I catch a ride back to the apartment with one of Margot's friends—some woman I half-recognize from her work. Older. Kind eyes. She keeps glancing at me in the rearview mirror like she wants to say something but doesn't. She makes small talk. About the weather. About the wedding. About how beautiful Margot looked. I give one-word answers. Yeah. Sure. Mm-hmm.
When I finally get home, I lock the door behind me—deadbolt and chain, muscle memory—and lean against it.
The apartment is quiet. So quiet I can hear the refrigerator humming. The clock ticking. My own breathing.
Empty.
In three days, I'll pack up my life and move it to the Graves estate.
In three days, everything changes.
I pull out my phone and stare at the screen. The light is too bright in the dark apartment. It makes my eyes water.
No messages.
I don't know what I was expecting. Margot's already with Richard. Already starting her new life. Already leaving me behind.
I head to my room, stumbling slightly, the champagne making my steps unsteady, peel off the suit, hanging it carefully on the back of my chair because Margot paid too much for it to crumple on the floor, and collapse onto my bed. The mattress dips. The springs creak. Familiar sounds that won't be familiar much longer.
Don't get too comfortable,Zero said.Things change fast in this family.
I close my eyes. Press my face into my pillow. Breathe in the scent of home—laundry detergent and old books and safety.
I'm not comfortable.
I don't think I'll ever be comfortable again.
Chapter 3
The Uber driver doesn't say anything when he pulls up to the gates.
Just whistles low under his breath. A long, appreciative sound that makes my stomach churn.
I don't blame him. The Graves estate is... a lot. Too much. Stone pillars. Taller than our old apartment building, topped with iron lanterns that probably cost more than a car. Wrought iron. Gates so ornate they look like they belong in a museum, all scrollwork and sharp edges. A driveway that curves through manicured lawns like something out of a movie. Perfectly trimmed hedges. Flower beds that look painted on. Not a single blade of grass out of place.
"Nice place," he says. His voice has that careful neutrality people use when they're looking at something they'll never afford.
"Yeah." The word comes out flat. Empty.
I tip him extra—guilt, maybe, or just the need to feel like I'm still the same person I was yesterday—my fingers fumbling with the bills, pressing two twenties into his hand when the ride only cost fifteen, and watch him drive away. The car disappears down the long driveway, red taillights getting smaller and smaller until they're swallowed by the tree-lined curve.
Then it's just me. Two duffel bags. Both worn, one with a broken zipper I've been meaning to fix for months. A backpack. And a house that looks like it could swallow me whole.
I take a breath. The air smells like cut grass and money. Clean in a way that feels artificial.
You can do this.
I can't do this.
I walk up the front steps anyway. Each one is wide, made of smooth stone that's probably been there for a hundred years. My sneakers look wrong against it—too scuffed, too cheap, too me.
Atlas answers before I can knock. The door swings open just as I'm reaching for the bell, like he was watching from a window. Waiting.
He's different than he was at the wedding. Still imposing—six-three at least, broad-shouldered in a way that makes doorways look small—but softer somehow. The suit's gone, replaced by dark jeans and a fitted gray t-shirt that does nothing to hide the muscle underneath. The fabric clings to his chest, his shoulders, showing off a body that's clearly maintained through more than just genetics. His hair is still that striking mix of dark brown and premature silver at the temples, slightly mussed like he's been running his hands through it. Pieces stick up at odd angles. It makes him look almost human. Almost approachable.
But it's his eyes that catch me. Sharp gray. Like polished steel. Like storm clouds. The kind that see too much.
He looks at me like he's been expecting me. Like he's already catalogued my two cheap duffel bags and my uncomfortable posture and filed them away for future reference. Which, I guess, he has.
