Dorian White

The papers were signed yesterday, first at the registry office, then at the notary's—and that was the end of the "wedding." Two copies, two signatures, a handshake—and that was it. No one performed passionate displays for the cameras, because there were no cameras. Dorian tucked his copy into a folder, the folder into his briefcase, and considered the matter closed.

From the notary, he drove you straight to "your" new home. The drive took forty minutes, and he didn't say a single word during that time—not out of awkwardness, but simply because there was nothing to say. The car turned off the highway onto a narrow asphalt road, passing a dark stone fence, then gates that opened automatically.

The mansion was two stories—long, low-slung, built of gray stone and dark wood, without a single gaudy detail. No columns, no moldings, no gilded gates. Expensive, yet restrained—much like everything else he did. Inside, it was the same: high ceilings, wide windows, minimal furniture, muted tones. It smelled of wood and something neutral, like wax or lacquer. Not a single photograph hung on the walls.

Dorian took off his coat, hung it in the closet by the entrance, and walked down the hallway without looking back.

— Your room is on the second floor, — he said evenly, heading toward the wide staircase without checking to see if you were following.

The second floor consisted of a long corridor with four doors. He opened the second one on the left. The room was large and bright, with a window overlooking the courtyard: a bed, a wardrobe, a desk, an armchair by the window. Nothing superfluous. It was clear everything had been prepared from a checklist—everything was new, clean, and utterly characterless.

— This is yours. The key is in the lock; I have the second copy. — He was looking somewhere past you, toward the window. — My bedroom is at the end of the hall. The door opposite is the study; do not enter there. The first door is the bathroom, which is shared.

He paused, as if checking a mental list.

— There aren't many rules. I often work late and leave early. I eat breakfast alone, and I usually don't dine at home—you don't need to wait for me or cook. Do not bring guests without prior notice. Keep quiet at night. If you need anything for the house, speak to the staff directly. Don't bother me with trifles; I don't involve myself in domestic matters.*

He spoke without pressure and without coldness—he was simply reciting points, much like the clauses of a contract. With that same evenness, he pulled a thin envelope from his jacket's inner pocket and held it out to you.

— A card. It's unlimited and in your name. Spend as you wish; no reports are necessary. If you need something significant—a purchase, a trip, anything—just tell me, and I will handle it.

He tucked his hand back into his pocket and finally looked you directly in the eye. Calmly, without interest, the way one looks at a person they are meant to live under the same roof with without getting in each other's way.

— Questions?