Chapter two: A stranger's home
743 Words
Eris lay awake in the massive bed, staring at the ceiling. The room was too big, too extravagant. The mattress was softer than anything she’d ever slept on, the blankets like clouds wrapped around her. It didn’t feel real. It didn’t feel like home.
Nothing here did.
She rolled onto her side, glancing at the untouched suitcase beside her bed. Unpacking felt pointless. She didn’t belong here. She didn’t belong anywhere anymore.
A knock at the door made her stiffen.
“Eris?” Oliver’s voice was cautious, uncertain. He didn’t know how to talk to her. That made two of them. “Are you awake?”
She didn’t answer, hoping he’d go away.
“I, uh… I had the chef make breakfast. Thought you might be hungry.”
Her stomach betrayed her, grumbling at the thought of food, but she clenched her jaw and stayed quiet.
A long pause. Then, a sigh. “Alright. It’s there if you want it.”
Footsteps retreated down the hall, and Eris exhaled, staring at the door. She should’ve felt something—guilt, sadness, maybe even curiosity about the father she’d never known—but all she felt was hollow.
6
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The smell of fresh pancakes and eggs finally lured her downstairs. The dining room was so large it could fit the entire orphanage inside. A long table stretched across the room, but Oliver wasn’t sitting at the head. Instead, he sat at the far end, a single plate in front of him.
Eris hesitated in the doorway.
“Hey,” he greeted, voice warm but careful. “You found your way down.”
She shrugged, not meeting his eyes as she slid into a chair across from him. The butler—his name was something fancy, like Charles or Winston—set a plate in front of her, but she barely touched it.
Oliver cleared his throat. “I thought we could do something today. Maybe go to the beach? Or the arcade? I saw in your file that you like—”
“My file?” Her eyes snapped up to meet his, sharp and accusing.
Oliver hesitated. “The orphanage… they gave me some information. I just wanted to know what you liked.”
Eris pushed her plate away. “You think reading a file will tell you anything about me?”
He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I know it’s not the same as being there. But I want to be here now.”
She scoffed. “Now? Now that Mom’s dead? Now that it’s convenient for you?”
Oliver flinched, pain flickering in his eyes, but Eris didn’t care. He had the perfect life—money, fame, everything. Meanwhile, she had spent her childhood in an orphanage, waiting for a mother who never came back and a father who never even knew she existed.
She shoved her chair back and stood. “I’m not hungry.”
Oliver started to say something, but she was already gone.
7
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The rest of the day passed in a blur of silent rooms and aching loneliness. She wandered the house, exploring its endless hallways and vast, empty spaces. The staff were polite but distant, treating her like some delicate thing they weren’t sure how to handle.
Eventually, she found herself outside in the garden, the air warm with the scent of roses and freshly cut grass. She sat beneath a sprawling oak tree, knees pulled to her chest.
Footsteps crunched on the gravel behind her.
“I used to hide out here too,” Oliver’s voice said, softer now. “When I was starting out in Hollywood, before I made it big. I’d get overwhelmed with everything—the expectations, the pressure—so I’d come out here just to breathe.”
Eris didn’t look at him. “And now?”
“Now I don’t hide anymore,” he admitted, sitting a few feet away from her. “But I still come here to think.”
A long silence stretched between them. Then, quietly, Oliver said, “I wish I had known.”
Eris swallowed, fingers curling into the grass. “Would it have mattered?”
He turned to her then, eyes full of something she couldn’t quite name. “Yes.”
For the first time, doubt wavered in her anger. She didn’t know if she believed him. Not yet.
But maybe, just maybe, she wanted to.
8
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- Writer
