Chapter 2

Bree froze, a single tear still clinging to the corner of her eye.

I turned to our housekeeper, Harold Smither. "Harold, go up to my study and bring down the folder on my desk."

This was the first thing I did after coming back. I drafted a contract.

A few minutes later, a document over a dozen pages thick landed on the coffee table in front of Bree. The cover read, "Residential Conduct Agreement and Liability Waiver".

"Sign it, and you can move in."

I stood over her with my arms crossed.

Bree picked it up, looking dazed, and flipped to the first page. Her face fell immediately.

The terms were spelled out in black and white.

"First, the host family (the Whitmore family) provides the first-floor guest room for the resident (Bree Webb) to occupy free of charge. The resident's access is restricted to the guest room and designated common areas on the first floor. The second and third floors are strictly off-limits.

"Second, the resident has self-reported a tendency toward severe depression. The host family assumes no responsibility for psychological counseling or medical supervision.

"In the event of any self-harm, suicide attempt, or medical emergency arising from the resident's own condition during the period of residence, the host family bears no legal or financial liability.

"Third, the resident is required to follow the household schedule, is not permitted to bring outside visitors onto the property, and is not permitted to engage in any inappropriate personal contact with members of the host family.

"Any violation gives the host family the right to terminate the arrangement immediately."

"Leah, what is this? You don't trust me?" Bree bit her lip, looking as wounded as if I'd slapped her across the face.

Aunt Lorraine frowned. "Leah, isn't this a bit much? She's practically family. Making her sign something this cold is just hurtful."

"That's exactly the point, Aunt Lorraine. She isn't family. That's why we need it in writing."

I looked at her with a thin smile.

"She's the one who said she's so depressed she can barely function. If something happens to her under our roof and the press picks it up, they'll say the Whitmores drove a scholarship student to suicide. Are you going to take the fall for that?"

That shut her up. She took an awkward sip of her coffee.

I turned back to Bree, my gaze sharp.

"What's the problem? You said you couldn't survive in that dorm and that all you wanted was a safe place to stay. This waiver only covers your own actions and your own safety.

"If you won't sign it, that tells me you've got something to hide. The door's right there. Harold, show her out."

"No! I'll sign!" Bree panicked, terrified the whole thing was about to slip through her fingers.

She grabbed the pen, her fingers trembling, and signed her name on the last page. I looked at the signature and let a cold smile cross my face.

I was going to make sure every mistake from my last life never happened again.

That afternoon, Bree moved into the first-floor guest room with her beat-up suitcase.

In the evening, while she was back at school picking up the rest of her books, I called the VIP line of a private security firm. Within the hour, five technicians in uniforms showed up at the estate with their equipment.

Under my supervision, they installed military-grade microcameras and audio pickups throughout the hallways, living room, dining room, and kitchen, all the way down to the blind spots on the staircase between the first and second floors.

Every device was disguised as an outlet plate, a smoke detector, or an air conditioning vent. They were completely invisible to the naked eye.

"Ms. Whitmore, all surveillance feeds are now synced to a cloud server. The firewall is top-tier. No amount of physical tampering can erase data that's already been uploaded."