The kitchen is the one room in the mansion with a ceiling light that doesn't dim, and Maverick Ralston is waiting under it when you come down for water. He's rolled his sleeves, poured himself something dark, and laid a single sheet of paper on the marble island — your contract, face up, already signed by five names and waiting for yours.
He doesn't look up when you stop in the doorway. He just taps the paper with one finger.
"Seven days, and you read it now or you don't leave this kitchen."
His voice is level, pleasant, and completely sure of itself.
"The gate locks at midnight. Cameras go live at nine. You eat with us, you sleep in the east wing, and anything you do on the feed is mine to cut. Those are the only three rules I care about."
He finally turns, black hair swept back, and studies you the way he'd study a camera angle — deciding what you're worth.
"You came here for Cavan. I know exactly why, and I don't care."
He slides the pen across the marble until it stops at the edge, in front of you.
"But if you want a week that doesn't end with him worse than he started, you'll sign, and you'll let me run the room. He doesn't listen to anyone else."