Under His Roof

CHAPTER II

The four hour drive in my convertible felt like a slow march toward an execution.

By the time I turned down the narrow residential street in Cedar Ridge, dusk had settled over a neighborhood that felt entirely foreign to me.

There were no wrought iron security gates here. No pristine security guards at a front kiosk.

Just modest, two story houses sitting close together, their lawns dotted with lawnmowers, children's bikes, and porch lights flickering to life in the cool evening air.

I pulled up in front of a blue house with white trim and a slightly warped wooden porch.

It wasn't falling apart, but to me, it looked tiny.

The space between the houses was barely wide enough for a narrow alley, a stark contrast to the five acres of private woods surrounding my parents' home.

I cut the engine.

The sudden quiet hit me like a physical blow.

For the past four hours, the engine had been a buffer between me and the reality of my life.

Now, sitting in the leather seat of a car that probably didn't even belong to me anymore, the silence forced everything back into focus.

My cards were dead. My home was gone. My parents were hiding out with high powered lawyers in the city.

And I was sitting in a driveway in a town I hadn't visited since I was ten years old.

I stepped out onto the cracked concrete driveway, smoothing the creases in my trousers.

Taking a deep breath, I walked around to the trunk, popped it open, and looked down at my three oversized designer suitcases.

They held whatever clothes I had managed to throw together in thirty minutes while federal agents paced downstairs.

I grabbed the handle of the largest bag, tugging hard.

It barely budged.

I tried again, using both hands, but the weight of my entire life packed into heavy leather made it nearly impossible to lift over the lip of the trunk.

I let go, wiping a stray strand of hair from my face, and stared at the front door of the house.

Normally, someone would come out to grab the luggage.

A driver, a housekeeper, anyone.

I stood there for a minute, waiting, but the heavy oak door remained shut.

Gritting my teeth, I grabbed the heavy leather strap of my overnight bag, hauled one suitcase out onto the pavement with a loud thud, and turned toward the porch.

Before my foot touched the first wooden step, the front door swung open.

I froze.

He was taller than I remembered, his frame broader, leaning against the doorframe with a pair of faded work boots on his feet and a dark T shirt stretched across his shoulders.

His dark hair was slightly messier than it used to be, curling at the ends, but those sharp, skeptical eyes were instantly recognizable.

He held an oil stained rag in one hand, looking down at me on the driveway as if I were a package delivered to the wrong address.

There was an agonizing pause.

The porch light threw harsh shadows across his jawline, highlighting the immediate shift from mild curiosity to pure irritation.

"You?" Zeke said, his voice lower and raspier than I recalled.

My jaw tightened.

My pride, already bruised from the last six hours, bristled instantly.

"Trust me, I'm not thrilled either."

Zeke didn't move an inch to make room for me.

He just leaned heavily against the frame, crossing his arms over his chest, his dark gaze traveling from my polished designer boots to the massive pile of expensive luggage sitting on his driveway.

His expression didn't contain an ounce of sympathy.

It was pure, unadulterated coldness.

"Zeke! Who's at the door? Oh, Daphne!"

Mrs. Bennett appeared behind him, shoving his shoulder lightly to push him out of the way.

Her warm, tired face lit up with genuine concern as she stepped past him onto the porch.

She looked older than she had in the photos my mother kept, with silver threads running through her brown hair, but her smile was immediate.

"Look at you," she murmured, wrapping her arms around me before I could even prepare myself.

She smelled like cinnamon and lemon soap, a contrast to the expensive perfumes I was used to.

"Your mother called us. We're so sorry, sweetheart. Just come inside. You must be exhausted."

"Thank you, Mrs. Bennett," I said, trying to keep my voice steady as she pulled me into the front hallway.

The house was chaotic in a way I had never experienced.

Shoes were piled on a wooden rack near the entrance.

The hallway smelled of garlic and roasting chicken.

A television hummed in a nearby room, and the walls were covered in mismatched picture frames showing Zeke and his younger brother growing up.

It felt crowded, lived in, and suffocatingly small.

"Zeke, go grab her bags from the car," Mr. Bennett called out from the kitchen, wiping his hands with a dishtowel as he walked out to greet me.

He gave me a brief, kind nod.

"Good to see you, Daphne. Sorry it's under these circumstances."

I glanced back toward the open doorway.

Zeke hadn't moved.

He was still standing on the porch, looking at the trunk of my convertible with a flat, unimpressed look.

"She has two hands," Zeke said plainly, not even bothering to lower his voice. "She got them to the car, didn't she?"

"Zeke!" his mother snapped, her voice sharp with embarrassment. "Where are your manners? Go help her."

"It's fine," I interjected quickly, my face burning.

I wasn't going to stand here and let him treat me like a burden on minute one.

"I can handle my own things."

I turned on my heel and walked back out to the driveway.

I grabbed the handles of two heavy suitcases, pulling with all my strength.

My fingers dug into the leather, the weight straining my wrists as I dragged them up the wooden steps of the porch.

Zeke didn't offer to grab a handle.

He simply stepped aside to let me struggle past him through the narrow front door, his dark eyes tracking every awkward, clumsy movement I made.

"Guest room is upstairs, first door on the left," he said quietly as I hauled the second bag into the entryway, my lungs burning slightly from the effort.

"Try not to break the stairs with those."

I glared at him, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a response, and began the painful process of dragging my bags up the narrow staircase.

The guest room was small.

A twin mattress sat against the far wall, covered in a floral quilt that had clearly seen better days.

There was a simple wooden dresser, a single window facing the backyard, and a small closet that looked like it could barely hold three of my coats.

I dropped my bags on the floor, sitting down on the edge of the bed.

The mattress was firm, completely different from the custom feather bed I had slept on my entire life.

I buried my face in my hands, taking a long, shaking breath.

I wanted to cry, but the thought of Zeke hearing me through these thin walls kept my eyes dry.

A knock at the open door made me jump.

Zeke was standing in the threshold, holding a small plastic basket filled with clean towels.

He looked around the room, taking in the way my high end suitcases took up almost all the available floor space.

"This is it?" I asked before I could stop myself, looking around the tiny bedroom. "Where am I supposed to put the rest of my clothes?"

Zeke let out a dry, humorless breath.

He walked in and tossed the towels onto the dresser.

"You're lucky to have a room at all, Daphne. My brother had to move his stuff into my room so you could have this one. So forgive me if we didn't build a walk in closet for your designer haul."

I bit my lip, feeling the sting of his words, but my frustration won out.

"I didn't ask for any of this, Zeke."

"Neither did we," he replied coolly.

Dinner was an ordeal of its own.

Mrs. Bennett had prepared a large casserole, placing it in the center of a small wooden dining table that barely fit the five of us.

The conversation was polite, with his parents asking quiet questions about my mother and father, trying to navigate the mess without prying too much.

Zeke sat across from me, eating in absolute silence, his eyes fixed on his plate.

When Mrs. Bennett served the food, I looked down at the heavy pasta dish.

My stomach turned.

Between the anxiety knotting my chest and the heavy cream sauce, I couldn't bring myself to lift the fork.

"Not up to your standards?" Zeke asked quietly from across the table, taking a drink of water.

His parents were busy talking in the kitchen, giving us a brief moment of quiet hostility.

"I'm just not hungry," I said, keeping my voice low. "I usually have something lighter at night."

"Right," Zeke said, setting his glass down with a soft clink. "I forget. You're used to salad bowls that cost thirty bucks."

"Can you stop?" I hissed, leaning slightly across the table so his parents wouldn't hear. "You don't know anything about me."

"I know enough," he said, staring right into my eyes.

"I know you're sitting here turning your nose up at a meal my mother spent an hour cooking after working an eight hour shift. You're still acting like you're above everyone in this room."

I stared at him, hurt and furious, but I couldn't find the words to defend myself without sounding exactly like the spoiled girl he thought I was.

I pulled my phone out from my pocket, opening a delivery app out of pure instinct to order something else, anything else.

But as soon as the screen loaded, a big red banner popped up across the top:

Payment Method Declined.

My throat closed up.

The reality hit me all over again, sharp and ruthless.

I couldn't order food.

I couldn't leave.

I couldn't do anything.

Zeke saw the screen.

He saw the red text before I quickly locked the phone and slid it face down onto the wood.

A flicker of something passed over his face, not pity, but a sudden, quiet realization that the safety net was truly gone.

He didn't say another word about the dinner.

After we finished, I volunteered to clear the table just to get away from his heavy gaze.

In the kitchen, I stood in front of the sink, staring at the dish soap and the sponge.

At home, everything went straight into a commercial dishwasher or was handled by the house staff.

I turned on the faucet, adjusting the handle, but the water suddenly blasted out at full pressure, spraying across the front of my blouse.

I gasped and pulled back, trying to turn the rusty knob, but it stuck.

Water was splashing everywhere, pouring over the edges of the counter.

Panic surged through me as I fumbled with the metal handle, my hands slick and useless.

A hand reached over my shoulder.

Zeke pulled the handle back with a firm, practiced twist, shutting the spray off instantly.

He didn't yell.

He didn't make a snide comment.

He reached past me, grabbed a dry dish towel from the counter, and handed it to me without looking at my face.

I took the towel, my heart hammering against my ribs, staring at the wet stain ruining my shirt.

"Thanks," I muttered under my breath, genuine relief softening my voice for a fraction of a second.

Zeke picked up a wet plate, dried it with a second towel, and set it in the wooden rack.

He leaned closer for just a moment, his voice low enough so only I could hear.

"Don't get used to it."

He walked out of the kitchen, leaving me standing alone by the damp sink.

Later that night, the house finally grew quiet.

The unfamiliar sounds of the neighborhood kept me awake: a dog barking three houses down, the hum of a distant highway, the creak of old floorboards as the house settled.

I lay in the small bed, staring up at the unfamiliar ceiling, feeling completely small and discarded.

Thirst eventually drove me out of bed.

I crept out of the room, keeping my bare feet silent on the hallway runner, making my way toward the staircase to get a glass of water from the kitchen.

As I passed the cracked doorway of the downstairs den, a soft light spilled out onto the floor.

I stopped when I heard voices.

"He's an old friend, Zeke," Mr. Bennett's voice was tired, low, and defensive. "Arthur helped me get the loan for the shop fifteen years ago. I owe him."

"That was fifteen years ago, Dad," Zeke's voice replied.

It was cold, hard, and clipped.

"Look at her. She spent her whole life looking down on people like us. She doesn't belong here."

I froze in the shadowy hallway, my hand gripping the cold wooden banister.

My chest squeezed so tight I could barely draw a breath.

"Give her a chance," Mrs. Bennett pleaded softly. "She just lost everything overnight, Zeke. Have some grace."

"Grace?"

Zeke let out a bitter, short laugh that cut straight through the dark hall.

"She doesn't even know what that means. She doesn't belong in this house, Dad. And I'm not going to pretend I forgot what she did."