Chapter2
1147 Words
I didn’t even get to choose what to pack.
One of the housemaids, eyes wet with pity, folded my favorite designer hoodie like it was a hospital gown and placed it in a bag I hadn’t seen before. I stood in the center of my marble-floored bedroom, arms limp, watching my life being stripped away with clinical precision. My mother’s closet still smelled like her perfume. My father’s cologne still lingered in the hallway. But both were now gone—forever. All I had left was the echo of their final kiss goodbye, and the glowing screen of my phone confirming they never made it to dinner.
The car was silent, gliding down a paved driveway that seemed to stretch for miles, flanked by hedges trimmed to inhuman perfection. I stared out the tinted window at the looming estate ahead—limestone walls, gargoyles crouched above arched windows, and a wrought-iron gate that looked like it belonged in a fairytale. A dark fairytale.
Everything about this place whispered money. Old money. The kind that didn’t flaunt itself in i********: reels or designer tags, but in oil paintings of dead ancestors and architecture that hadn’t changed in centuries. I hated how impressed I was. And how small I felt.
The driver didn’t speak. Just pulled up to the front of the estate and got out to open the door. I stepped out into air that smelled faintly of leather and lavender. A butler—yes, an actual butler—was already waiting on the stone steps, dressed in a perfectly pressed black suit.
“Miss Olen Zayn,” he said with a slight bow. “Welcome home.”
Home.
That word hit wrong in my chest. I wrapped my arms around myself, more out of instinct than cold. This wasn’t home. This was an obligation, wrapped in expensive marble.
Inside, it was worse.
The foyer was enormous, floored with polished black marble veined with gold. A chandelier dripped crystal from the ceiling like frozen raindrops. My sneakers squeaked against the tile, too loud, too out of place. Everything here smelled too clean—like citrus polish and power.
The butler didn’t ask if I needed anything. He just began walking, and I followed. Portraits lined the hall—men with grim expressions, women in corseted gowns with frozen smiles. Their eyes tracked me, or maybe I just imagined it.
“This wing is yours,” the butler said, stopping in front of a carved wooden door taller than any I’d ever seen. He opened it with a soft click.
The room was… massive. The bed alone looked like a throne draped in silk sheets and ivory canopies. There was a fireplace already lit, a sitting area with tufted velvet chairs, and floor-to-ceiling windows with gold-trimmed drapes. Everything was immaculate and untouched—like a hotel room no one dared to mess up.
But it didn’t feel lived in. Not even slightly. Just cold perfection. I walked toward the window, but something caught my eye across the hall. A door. Gilded and locked.
“What’s that?” I asked.
The butler didn’t flinch. “Private wing.”
“For who?”
His smile was tight. “For the master of the house.”
Of course.
I turned back to my room and closed the door behind me, the click echoing like a sentence passed. I dropped onto the velvet bed, not sure whether to cry or scream. My phone vibrated against my thigh.
A new message: Condolences from the board.
Another: We’re praying for your strength, Olen. They were good people.
I shoved the phone under a pillow.
They were good people.
They were. And now they were dead because I couldn’t convince Mom to let me come to dinner. And the worst part? A part of me was glad I wasn’t there. How sick was that?
A soft knock. I didn’t answer.
The door opened anyway.
He entered like he owned the world—and maybe he did. Grandfather.
Tall. Trim. Dressed in a dark burgundy suit that fit like it was tailored from his bones. His white hair was perfectly slicked back, his watch glinting under the chandelier light. His eyes were pale and sharp—like frost.
“I trust the room is to your liking,” he said.
I nodded, keeping my eyes low. He walked around the room slowly, touching the furniture, observing the curtains.
“I had them redecorate for you. I wanted it to feel… fitting.”
“Thank you,” I murmured.
He turned to me, smiling like a politician. “Walk with me.”
I didn’t want to. But I followed.
He led me through the east wing—silent corridors, closed doors, vases that looked ancient and breakable. His steps were slow and deliberate, his hand occasionally brushing mine when he gestured.
“This house has been in our family for over a century,” he said. “Your father grew up here. He played in these halls. And now… you’ve come home.”
I said nothing.
“You’ll need discipline,” he added. “Your parents were soft on you.”
“They loved me,” I said, more bravely than I felt.
He stopped walking.
“Yes,” he said coldly. “And look where that got them.”
I swallowed hard.
We reached the dining room—a long table of carved mahogany with place settings for twenty. Only two chairs were set: one at the head and one directly beside it.
Dinner was silent except for the clink of silver on porcelain. Everything on the table looked expensive—steak sliced into neat strips, roasted vegetables arranged like art. I picked at my food.
“So,” he said finally, “boys?”
I blinked. “What?”
“You’re fourteen. Hormones, rebellion. Your father once kissed the neighbor’s daughter in that very greenhouse. Almost burned it down trying to hide it.”
I stared at my plate.
“What did he teach you before he died?”
That hurt. I looked up slowly. “To be kind. And to be brave.”
Grandfather’s lip curled in a near-smile. “Foolish man.”
I didn’t reply.
After dinner, he walked me back to my room. The fire had dimmed. My suitcase had been unpacked without my noticing—my few clothes now hung in a closet lined with silk hangers.
I walked toward the bed.
“Before you rest,” he said, “there’s something you should understand.”
I froze. He walked closer. His hand reached out—not rough, but deliberate. He touched my chin lightly, tilting it up so I met his eyes.
“You’ll get used to it here,” he said softly, his voice velvet and venom.
“I’ve waited years to have you exactly where I want you.”
- Writer
