The Unwelcome Arrival

~Cassidy~

“This place is... wow,” I muttered, letting my overnight bag slip from my shoulder and hit the polished hardwood floor with a soft thud.

I stood dead in the center of the breathtaking living room, my eyes tracking the sweeping architecture. Floor-to-ceiling windows made up the entire back wall, offering a massive, unobstructed view of the Spanish landscape. The late afternoon sun poured through the glass, casting a warm, golden glow over the plush leather furniture and the elegant, towering stone fireplace that anchored the room. It was straight out of a luxury magazine. The kind of place you only ever saw in movies about people who had too much money and zero actual problems.

It was perfect. It was beyond perfect.

But as I stepped further inside, an inexplicable itch started at the base of my neck. A cold, creeping sensation of unease gnawed at the back of my mind. The house was immaculate, almost too pristine.

“So... how did you know about this place?” I asked, turning my attention away from the sprawling view of the sun-drenched hills.

Rosalind had already claimed the massive sectional couch. She was kicked back into the cushions, crossing her legs with a relaxed sigh. She didn't even look at the view. She just picked at her thumbnail.

“Well, this is one of Sterling's properties,” she chuckled lightly.

I nodded, the words passing through my brain without processing. Sterling. Property. Right.

Then my brain hit the brakes.

I paused mid-step. My stomach dropped straight through the polished floorboards and into the earth’s core. The warm Spanish sun hitting my back suddenly felt like a spotlight.

What?

“He doesn’t know we're here,” Rosalind added cheerfully, misinterpreting my sudden, statuesque stillness. She dug into her designer purse and fished out a ring of silver keys, jingling them in the air. “I have the spare keys to the building. I mean, why ask when I can just walk in? He never uses this place anyway.” She glanced at me, a small, carefree smile playing on her lips.

I didn't smile back. My blood turned to ice water.

“This is Sterling's house?” I asked. My voice sounded hollow, slow, like I was speaking underwater.

Rosalind stopped jingling the keys. She sat up a little straighter and turned around fully, raising a brow at my tone.

“Yeah, it’s his.” Her voice dropped its cheerful pitch, turning quiet. "What is it?"

I pinched the bridge of my nose and squeezed my eyes shut. A tidal wave of pure disbelief washed over me, closely followed by a sharp, spiking heat of instant anger. The fuck? Of all the houses in all the cities in all the countries in the world.

“I can't believe you brought me to Sterling's house of all places,” I muttered, dropping my hand and glaring at her.

For God's sake. She knew. She knew exactly what her older brother was like. She knew the history, the bad blood, the constant, simmering hostility that radiated between him and me, and she still went ahead and dragged my luggage into his living room?

Rosalind’s smile vanished. She squared her shoulders, slipping into a defensive posture. “Exactly why I said he has no idea we’re here. Cass, your feud with my brother is seriously getting ridiculous.”

“Oh, really? You think this is ridiculous?” I snapped. I crossed my arms over my chest, planting my feet firm. The awe I felt for the house was gone, replaced by a suffocating urge to pack my bag and march straight back to the airport. “Have you forgotten the time we both landed in jail? The time we sat on that freezing metal bench for six hours?”

Rosalind opened her mouth, her brow furrowing, but I refused to let her speak.

“He walked into that precinct in his custom suit, signed your release papers, and bailed you out. And me? He looked at me like I was a piece of trash stuck to his expensive shoes and left me there in that cell to rot. He didn't even tell my parents to come get me. He just took you by the arm and walked out the door!”

“Cass, that was years ago, and we were trespassing—”

“Or the time we crashed his stupid corporate party!” I cut her off again, my temper flaring out of control. I took a step toward the couch, throwing my hands up. “Guess who got blamed for the broken glass and the chaos? Me! He pulled me into the hallway and called me a bad influence. He stood there, looking down his nose at me, and told me to stop dragging his perfect little sister into ‘bad things.’ He treats me like I’m the ultimate villain in your life!” I gritted my teeth, my breathing turning shallow and fast.

Just saying his name brought back the memory of his pitch-black eyes. The cold, calculating way Sterling Thorne always looked at me. Like I was a disease he was trying to cure Rosalind of.

“Cass...” Rosalind trailed off. The defensive edge in her voice cracked.

“And now you bring me to his house?” I asked, my voice shaking with genuine distress. I gestured wildly at the floor-to-ceiling windows, at the expensive leather, at the stupidly perfect fireplace. “You really think I won’t get blamed for this too? If we are caught, he won't look at you. He'll look at me. He'll say I manipulated you into breaking and entering. He will call the cops on me for trespassing, Rosalind. I am not exaggerating.”

If I had known the destination when we boarded that flight, I never would have followed her. Okay, maybe I still would have. Who would turn down a fully paid trip to Spain? But I would have demanded we book a hotel room. A cheap motel. A hostel with bunk beds. Anything but this.

Not here. Not surrounded by the things he bought.

Seeing the raw panic in my eyes, Rosalind's posture crumbled. The annoyance drained from her face, replaced by a profound, heavy guilt. She stood up, walking around the edge of the large couch, and closed the distance between us.

“I’m wrong,” she said softly, reaching out to touch my arm. “I am really, really sorry. I didn’t think. I just... I wanted us to enjoy our girls' trip, and this house is... well, it’s perfect.” She gestured around the vast space, but I refused to look at the view again. The beauty of the estate was tainted now. “I should have talked to you about it first. You’re right. It was selfish of me.”

I stared at her. She looked so small, so genuinely upset that she had ruined the start of our vacation. I let out a long, heavy sigh, feeling the fight drain out of my shoulders. I could never stay mad at her for long. That was the problem.

"What next?" I asked, dropping my arms.

Her shoulders sagged in relief. "Well, we could still stay here. He doesn’t know we're here. He is back in New York dealing with a merger. He hasn't visited Spain in two years. So...." she twisted her fingers together, giving me a pleading look. "But... we could still leave if you want. We can book a hotel right now. I'll pay for it."

I looked at her twisted fingers, then at the ridiculous, sprawling view of the sun setting over the hills.

"If he doesn't know we're here, we could stay," I muttered, rationalizing the situation in my head. I mean, the man was a workaholic. He lived for his boardroom. He wouldn't just pop up in Spain out of nowhere, would he? It made no logical sense for him to cross the Atlantic.

Rosalind’s face lit up like a Christmas tree. She grinned, bouncing back to her energetic self in a fraction of a second. The deep guilt vanished, replaced by her usual infectious enthusiasm.

“We're not gonna stay inside all day now, are we?" she asked, a familiar glint returning to her eyes.

I pursed my lips, trying to maintain a stern face, but a small smile broke through.

“Please tell me we’re going to see Barcelona,” she added, grabbing my hand and practically pulling me toward the hallway. She nodded way too fast, answering her own question.

“Of course we are,” I muttered, letting her drag me along. We grabbed the handles of our luggage and hauled them down the wide, well-lit corridor to the guest rooms.

Despite agreeing to the plan, a dark sense of foreboding settled deep in my chest. I unpacked my clothes into the mahogany dresser, trying to shake the feeling. But knowing this roof belonged to Sterling Thorne just didn't sit right with my spirit. Whenever that man was involved in my life, disaster inevitably struck. It was a universal rule.

After a quick shower to wash off the stale airplane air, we changed into comfortable walking clothes and decided to explore the neighborhood. We needed to get acquainted with the area if we were going to survive here for a whole month.

The transition from the tense atmosphere of the house to the vibrant streets of Barcelona worked wonders on my nerves. We spent a lovely evening wandering through the unfamiliar blocks. The Gothic architecture, the intricate wrought-iron balconies, and the lively chatter pouring out of corner cafes washed away the lingering dread. We didn't have a map, and we didn't care. We just followed the winding cobblestone streets, letting the city guide us.

“Tomorrow, we'll go see the sights, yeah?” Rosalind asked.

We were making our way back up the gentle incline toward the estate. The sun had fully dipped below the horizon, leaving the sky painted in deep shades of purple and navy.

I gave a small nod, my hands shoved deep into my jacket pockets.

Rosalind sighed and tipped her head back. The cool, refreshing evening breeze swept through the narrow street, washing over her face and tossing her hair. She closed her eyes, a contented smile playing on her lips.

“It’s nice to breathe fresh air outside of New York,” she sighed, her voice laced with genuine peace.

I glanced over at her and followed her lead. I raised my head, letting the cool wind hit my cheeks, and stared up at the darkening sky. She was right. The air here felt different. It didn't have the suffocating weight of the city, the exhaust fumes, the constant rush. It felt liberating. For the first time since she jingled those spare keys, I felt the tight coil of anxiety in my stomach loosen.

Maybe this was exactly what we needed. A break from reality. A break from the Thorne family drama. Just two best friends, a beautiful city, and a month of freedom.

Suddenly, Rosalind stopped walking. She opened her eyes, and she turned to look at me. The peaceful expression was gone, replaced by a wild, mischievous glint that I knew all too well. It was the same look she had right before she suggested we crash that corporate party.

“The first one back to the house gets a fully paid manicure at the fanciest salon in the city!” she declared loudly, her voice echoing slightly off the stone walls of the street.

Before my brain could even process the words or the challenge, she spun on her heel and darted off down the sidewalk.

"Hey! That's cheating!" I yelled.

A genuine, loud laugh escaped my lips. I pushed off the pavement and sprinted after her. The thrill of the chase ignited in my chest. My sneakers slapped against the cobblestones, echoing in the quiet evening air. I pumped my arms, watching her figure weave around a slow-walking couple ahead of us.

"I'm going to make you pay for the deluxe package!" I shouted, breathless, as I closed the gap between us.

She shrieked with laughter, glancing over her shoulder and picking up her pace. The girl was impossibly fast when money was on the line. The cold air burned my lungs, but I didn't care. The adrenaline and the sheer joy of the moment wiped out every lingering trace of dread. I felt light. I felt like I might actually enjoy this vacation after all.

We raced up the final hill, neck and neck, dodging a stray cat that darted across our path. We stumbled wildly into the front compound of the estate, breathless, our sides heaving, laughing so hysterically that no sound was coming out of my mouth.

We hit the heavy front door at the exact same time.

Rosalind grabbed the brass handle, shoved it downward, and pushed the heavy door open with a massive burst of energy. She stepped over the threshold into the dark foyer.

I followed right on her heels, still catching my breath, ready to claim a tie.

But Rosalind stopped.

She didn't just slow down. She stopped so abruptly, freezing in her tracks like she had hit an invisible brick wall.

My momentum carried me forward. I had no time to brake. I crashed hard directly into her back, my shoulder colliding with her spine.

"Oof—" I grunted, stumbling back half a step. "What's it?" I whispered, rubbing my shoulder.

I waited for her to turn around and complain about me stepping on her heels. I waited for her to move toward the light switch.

She didn't move. She stood paralyzed. Even in the dim light filtering in from the streetlamps outside, I could see the side of her profile. The color had drained from her face, leaving her pale, her skin almost translucent. Her chest stopped heaving. She wasn't breathing.

A fresh wave of alarm spiked in my blood. The joyful freedom from the street evaporated in a millisecond, replaced by a suffocating, freezing dread. The air inside the house felt thick. Heavy. Wrong.

She remained deathly silent.

Confused, and with my heart suddenly hammering against my ribs for a very different reason, I leaned to the side. I peeked inside the house from over her frozen shoulder, looking past the foyer and into the sprawling living room we had admired just hours ago.

My breath caught in my throat. It felt like someone had wrapped a hand around my windpipe.

The living room was dimly lit by a single floor lamp in the corner.

Standing right there, in the center of the room, was the one person who haunted my nightmares.

He wore a dark button-down shirt, the sleeves rolled up to expose his forearms. He stood with the casual, terrifying grace of a predator that had already trapped its prey. In his large hand, he held a heavy crystal glass, slowly swirling a measure of dark amber liquid. The ice clinked against the glass. The sound echoed in the dead silence of the room.

Whiskey.

He didn't look surprised to see us. He didn't look startled by the door bursting open.

His pitch-black eyes locked onto us. They were ice-cold, devoid of any warmth, any shock. His sharp jaw was set, his expression guarded, closed off, and radiating an anger so potent it made the air in the room hard to breathe.

He raised the crystal glass to his lips. He maintained unbroken, dead-eyed eye contact with me as he finished the very last drop of his drink.

He lowered his arm.

He slammed the heavy crystal glass down onto the solid wooden coffee table.

The impact cracked like a gunshot through the silent house. It hit with such sudden, terrifying force that I flinched, genuinely shocked the thick crystal didn't shatter into a million jagged pieces across the floor.

Sterling.

The devil himself had officially arrived.