the sound? Are you the first to die in the horror movie or just too rich to care?"
He looked over his shoulder. "If I scream, feel free to inherit the family fortune. You're technically almost my wife."
She scowled. "Not if you die before we sign the prenup."
He paused, deadpan. "Morbid. I like it."
He disappeared into the shadows. Cassandra, despite every logical bone in her body, followed.