The uncle

chapter 2

Chapter Two

Betty woke with a jolt, breath caught in her throat. The room was dimly lit by a soft bedside lamp, but nothing in it felt familiar. The silk sheets, the soft mattress, the walls too clean — too cold. This wasn’t home. Home was gone. Her father was gone.

She sat up slowly, the ache in her chest sharper than before.

The door creaked open without a knock.

A tall figure stood in the doorway, holding a tray.

“Finally awake,” he said dryly.

She narrowed her eyes. He was young, looked about her age but dressed like a middle aged man. Too clean-cut, too confident. Designer shirt rolled up at the sleeves, a watch that looked like it cost more than her father’s old car. His hair was neat, but not too neat. Like he cared, but pretended not to.

“I brought food,” he added, setting the tray down without looking at her.

“I didn’t ask for any,” she muttered.

“And I didn’t ask to be interrupted from my study break, but here we are.” He turned to face her then, eyes sharp, amused. “You’re the long-lost daughter, right?”

She clenched her fists under the covers. “Who are you?”

“Chris. Laura’s brother-in-law. That makes me your… uncle, technically.” He smirked, clearly enjoying how awkward that sounded.

Betty stared at him, her face blank. “You don’t look old enough to be anyone’s uncle.”

“And you don’t look like you belong here.” The words slipped out too easily, too fast. He didn’t mean it to sound so cruel — maybe — but the silence that followed made the insult land hard.

Betty stood up, suddenly aware of how oversized the borrowed t-shirt felt on her. “Don’t worry. I won’t ruin your rich-boy aesthetic.”

Chris raised an eyebrow, then his gaze dropped for a moment — too quickly — to her legs before he looked away.

“Eat,” he said, his voice low now, less arrogant. “You look like you’re about to faint again.”

She wanted to slap him. Or kiss him. She wasn’t sure which made her angrier.

“I’m not hungry.”

“Suit yourself.” He walked toward the door, then paused, as if he had more to say. But instead he just glanced at her one last time and said, “Good night, Betty,” like her name was something foreign in his mouth.

When he left, she stared at the closed door.

“I hate him,” she whispered.

But her heart was pounding too fast for that to be the whole truth.

The silence after he left was deafening.

Betty didn’t touch the food. She sat there, staring at the closed door, trying to calm her nerves. Everything about this place felt wrong. The silence. The money. The way everyone walked like they owned the world. And Chris — smug, polished, and far too attractive for his own good — had only made her feel more out of place.

A soft knock on the door startled her. This time, someone actually waited for her answer.

“Yes?” she said, trying to steady her voice.

It was Marlon, the man who had greeted them at the door earlier. “Mrs. Laura and Mr. Bennett would like to speak with you in the study.”

Mr. Bennett, she thought bitterly. So that’s the man she left us for.

She followed Marlon down a long hallway lined with paintings that probably cost more than her father’s yearly income. The house had the elegance of a palace, but none of its warmth. It felt staged, like a life someone built to erase everything messy and real.

The study door was already open.

Her mother sat on a white armchair, back straight, face unreadable. Across from her was a man — tall, broad-shouldered, in a navy blue suit. Salt-and-pepper hair, clean-shaven face. He looked like a politician, or a CEO.

He barely glanced at her.

“This is Betty,” Laura said, as if introducing a stranger.

“I can see that,” the man replied, his voice clipped and formal. “I’m Bennett Lockhart.”

Betty looked at him, waiting for some sign of acknowledgment. A smile. A hello. Anything.

But he just leaned back in his chair.

“You will stay here until you turn eighteen,” Laura continued. “I expect you to follow house rules and keep a low profile.”

Betty opened her mouth to speak, but Laura cut her off. “We are not running a shelter.”

Bennett finally spoke again, still not looking directly at her. “If you need anything, speak to Marlon. We’ve arranged for you to start school next week. Uniforms will be delivered tomorrow.”

“Great,” Betty said, her tone flat. “I’ll be the charity case in plaid.”

Bennett’s lips tightened, but he didn’t reply. Laura stood, her posture rigid.

“Make no mistake, Betty,” she said coldly. “You’re not here because we want you. You’re here because the law said we had no choice.”

Betty felt the words hit her like slaps. She should’ve been used to this — the rejection, the indifference — but it still cut deep.

She swallowed hard. “I won’t stay a minute longer than I have to.”

“Good,” Bennett muttered, finally meeting her eyes. “We agree on something.”

As Betty turned to leave, she noticed Chris leaning in the hallway, arms crossed, having heard everything. That damned smirk was gone now, replaced by something unreadable.

Their eyes met for a brief second.

Neither of them looked away.

She didn’t say a word as she brushed past him, her shoulders stiff, her jaw clenched tight. Chris straightened but didn’t follow immediately. Maybe he knew better. Or maybe he just didn’t care.

Betty stormed down the hallway, only slowing when she reached the staircase. Her legs felt shaky, and her throat burned with unshed tears. She wouldn’t cry here. Not in this house. Not in front of them.

She gripped the polished wooden railing like it was the only solid thing in her life and forced herself to breathe. In. Out. Slow. Calm.

But her heart refused to listen.

"Betty."

She turned slowly. Chris was standing a few steps behind, hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans, his brow furrowed. No smirk now. No smug posture. Just... him. Quiet. Observing.

"What?" she snapped, harsher than she meant to. "Come to enjoy the show?"

He tilted his head slightly. "No. I came to check if you were okay."

She laughed bitterly. "Well, I’m not. Shocking, right?"

Chris nodded once, as if he expected that. Then, instead of walking away, he came down a step, then another, until he was next to her. His voice was low.

"He’s like that with everyone. It’s not personal."

"It feels personal," Betty muttered, arms folded tightly across her chest. "My mother practically disowned me in there."

Chris looked at her, really looked, and for a second his face softened. “Yeah. She’s good at that.”

Betty blinked. “You don’t like her either?”

He shrugged. “I don’t like a lot of things. But I don’t talk about them.”

There was something in the way he said it — too calm, too measured — that told her he’d mastered the art of burying things. Pretending.

She studied him for a second. “Do you live here?”

Chris hesitated. “ I do.”

Then Betty sighed, running a hand over her face. “This place sucks.”

Chris chuckled softly. “Yeah. It does.”

Betty looked at him again, and for the first time, something shifted between them — not warmth, not yet, but a truce. A flicker of understanding in a place that offered her none.

He reached out and gently tugged the sleeve of her oversized hoodie. “Come on. I’ll show you the backyard. It’s the only part of this place that doesn’t feel fake.”

She stared at him for a moment, then nodded.

Maybe she couldn’t change her circumstances, but she wouldn’t let them break her either. Not now. Not ever.

And maybe—just maybe—Chris Lockhart wasn’t as unbearable as he seemed.