The uncle

chapter 3

Chapter 3

The house was too quiet.

Betty stood at the top of the staircase, gripping the railing like it might tell her where to go. Everything about the mansion felt too polished, too still. Even the air had that cold, expensive scent — lemon polish and distance.

Downstairs, in the sitting room, a woman in dark jeans and a loose blouse moved methodically, dusting shelves. She looked up at Betty’s arrival, offering a polite nod and a soft, “Good morning, ma’am.”

Betty frowned. “Please don’t call me that. I’m not a ma’am. I’m not even a—” She stopped. What was she now? A guest? A relative? A charity case?

The woman didn’t press. She just gave her a gentle smile and went back to her work.

On the floor, kneeling by the coffee table with a cloth in hand, was a girl about her age. She had oversized headphones on, her head bobbing slightly as she wiped the glass. Her T-shirt read: NOT TODAY, SATAN, and her braids were pulled into a loose bun.

Before Betty could figure out what to say, Laura’s voice cut across the silence.

“There you are,” she said, striding in like she’d been looking for Betty for hours. She handed her a sleek black credit card. “Use this. You’ll need decent clothes for school.”

Betty blinked. “Okay…”

“Marlon’s driving. Be ready in ten.”

And with that, Laura was gone again, heels clicking off down the hallway.

The second the coast was clear, the girl on the floor pulled off her headphones with a dramatic sigh and stood.

“So... you’re the new blood.”

Betty raised an eyebrow. “Depends who’s asking.”

“Tasha,” she said, wiping her hands on her jeans. “That’s my mom — Charity.”

Charity gave a small wave with her cloth, her eyes twinkling with warmth and quiet amusement.

“I help her out sometimes,” Tasha went on. “Technically I’m not staff, but don’t expect me to bring you juice or anything.”

Betty crossed her arms. “Noted. I prefer water anyway.”

Tasha smirked. “Good. Juice is reserved for people I like.”

There was a beat, then Betty added, “You live here?”

“Servants’ quarters. Fancy name for a small apartment in the back with no heating and suspicious plumbing.”

“That sounds… character-building.”

“Mmhm,” Tasha said, clearly amused. " I guess they are preparing you for Saint Agnes."

“Yep!” Betty muttered.

"The school is alot!." Tasha laughed. " But you look tough enough."

They both laughed, and for the first time since she’d arrived, Betty felt a little less out of place.

“Anyway. Good luck with the shopping.”

Betty hesitated, then asked, “You go to Saint Agnes too?”

“Yep,” Tasha said, leaning against the edge of the couch. “Scholarship student. I’m one of their shining diversity stars.”

Betty blinked. “Seriously?”

“Dead serious. I’ve got the grades. They’ve got the guilt money.” She winked. “So yeah, you and I? We’ll be seeing a lot of each other.”

Betty couldn’t help the surprised smile that tugged at her lips. “That’s... actually kind of nice to know.”

“Don’t get all sentimental,” Tasha teased. “You might ruin my tough image.”

“I’ll keep your secret.”

“Good,” Tasha said, mock-stern. Then she nodded at the door. “Go on. Marlon doesn’t wait long. And trust me — you don’t want to be late for anything in this house.”

Betty turned to leave, then paused. “Hey, Tasha?”

“Yeah?”

“I think I’m glad we met.”

Tasha grinned. “Me too. But if you ever tell anyone I said that, I’ll deny it.”

They exchanged a look — not quite friends yet, but something was unfolding. A quiet thread of understanding between two girls who didn’t quite belong, in different ways, under the same intimidating roof.

She climbed into the SUV and immediately froze. Chris was already inside, stretched out in the back seat like he owned the world.

He wore a black polo shirt that fit a little too well, rolled up at the sleeves just enough to show lean muscle and golden brown skin. His jeans were clean but casual, dark enough to be expensive. There was something maddeningly effortless about the way he sat — like he knew exactly how good he looked and didn’t need to try.

“Hey,” he said, glancing up from his phone. “Hope you don’t mind the company.”

Betty’s eyes narrowed as she slid in beside him. “This is your idea of company?”

He smirked. “Marlon needed someone to make sure you didn’t buy the whole mall.”

She was about to say something snarky, but then his scent hit her. Clean, warm, faintly woodsy — like cedar mixed with the smallest hint of citrus. It was subtle but addictive, like whatever cologne he wore had been made specifically for him.

Betty shifted, annoyed at how aware she was of him — the way his voice dipped a little when he joked, the lazy confidence in his posture, the sharp line of his jaw. Ugh. Why did he have to be attractive on top of everything else?

She folded her arms. “I wasn’t planning on buying the whole mall.”

“Good,” he said, eyes dancing with amusement. “Then I guess I don’t have to supervise you too closely.”

Marlon got in and started the engine, thankfully cutting the tension. But even as they pulled away, Betty couldn’t stop stealing glances. Chris wasn’t just attractive. He was… dangerous. The kind of guy your instincts told you to stay away from — but your curiosity leaned toward anyway.

She turned to the window, determined to focus on the passing streets instead of the boy beside her who smelled like trouble — and something she wasn’t sure she could resist.

Betty stepped out of the fitting room in high-waisted jeans and a cropped black hoodie, her braids pulled over one shoulder. She felt his eyes before she even looked up.

Chris was sprawled across the boutique’s velvet couch like he owned it.

He looked her over, slowly — not in a gross way, but like he was memorizing her.

“That one’s dangerous,” he said, his voice low and a little amused. “You walk into class wearing that and half the school will stop breathing. I cant wait to witness it.”

Betty raised an eyebrow. “Good. Let them.”

Chris chuckled, eyes glinting. “Confident. I like that.”

She turned back to the mirror, tugging the hoodie down just a little, pretending she wasn’t aware of how his gaze lingered on her waist. Her skin prickled, like his attention left fingerprints.

“You’re quiet for someone who insisted on tagging along,” she said, not turning.

“I’m not quiet,” he replied easily. “I’m watching. There’s a difference.”

Betty met his eyes in the mirror — and something electric passed between them. She looked away first.

“You didn’t tell me you go to Saint Agnes.”

“You didn’t ask,” he said with a lazy smile.

“You could’ve said something.”

He stood slowly, sauntering toward the rack beside her, close enough that she caught the scent of his cologne again. He didn’t touch her — didn’t have to. The space between them hummed.

“I figured I’d let you find out on your own,” he said, lightly flicking through a row of jackets. “You seem like someone who likes surprises.”

Betty swallowed. “Only the good kind.”

Chris leaned in just slightly, lowering his voice. “Don’t worry. I’m one of those.”

She didn’t respond — not with words. But her eyes met his again, and this time she held his gaze longer.

The rest of the hour passed in a blur of laughter and flirtation. At one point, she came out in a flannel over biker shorts and boots.

He just stared.

“What now?” she asked.

Chris blinked. “Nothing. Just… yeah. That look’s a problem.”

“For who?”

He tilted his head, smiling. “Me. Mostly.”

Her breath caught — just for a second. But she smirked and walked back in without another word.

Betty stepped out of the fitting room in a deep burgundy dress — silky, short, and snug in all the places that made her second-guess it. She tugged the hem nervously, wishing she hadn't picked this one.

Chris was still lounging, scrolling on his phone, but the second he looked up, his entire expression shifted. He stood. Slowly.

"That," he said, walking toward her, "is… definitely not school-approved."

She rolled her eyes. “It's not for school.”

He stopped in front of her, closer this time — too close — and his eyes dropped to the side of the dress.

“You didn’t zip it up properly.”

Betty froze. “I couldn’t reach.”

Chris raised an eyebrow, almost like he was asking for permission — and when she didn’t move, he stepped behind her.

She heard the faint rasp of the zipper as he slid it up, slow and careful. His knuckles brushed the bare skin of her back and she held her breath. He didn’t say anything, just smoothed the fabric with both hands once he was done — fingers trailing just long enough to make her entire body tense.

“You okay?” he asked, voice low near her ear.

“Fine,” she said, though it came out breathy.

He stepped back, and she turned to face him. His eyes moved down her body again — this time openly, with a smirk he didn’t bother hiding.

“That dress,” he said, “should come with a warning.”

She tilted her head, defiant. “Too much for you?”

He chuckled. “Not even close. But definitely too much for Texas.”

Betty crossed her arms, trying to stay grounded, but her heartbeat was all over the place. “You done ogling?”

“Not even close,” he said again, grinning.

She turned and walked back into the change room, not saying a word — but she didn’t stop him when he followed.

He didn’t come in, exactly. Just leaned a shoulder against the door frame, arms crossed, watching her in the mirror as she started to unzip the dress.

“Turn around,” he said suddenly.

“What?”

“I’ll help. Again.”

She hesitated, but the way he said it — not a question, more like a quiet command — made her turn slowly, facing the mirror.

He stepped in behind her and reached up, fingers brushing her spine as he pulled the zipper down. She felt the warmth of his hand through the thin fabric, the slow burn of his attention.

Chris didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.

When the dress hung loose around her shoulders, his fingers lingered just a second longer — then he stepped back, giving her space.

"Try the next one," he said, voice even, but his eyes darker now.

Betty closed the curtain, heart pounding. She didn’t speak for a moment — couldn’t.

This wasn’t what she expected from a shopping trip. And definitely not from someone she barely knew.