Why are you like this

2.

I could feel Patrick’s gaze sliding over me from time to time, even though he behaved with restraint and courtesy. His smile was light, almost imperceptible, yet there was a hidden playfulness in it, as if he had already noticed something about me that everyone else had overlooked.

During dinner, he asked me questions about my hobbies, studies, and friends, and each time his eyes lingered on me a little longer than necessary for a normal conversation. I tried to answer calmly, but inside I felt a tremor, as if I were suddenly under a microscope.

Mom, noticing our mutual attention, occasionally winked at me, as if quietly encouraging the interaction, while Phil continued eating calmly, occasionally inserting a joke to lighten the mood.

After dinner, Patrick stood and once again offered me a short tour of the house.

— If you want, I can show you some places to relax, — he said with a light smile. — There are many spots here, but some corners usually go unnoticed.

I nodded, slightly embarrassed, but I couldn’t refuse. His confident, relaxed manner inspired trust. We walked through long corridors, halls filled with expensive furniture, past libraries and small studies.

As soon as we entered the library, Patrick suddenly closed the door behind us and pressed me against the wall. His dark blue eyes flashed, and his gaze was sharp, like a blade.

— Don’t think your innocent face can fool me, — he said with cold determination. — You and your mother are penniless. Do you think I don’t know that your mother spent over a year manipulating my father to move here and become his wife?

I was stunned by the anger and contempt radiating from him. My heart raced, and inside, everything seemed to freeze. I couldn’t understand why he was so self-assured, why his words cut so deeply, like an undeniable truth.

I tried to step back, but the wall behind me wouldn’t allow it. Every word Patrick spoke seemed to leave a mark on my skin, and his voice trembled with both tension and hidden strength.

— You… — I began quietly, trying to find the right words, — you don’t understand…

But he interrupted me, leaning in slightly, and his gaze was both alluring and terrifying:

— I understand everything. And soon you’ll realize that not everything in this house is as it seems.

I pushed him away harder than I had planned, and steel rang in my voice:

— That’s not for you to decide. My mother and your father are already married.

Patrick froze for a split second, seemingly surprised by my boldness, then his lips curved into that same cold, contemptuous half-smile I had seen before.

— We’ll see, — he rasped quietly, leaning so close that I felt the warmth of his breath near my ear. — You’ll regret standing in my way.

The door behind us opened just as suddenly as it had closed. He left the library without looking back, leaving behind the scent of cologne and the muted echo of footsteps on marble. I stood for a while, leaning against the warm panel of the wall, trying to catch my breath. My heart was pounding, my palms were sweaty.

Patrick’s words echoed in my mind: “I’ll make your life unbearable.” It was strange and frightening—not only because of the threat itself, but because it meant that someone had entered the house who could, subtly and methodically, do what I feared most: disrupt the familiar rhythm of our small family and fill the space with his control.

I knew Mom mustn’t find out. She had just moved in, still fragile from happiness and hope; she needed time to settle in, not new reasons for worry. I didn’t want to be the one to shatter her illusions on the very first evening. Besides—what could she even do? Confront her husband’s son? I could see how Phil treated Patrick: a mixture of patient tolerance and quiet respect. Aggravating the situation now would have been foolish and dangerous.

I took a deep breath, ran my hand through my hair, and walked into the dining room, where conversations and laughter continued as if nothing had happened. Mom sat across from me, her face glowing, just finishing a funny story from the trip, and in her voice there was such trust, such happiness, that hurting her felt like a betrayal.

— Everything okay? — she asked as I sat down. There was no suspicion or worry in her voice—only care.

I smiled the way I had learned to smile as a child: calm, honest, but slightly elevated.

— Yes, Mom, everything’s fine. We just chatted a little with Patrick, — I answered lightly. — He turned out to be very interesting.

Mom sighed with relief and returned fully to the conversation. Phil made a joke, everyone laughed, and on the surface, everything really did seem fine. But inside me, a cold emptiness crept in: I knew I was hiding the truth.

After dinner, I pretended I wanted to go up early, saying I was tired from the journey. Mom walked me to my room, hugged me warmly as usual, and whispered almost maternally:

— Sleep well, dear. If you need anything, call.

I nodded, and once the door closed, I sat on the edge of the bed in the dark. Under the soft light of the night lamp, I formulated a plan—not because I was confident it would work, but because I needed some way to cope with my helplessness. I decided not to tell Mom. I didn’t want her nights filled with fear, didn’t want her smile to fade because of my story. Instead, I resolved to be cautious: avoid being alone with Patrick, not provoke him, keep my distance and observe. If he started doing something openly, I would immediately think of another move. But for now—quietly and discreetly.

Before going to sleep, I checked that my door was locked and placed my phone nearby, fingers ready to dial. I thought of friends at university, those I could trust, but I knew involving them would bring its own problems. For now, it remained my secret—heavy and bitter, but mine.

Lying in the dark, I listened to the muffled laughter somewhere far away in the house and realized that our new home was both inviting and confining. I felt like a small boat in a vast sea, and the waves were already beginning to toss it harder than I could have imagined. But I had no intention of telling Mom. I had to hold my ground myself—for now. I needed to go to university; there I would feel safer. And the lectures were so interesting that I would quickly distract myself with them.