Chapter Eight – The return
1680 Words
The estate woke before dawn.
The Mercer house was already humming with frantic polish: vacuum cords snaking across marble floors, silver trays buffed until they gleamed, vases of white lilies ordered in military rows. Even the chandelier bulbs had been wiped, their glassy eyes staring down at her like an army of judges.
Cassian Mercer was coming home.
The morning after smelled of coffee grounds and lemon polish. Elara stood in the Mercer kitchen, tying her apron tighter than usual, trying to scrub away the echo of last night’s laughter from her chest. Her hands moved automatically,stacking saucers, rinsing glasses yet her mind kept drifting to Laura’s smirk, her reckless question, “Don’t you ever get tired of being good?”.
The clink of porcelain snapped her back. She glanced up to see Mrs. Mercer, immaculate in silk the color of frost, watching her from the threshold.
“Elara,” she said, voice cool as glass. “In my study. Now.”
The tray in Elara’s hands trembled. Had she forgotten something yesterday? Broken something? She swallowed, nodding, and followed.
The Mercer study always felt like a museum,walls lined with leather-spined books no one touched, a grand desk polished enough to see her own reflection in. Mrs. Mercer didn’t sit; she stood behind the desk, arms folded.
“There’s a charity gala on Friday,” she said. “The guest list is…delicate. I need all household staff presentable. You, in particular, will accompany the catering team. You’ll wear black. Minimal makeup. Understand?”
Elara blinked. A gala? She’d heard whispers about them,cars arriving like jewels in the night, music spilling across the lawn, laughter sharp as glass. But she’d never been summoned for one before.
“Yes, ma’am,” she managed.
Mrs. Mercer’s gaze sharpened. “I expect nothing less than perfection. No mistakes.”
Dismissed, Elara hurried out, pulse fluttering. A gala meant hours on her feet, a hundred chances to mess up but also a glimpse into the Mercer world she usually scrubbed from the outside.
And then, as if conjured by her thoughts, Liam appeared at the end of the hallway. Shirt half-buttoned, hair hanging loose and a bag of chips in one hand. His grin was instant.
“Morning, Cinderella. Heard you got the golden ticket.”
Elara froze. “What?”
“The gala. You’re on the roster.” He took a lazy step closer, crunching on a chip. “Try not to spill soup on a senator. Or worse, on me.”
Her cheeks heated. “I won’t even be near you.”
“Shame.” His eyes flicked over her, quick, unreadable. “Maybe I’ll request you as my personal server.”
Elara’s jaw clenched. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“Wouldn’t I?” He winked, sauntering past, leaving the faint scent of cedar and salt behind.
Her stomach twisted not just with annoyance, but with something she refused to name.
The name itself carried a kind of weight in the air, heavier than flour sacks, sharper than Costa’s criticisms. Liam might be the storm everyone noticed, but Cassian was the golden heir, the one who left for law school in Italy with pressed suits and quiet smiles. He was the son people whispered about with pride, not exhaustion.
“Elara, hurry,” Mrs. Kirkland snapped, thrusting a basket of folded napkins into her arms. “Dining room. Corners sharp, everything aligned. He notices.”
Elara swallowed a retort and nodded. Her arms ached as she set napkins at each setting, folding them into precise triangles. He notices. The words rattled around her head. She’d never met Cassian, not really. Just a glimpse in a photograph on Mrs. Mercer’s desk: broad shoulders, neat hair, a jawline too serious for his age.
By noon, the estate buzzed like a hive. The driveway gleamed with freshly hosed asphalt. A luxury car rolled in, black paint glinting like ink under the sun.
Elara froze in the hallway, napkin still clutched in her fist.
The front doors opened, and Cassian Mercer stepped inside.
He was taller than the picture. His suit fit with quiet perfection, charcoal fabric brushing his shoulders like it had been cut for no one else. His hair was darker than Liam’s,neater, combed back, not a strand out of place. He carried himself with an ease that wasn’t arrogance but certainty, like the house itself bent slightly to welcome him back.
“Cassian,” Mrs. Mercer breathed, sweeping forward. Her heels clicked against marble as she kissed both his cheeks. “My darling boy. Finally.”
Mr. Mercer clapped him on the back, booming. Liam leaned against the banister, grinning crookedly.
“Look who decided to return to us mere mortals,” he said.
Cassian’s smile was faint, polite. “Hello, Liam.”
And then his gaze shifted, scanning the room, sharp and unhurried until it landed on her.
Elara’s breath caught.
For one beat too long, his eyes stayed there: cool, assessing, unreadable. Not flirtatious like Liam’s, not dismissive like Mrs. Mercer’s. Just seeing.
Heat prickled her neck. She dropped her gaze, clutching the napkin tighter.
“Staff has improved,” Cassian remarked to his mother, voice mild.
“Of course,” Mrs. Mercer said smoothly, already tugging him toward the sitting room. “You must be exhausted from your flight. Lunch is waiting.”
The spell broke. Elara slipped back into the shadows, pulse hammering.
Cassian followed his parents into the sitting room, Liam trailing behind like a shadow with mischief in its pocket. Elara, balancing a tray of glasses, slipped along the wall and into the dining room where everything gleamed unnaturally bright.
She set the glasses down just as Liam flopped into a chair with zero grace, kicking one polished shoe onto the table leg. Cassian didn’t even glance at him before sliding into the seat across, posture perfect, suit unwrinkled.
“Still allergic to chairs, I see,” Cassian said mildly, picking up his water glass.
Liam grinned. “And you’re still allergic to fun.”
Mrs. Mercer shot Liam a sharp look. “Feet down.”
Liam obeyed, but only barely, smirk never fading. “How was Italy, big brother? Learn how to say ‘pretentious’ in four languages?”
“Five,” Cassian corrected, sipping his water. “But I can say ‘lazy’ in six.”
Mr. Mercer barked a laugh, clapping a hand on Cassian’s shoulder. “Sharp as ever. That’s my boy.”
Liam clutched his chest in mock injury and whispered to Cassian.“So cruel. You leave me in this hell hole for years and come back just to wound me.”
Cassian’s lips quirked,just a flicker, but enough to make Liam scowl. “You’ve managed to survive.”
“Barely. Thanks to Elara.” Liam’s eyes flicked suddenly toward her as she set down another tray, and her hands jerked, almost spilling a fork. “She’s practically my emotional support maid.”
Elara’s face burned. She wanted to snap, to vanish, to do anything but stand frozen under his smirk and Cassian’s steady gaze.
But before she could say a word, Mrs. Kirkland’s voice cracked across the room like a whip.
“James!”
Elara jumped.
An older housekeeper stood in the doorway, arms folded, brows sharp. “Kitchen. Now. Agnes needs a second pair of hands on dishes.”
Relief and dread tangled in Elara’s chest. She bobbed her head quickly, ducking away from Liam’s grin and Cassian’s unreadable eyes.
The door swung shut behind her, the laughter of the Mercer family muffled by thick walls.
And then it was only clattering plates, hot steam, and Agnes’s weary sighs waiting in the kitchen.
The kitchen was already a storm when Elara slipped in, the clang of cutlery rising above the hiss of water. Agnes stood at the sink, sleeves rolled, gray hair escaping her bun in wiry strands. Steam curled around her like a halo gone crooked.
“Finally,” Agnes muttered, shoving a stack of plates toward Elara. “Thought they’d keep you polishing silver till Christmas.”
Elara pulled on gloves, sliding into the rhythm of warm water and soap. “They were…talking.”
“When are they not?” Agnes snorted, wrist-deep in suds. She scrubbed a stubborn stain from a platter, shaking her head. “Mark my words, this house runs on chatter more than gas or water. And now that the golden boy’s back, we’ll hear nothing but his name for weeks.”
Elara bit her lip, rinsing a glass until it squeaked. “He seems…different.”
Agnes arched a brow. “Cassian? Different how?”
“Just…quiet. Sharp.” Elara hesitated. “Not like Liam.”
Agnes barked a laugh. “Few people are like Liam, thank God. Cassian’s the serious one. Always was. I heard he walked around in pressed shirts at sixteen like he was already a senator. If you ask me, that one was born with a law book in his crib.”
Elara smiled faintly. “And Liam?”
Agnes blew out a long sigh, stacking clean plates. “Liam was born with matches in his hands and a grin on his face. Nearly burned down the east wing when he was twelve, don’t ask. Point is, they’re opposites. Always have been. But don’t let either fool you.”
“Fool me?”
“Mm.” Agnes dunked another plate, water sloshing. “Cassian looks polished, but he sees everything. Too much, if you ask me. And Liam,well, he pretends not to care, but you’d be surprised what hides under all that smirk,I'm an observer and that's what I've observed throughout my time here.”
Elara said nothing, her hands busy in the water. The clink of dishes filled the pause, steady, familiar.
After a moment, Agnes nudged her shoulder lightly. “Don’t look so spooked, girl. They’ll eat, they
’ll bicker, and they’ll forget we exist. That’s our blessing and our curse, isn’t it?”
Elara forced a smile, stacking another glass. “Yeah. Guess it is.”
- Writer
