#Prologue

As Sylvester Morgan stood in the grand foyer of the more-than-he-would-earn-in-seven-lifetimes manor, eyes bugging and heart racing, all of the non-disclosure forms he had been forced to sign suddenly began to make sense.

Jackson Palmer.

He was working for Jackson-fudging-Palmer!

The artist behind the hit single, The Space Between, as well as last year's number one Christmas song, Snow-babies, seeing the man, in the flesh, had soooo not been what Sly had been expecting.

Not that he had been sure exactly what he had been expecting.

A Looney Tune with deep psychological issues, maybe, or a creepy old guy with a messed up fetish, perhaps, but not this.

Certainly not this.

Mouth dry and any words beyond a first-grade reading level having taken the first train outta here, all he could do was stand and stare. He felt torn between turning and bolting back down the seemingly endless strip of gravel that the fancy limo had driven him up, or collapsing on the floor in a trembling little mess.

He did neither; the man's eyes were anchors that had him standing his ground, ignoring his own will. Suited and booted in a Scott&Taylor three-piece, Jackson's stance radiated an aura of power that had Sly's spine straightening.

"Sylvester, I presume?" The man's voice was low and smooth, a deep hum that picked apart the stillness that clung to the air. He stood central to the wide mouths of the double staircases, an equal distance apart from them both. Sly, still stood at the front door, his bag at his feet where the driver had dumped it, gave a nod. "You understand what is expected of you, yes?"

To some extent, yes, he did. As far as basic understanding stretched, he was well aware of what he was getting himself into. Yet, beyond his frail grasp of comprehension, he had no clue.

"Yes sir," Sly responded, his voice a weak squawk that sounded a few octaves higher than his usual pitch. He gave another nod just to emphasise.

The basic nature of the month-long job had been explained thoroughly, and on multiple occasions, once he had signed the first non-disclosure. The concept itself seemed insane, and he wasn't altogether sure that it wasn't a hoax, but for as crazy as it seemed, it had been an opportunity that he just hadn't been able to let slide by.

Not when there was twenty thousand dollars riding on it.

Yet, one look at Jackson, as captivatingly handsome as he had seemed on the screen of the television, Sly couldn't shake the feeling that it was as far from a joke as they came; his expression was no-nonsense, and Sly wasn't naïve enough to remain ignorant to the fact that Jackson was sizing him up. Eventually, as though satisfied, a smile broke through the stoic mask, transforming his face into one of warmth and friendliness.

"Good." Moving with precise grace, the man's loafers clickity-clicked as he closed the distance between them, seeming to grow in size with every step. "Let me show you around and then I will go over the rules with you, as well as how I expect you to behave. I understand that my assistant has already gone over the basics with you, but these will be more in-depth. Understand this: you are free to leave at any point during this month. Night or day, if it gets too much, say the word and you will be taken home immediately. However, as agreed, terminating the contract before the end date will result in non-payment."

That much he already knew. Jackson's assistant, Corey, hadn't been able to stress that enough.

Sly had been repeating it to himself since as he had stepped out of the posh, sleek black vehicle that had been sent to fetch him. Hell, he had been repeating it since he had woken up that morning; it was too much money to allow his own cowardice to forfeit.

Even more intimidating up close than he was at a distance, the urge to step back was one that Sly barely contained. At five foot seven, he had always considered himself as average as opposed to short, but next to Jackson, whose broad frame made him feel like a damn hobbit, he found himself questioning that.

Not that he was given the time to question it for very long. Snatching up the worn duffle bag that Sly had brought with him, Jackson slung it over his shoulder and wasted little time in setting a pace, inclining a single finger in a 'come here' motion in a silent demand for him to follow.

And he did.

What else could he have done? For as much as the cowardly lion inside him wanted to call quits and run away, taking up the offer of being able to leave at any time, his beat-down Nikes followed Jackson all the same. He was currently broke and jobless, and his roommate was on the verge of kicking him out.

Twenty thousand dollars wouldn't have just been life-altering for him, it was all that was standing between him and the harsh streets. Though, if he were to flog all of his current possessions, he may have been able to afford a nice cardboard box to live in.

"May I get you a drink?" Jackson asked him as he fell into step behind him.

Afraid that he wouldn't be able to keep it down, already fighting against his nerves to keep his breakfast from being ejected, Sly politely declined. Jackson nodded and pressed on with the show-and-tell.

Bigger than any home he had ever stepped inside before, the sheer size was enough to leave him with a sense of disorientation. White porcelain floors fell on repeat, ceasing only at the kitchen, a vast space that was home to the shiniest, almost blinding black countertops that Sly had ever seen, and the walls harboured a Victorian gothic feel to them. There were two sitting rooms, both as elegant as the other, and there was a whole other checklist of rooms that he was shown that his brain just couldn't retain.

And that was only on the ground floor. When it was time to hit up the stairs, the double structure curling downwards like the deep frown of a cartoon man, the dimension of the overall design seemed to swell before his eyes. Forming a crescent moon, the landing the stairs descended upon was beautiful and sophisticated, but also a little screwy. It gave the illusion of rotating, which had Sly squeezing his eyes shut before reopening them, just to try and rid the optical effect.

"Can I ask why you agreed to this?" Jackson asked softly after leading him to the third door that broke off from the left-hand side staircase. "It said in your application that you had no prior experience or knowledge when it came to this kind of lifestyle."

"My friend was the one who told me about it." In fact, Ronan had pestered him incessantly until he had agreed to check it out. As far as Sly knew, Ronan didn't know the details of the job; the watertight contracts he had been made to sign had made it clear that he wasn't to breathe a word about the details of his time in Jackson Palmer's employment to anybody. It had been the only reason he had agreed to it. "But . . . I dunno. It pays well."

It paid very well, and for the sake of the big bucks that were up for grabs, his pride was hardly a big sacrifice.

Jackson nodded. Sly swore he saw a flash of disappointment flicker across his handsome features, but it was gone almost as quickly as it came.

"As I said, if you find that you are unable to handle it, you're free to leave at any time." And with that, Jackson pushed the door open, making the whole situation suddenly come to life.

"This is your primary bedroom during your stay," Jackson said softly, his eyes trained on his face as he weighed up Sly's reaction.

The room was a generous square with plenty of space and a large, bay window that grew out into a fitted seat, allowing for the world beyond to be observed in comfort. Yet, Sylvester stood at a crossroad of conflict as his eyes scanned the room, heart erratic and beyond taming.

It wasn't the kind of bedroom most would assign to an eighteen-year-old boy; it looked like a newborn baby's room.

Except everything was bigger. Much bigger.

In the far corner, made up of dark, heavy-duty wood that was carved to absolute perfection, a crib sat. Except it was unlike any crib that he had ever seen before. Matching in size with that of a queen-sized bed, it was immediately clear that the design had not been intended for actual infants. Nor was the changing station that scaled the same wall, pulling back a metre or so. A rocking chair resided in the opposite corner to the crib, made of the same glossy, dark wood.

Even the walls hadn't escaped unscathed: painted a gentle blue, soft, fluffy clouds decorating them, it gave the room a child-like glow.

The duffle bag that Jackson had placed on the ground held very few items. A few changes of clothes, what little money he had left to his name, and a few other bits and bobs that he didn't Vince, his roommate, not to mess with in his absence.

Sly wasn't worried. Well, he was, but not in regards to clothes fitting. The application that he had to fill out had been thorough. He had been asked to fill out his clothes size, and his shoe size, and told that his clothes would be provided. Any clothes he had brought with him were to be used on his days off.

Think of the money, Sly told himself as he glanced up at Jackson, who had been studying him intently. He swallowed hard beneath the gaze, but the other man only smiled, as though amused.

"Are you ready to become my baby boy, Sylvester?"

For one whole month, he had agreed to become Jackson Palmer's baby. He still wasn't 100% sure what that entitled, exactly, what all the details were, he just knew that it was going to be nothing like he had ever expected.

With his heart plummeting and a cold slither of fear twisting in his gut, Sly nodded. "Yes."