I don’t know what’s worse—that someone felt bad enough to leave it, or that they didn’t feel bad enough to stay.
Christian
Around five years ago
My mother’s grip on my hand tightens as we approach the massive double doors.
She doesn’t need to say she’s afraid—I can feel it in the way her pulse hammers against mine, in the way she hesitates just short of knocking.
I don’t blame her.
This is her brother. The man who has spent years pretending she didn’t exist. The man she swore she’d never turn to. And yet, here we are, standing on the doorstep of the most well-known—and most feared—family in town.
It’s our last option. But a necessary one, I convince myself. After our house burned down and we lost everything, there really is no other rational thing to do.
For what feels like forever, we just stand there, her hand hovering near the door, but never quite making contact.
“Should I do it?” I finally ask, staring at her.
She exhales slowly, her fingers withdrawing, and nods.
I don’t hesitate. With a short, stiff tap against the wood, I knock.
The door swings open almost immediately, and a maid stands before us, her expression blank, her posture rigid. She must be used to turning people like us away.
“Mr. Steele isn’t expecting guests,” she says, not unkindly, but with the kind of detachment that makes it clear we’re nothing more than an inconvenience.
For a moment, neither of us speaks.
Then my mother does something I don’t expect. She lifts her chin, steadies her voice, and says, “Tell him Elena Ryder is here to see him.”
The maid blinks. Just once. But that’s all it takes.
A flicker of recognition passes over her face, and then, without another word, she disappears into the house.
My mother lets go of my hand. I don’t think she even realizes she does it.
Her fingers are trembling, and I take them in mine again.
She looks down at me, startled, as if she’d forgotten I was here at all. I squeeze her hand lightly, and something shifts in her expression—something softer, something grateful.
Footsteps.
Heavy, slow.
Gabriel Steele steps into view, and suddenly, I understand why my mother is afraid. This man is enormously built with a powerful, terrifying presence that practically takes up the entire doorway. His grey eyes cut straight through my mother before landing on me.
I don’t flinch.
“Lena,” he says finally.
His voice is slow when he says it, indifferent, then his gaze flickers back to me, assessing.
I stare back in the same way.
“Come in,” he says, stepping aside.
I glance at my mother, waiting for her signal, but she’s already moving. So, I follow.
