LIVING WITH MR.VALE

CHAPTER 2: MR.VALE'S RULES

My mother cried at the airport.

My mom grasped my face with both her hands, just like she did when I was a kid, as if she was trying to remember every detail. She reminded me to take care of myself, to eat well, and to call her every Sunday without fail. She also warned me not to give Damien a hard time. My dad, on the other hand, gave me a quick but firm hug and told me how proud he was of me. He said that the eight months would fly by before I knew it.

I kept smiling and nodding, and I waved until they were completely out of sight, disappearing behind the security barrier.

Then I stood in the arrivals hall with my two suitcases and the very specific, sinking awareness that I had just watched my only buffer walk out of the country.

I walked out of the building and saw Damien waiting for me by the curb, his silver car parked and engine off. He hadn't bothered to come inside, instead opting to send me a brief text that simply read: I'm at the kerb, silver car. That was it, no warm greeting or enthusiastic welcome. As I made my way towards him, wheeling my bags behind me, I noticed he was leaning against the passenger side of the car, his arms crossed and his eyes fixed on his watch, seemingly more interested in the time than in me.

He had on a dark shirt, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, and he looked just like he always did. That was the issue, though - he seemed totally in control, like he had everything together, and he just didn't care about how others saw him or felt around him. He was calm, collected, and completely detached from the commotion he caused wherever he went.

As soon as he caught sight of me, he stood up straight and grabbed the bigger suitcase, not needing to be told what to do.

"You're four minutes late," he said.

"My mother cried. I couldn't rush her."

He just ignored that and started loading the luggage. He tossed the big suitcase into the trunk like it was nothing, and I grabbed the smaller one before he could get to it. We both got in the car then. He pulled away from the curb before I even had a chance to get my seatbelt buckled properly.

The car ride to his place was about forty minutes long, and for most of that time, we just sat there without saying a word.

As I gazed out the window, I couldn't help but notice him sitting beside me. The way he casually held the steering wheel with one hand, his fingers relaxed, yet firmly in control. There was a faint scent of something luxurious and clean wafting from him, a smell I'd never quite been able to put my finger on. It was as if the quiet intimacy of the enclosed space had stripped away all the usual barriers - no parents to impress, no dinner table to navigate, no polite conversations to engage in. All that was left was the silence, a palpable presence that hung between us like a challenge, or a promise.

He looked at me and said, "So, how's school going?" It was already twenty minutes into our conversation.

I've got a couple of big tests coming up next month, so I'm starting to feel a bit of pressure.

"And the internship application?"

"Still waiting to hear back."

He gave a brief nod, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. "Just let me know if there's anything you need for it," he said.

"I'll be fine.

Another silence

He spoke the words "I know you will" in a calm and straightforward tone, but there was something unusual about the way he said it, a quiet certainty that made the phrase sink in deeper than it normally would have, leaving a lasting impression.

I turned back to the window.

The house didn't quite live up to my expectations, despite my having a pretty clear picture of it in my head for years. It was a good size, not too big, and it was set back from the road with a low stone wall and some old trees on either side. Inside, it was all sleek and modern, with clean lines, dark wood, and high ceilings - the kind of place that just feels fancy, you know? But what really struck me was how empty it was. There were no photos on the walls, no messy clutter, no signs of a life outside of work. It was like the house was just a place to sleep and work, not really a home.

To be honest, it really did look like him, that's the best way to put it.

As I followed him up to the second floor, he led me to my room, which was a peaceful and spacious area with an en-suite bathroom. The room had already been prepared for my arrival, with fresh towels neatly placed on the bed and a spare blanket folded at the foot, ready for use. The windows, which were nicely positioned, offered a lovely view of the back garden, creating a sense of serenity and calmness.

"He stood in the doorway and said, 'You're free to arrange things as you like.' He then pointed out, 'There's some extra space in the wardrobe over on the left.'"

"Thank you. It's a nice room."

He gave a slight nod and said, "Once you've finished unpacking, come downstairs. There are a few things we need to discuss."

I turned to look at him. " Things?"

He just said "house rules" and walked away, leaving me with no chance to respond.

I took my time unpacking, it was a good twenty minutes of sorting things out. After that, I stood in front of the mirror for a bit, just reminding myself to keep it together and be a grown-up. Finally, I headed downstairs.

He stood in the kitchen, resting against the counter as he held a glass of water, waiting for me to take a seat at the island before he began to speak.

"I'm usually busy with work from early morning to late at night, so you'll have the house pretty much to yourself most of the time. I don't want you to feel like you need to change your schedule to fit mine, that's not what I'm looking for. What I do want, though, is for you to be considerate of the weekdays - I think it's reasonable to expect you to be home at a decent hour, you know, not too late. I'm not trying to be your parent or anything, I just think midnight on a Tuesday is a bit excessive, if you know what I mean."

I looked at him. " I'm twenty, Damien."

"I know how old you are."

So I've been in charge of my own timetable for a pretty long time now, and it's been working out okay, I guess.

"We're in my parents' house, but this is my space," he said calmly, which actually made it feel more intense. "I have one rule: no strangers are allowed in the house without me knowing about it first. It's not that I need to approve of them, it's just that I need to be aware of who's coming and going, for my own sake."

"You make it sound like I'm planning to host strangers."

"Listen, I'm letting you know what I expect, so we can avoid any issues down the line," he said, putting the glass down on the table. "And let me make one thing clear: I don't want you taking any unnecessary risks. If you're heading somewhere you've never been before, or if something just doesn't feel right, you pick up the phone and call me, got it?"

I stared at him.

I took a deep breath, pausing for what felt like an eternity, and deliberately chose to wait a few seconds before speaking - I actually counted to three in my head.

I made it to two.

"Is there a curfew as well?" I asked. " Should I be home before the streetlights come on?"

His expression didn't change. " Aurora."

"I'm asking seriously. Should I raise my hand when I want to leave the table?"

"I'm not treating you like a child."

"You just gave me a bedtime and a list of rules about who I'm allowed to have over. What would you call it?"

A faint tension crept into his jaw, a subtle tightening that was the nearest thing to annoyance I'd ever witnessed from him. "I'd just say it's about living with someone for the first time and getting everything out in the open, you know, so there aren't any misunderstandings down the line," he said, his voice low and even, but with a hint of something more beneath the surface.

"You never give me any recognition, it feels like," I said, my voice filled with a mix of frustration and independence. "I've been taking care of myself for a long time now, and I don't need someone to spell out every little thing for me, or show me how to act - I'm perfectly capable of figuring that out on my own."

"I'm not drawing you a map. I'm telling you how this house works."

"Your house," I said. " You've mentioned."

He looked at me for a long moment. The kitchen was very quiet. Outside, somewhere distant, a car passed on the road.

"He spoke up at last, his tone softer now, the sharpness gone, replaced by a calmness that was harder to disagree with. 'Your parents asked me to keep an eye on you,' he said, his voice low and even. 'I'm taking that responsibility seriously, and that's why we're having this talk.'"

I leaned back, feeling the frustration still simmering inside me, but it was a pointless emotion now. He had said what he had to say, and the truth was, he wasn't wrong. He was doing exactly what he was supposed to do, and the fact that it came across as condescending was my issue, not his. The problem was mine alone, and it stemmed from a very specific and uncomfortable fact: I didn't want Damien Vale to see me as someone he needed to take care of.

"Fine," I said. " I'll follow your rules."

He gave a nod, looking pleased with himself, and then reached for his glass once more.

I can see now that I made a mistake by not leaving things alone. If only I had gone back upstairs and given it some space, maybe I could have started those eight months more sensibly - you know, with some distance, quiet, and careful control over all the emotions I wasn't supposed to feel. But no, I had to go and stir things up, and now I'm left to deal with the consequences. It's funny how hindsight works, isn't it? You only realize what you should have done after it's too late.

I told him, "You don't have to talk to me like I'm still a kid."

He went still.

It was just a fleeting moment, a brief hesitation in his movements, but I managed to catch it.

As he turned to face me again, I noticed a change in his expression. It wasn't exactly cold, but more reserved, like a veil had been drawn over his emotions. Something seemed to have shifted beneath the surface, and he was carefully keeping it hidden, making sure it didn't slip out and reveal itself.

"He spoke in a hushed tone, his words barely above a whisper. 'I'm aware,' he said, 'you're not a child anymore, Aurora.' A moment of silence followed, before he added, 'And that's precisely the issue.'"

The silence that followed had a completely different weight than any of the ones before it.

He put his glass on the table and walked out of the kitchen, not saying anything else.

I stayed at the island for a long time after that, staring at the space where he had been standing.