Emerson
The last fifty-two hours have been chaos wrapped in adrenaline, smothered in silence. Ronan was rushed to the hospital, stabilized, and after what felt like years, brought back home to recover in his own bed. His return should bring a sense of relief, of normalcy, but there’s nothing normal about this anymore.
We’ve upgraded the security system—wires run through every inch of the house now, cameras tucked into every dark corner. Despite that, it doesn’t erase the question that keeps circling: how the hell did Cupcake get inside?
Until Ronan wakes up and tells us what he knows, we’re stuck in this limbo—trapped between speculation and silence. I’ve kept myself busy, doing anything to avoid going downstairs, because I know what waits there. I know who’s down there. More than that, I know what Rowen becomes when he’s seeking answers.
He told me he was going to find the truth. His exact words. But Rowen’s version of the truth comes with bruised knuckles and bloodied mouths. It’s cold, calculated violence. The worst part? It works. That’s what scares me, because something inside my chest twists whenever I think about her down there.
She shot my brother.
Almost killed him.
But even as that memory rises, as vivid as the blood-soaked sheets we found him in, something else pushes back. Something quieter. More dangerous.
Doubt.
The flicker of confusion in her eyes. She didn’t run. The way Ronan looked at her before passing out. None of it adds up, and I hate how part of me wants to believe there’s more to this than what we’ve seen.
I drag my hand through my hair and shake my head hard, trying to clear the thoughts clawing their way in. This isn’t the time to feel sympathy or confusion. Not for her.
To make matters worse, neither of our fathers has shown up. No bedside visit. No reassurance. Just a couple of empty check-in calls from God knows where. Like Ronan being shot is just a minor inconvenience in their twisted empire. Their indifference only added fuel to the fire already burning in Rowen.
Now he’s downstairs with her. Alone.
I haven’t asked what he’s doing. I haven’t needed to. Rowen doesn’t waste time. If he thinks she’s a threat, he’ll dismantle her one piece at a time until he gets what he wants.
A deep, weighted sigh pushes from my chest as I rake both hands through my hair, gripping the strands at the roots until my scalp protests. The pressure helps focus me—barely. I paceonce, then stop cold, not able to avoid it any longer. I need to go downstairs to see what the hell is going on.
Rowen’s been down there on and off since the incident. Every time he surfaces, his jaw is tighter, his eyes darker. Once or twice, his hands have been bloodied—knuckles raw, scabbed over like a silent confession. He never says much. Just that she hasn’t talked. Still hasn’t told us who she is, what she wants, or how she got past our security. Just silence from the ghost we’ve named Cupcake.
I make my way toward the lower level. The air cools the further I descend. The weight of the house seems to settle on my shoulders with every step. By the time I reach the basement floor, the atmosphere is thick with something I can’t quite name—anger, maybe. Desperation. A strange, electric tension humming beneath my skin like a warning.
As I move through the narrow corridor, Rowen’s voice bleeds into the space ahead of me—low, harsh, and full of venom.
“Just talk,” he growls. “Give us a name. Tell us what the hell you’re doing here, and this ends. This doesn’t have to get worse.”
His words echo off the stone walls. There’s no reply. Just the heavy pause of silence that follows, as if even the air is holding its breath.
It’s darker than I remember down here. The overhead light flickers just enough to cast long, wavering shadows. Myboots scuff against the cold floor as I step closer, and my eyes finally adjust.
That’s when I see her, and despite every warning firing off in my brain, a soft gasp escapes before I can stop it.
She’s small—almost deceptively so—delicate in size but not in presence. There’s nothing breakable about the way she sits, even restrained and slumped in the cold metal chair. Her back isn’t fully straight, but there’s still a quiet strength etched into her posture, like no matter what Rowen throws at her, she refuses to fold. Blood stains her face from earlier and the corner of her mouth, a sharp contrast to the purpling bruise swelling one eye. But despite it all, she doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t speak. Just stares down with an unreadable expression that somehow feels louder than words.
And Rowen?
He looks like a storm just shy of breaking—his chest heaving, fists clenched, jaw locked tight.
I freeze at the edge of the scene, unsure if I’m here to witness or intervene, because something about this doesn’t sit right.
Even if I don’t know who she is… my gut is whispering that maybe, just maybe, she’s not the enemy.
“Ro?” I whisper, my voice low but laced with concern. I can see it—he’s unraveling, even if he’s doing it silently. His shoulders are tense, his fists tight, but it’s the look in his eyes thatgives him away. He’s not okay, and what he’s doing down here? It’s eating at him, the same as it’s eating at me but compounded.
Cupcake, whoever she really is, looks far worse. The shadows do her mercy, hiding most of the bruises and cuts, but not enough. Not from me. My stomach twists with guilt, a sick knot tightening every time I glance at her and see the defiance still burning in her downcast eyes, even through the pain.
I step closer, careful with my words. “Take a break, Ro. Just… breathe for a minute.”
