My watch beeps: a calendar reminder sent from my mother. Welcome home dinner, tonight at 7:00 PM.
I stare at the notification. Welcome home. Right.
I turn away from the window, kick off my shoes, and head to the bathroom. The marble is cool under my bare feet, and everything is spotless and gleaming. The shower helps, washing away the grime and exhaustion of travel. I keep it quick, then wrap myself in a towel that’s softer than anything I own.
Back in the bedroom, I move to my suitcase, kneeling beside it on the plush carpet. Most of my clothes are wrinkled from the journey, but they can wait. Right now, I’m searching for something specific.
My fingers find it tucked between two shirts: a photograph in a simple wooden frame. The glass is cracked in one corner from being moved around too many times, but the image is still clear.
A young girl with bright eyes and a genuine smile, her hair catching the sunlight. An older boy with his arm slung around her shoulders, grinning at the camera like he doesn’t have a care in the world. And a man behind them both, his arms wrapped around them, his face lit up with pure joy.
My throat tightens. I sink onto the bed, holding the picture with both hands. I grip it so tightly, the frame bites into my palms.
“Trevor,” I whisper as one finger traces over my brother’s face. He looks so alive in this picture. So full of light and laughter. “Dad.” My father’s smile is wide, sincere. I can’t remember the joke he’d just told, but I remember how I felt. Safe. Loved. Whole.
Clutching the old photo to my chest, I lie back on the bed. The mattress is too soft, the pillows too fluffy. Everything is too perfect and sterileand wrong.
“I wish you were here,” I whisper to the ceiling, to the image pressed against my heart, to the ghosts that never leave me.
My eyes grow heavy despite the light streaming through the window. The hours of travel, the medicine, the emotional weight of being back here—it all crashes over me at once. Just for a moment, I tell myself. Just until I can breathe again.
A knockat the door jolts me awake.
I blink at the ceiling, disoriented. The room is dimmer now, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the walls. How long was I asleep?
The knock comes again. “Miss Violet?”
James. The butler.
I sit up quickly, and the photograph slides off my chest. I catch it before it hits the floor.
“Yes?” My voice comes out rough, heavy with sleep.
“Dinner is in an hour, miss. I thought you might like to know.”
Relief washes through me. An hour. That’s plenty of time.
“Thank you, James,” I call out.
After hearing him retreat down the hallway, I gently set the photograph on the nightstand, running my thumb over the cracked glass one more time before standing.
An hour to get ready. An hour to prepare myself to face whatever announcement Alaric has planned. An hour until I might see Darius again.
There’s a flutter in my chest at the thought, a nervous anticipation I don’t quite understand. He was always kind to me, in that distant way of his. Never cruel like the others. Darius never looked at me with disgust.
I remember being fourteen and dropping an entire tray of dishes in the dining room during a formal dinner. The crash was deafening, and I stood there, frozen, surrounded by shattered porcelain andspilled food, while everyone stared. My mother’s face went white with fury.
But Darius simply stood up, walked over, and started helping me pick up the pieces. He didn’t say anything, didn’t make a big show of it. Just knelt beside me and helped clean up the mess while his father redirected the guests’ attention.
It was such a small thing, but I never forgot it.
I shake off the memory and go to my suitcase, from which I pull out my navy dress. It’s modest, unremarkable, exactly what my mother would approve of. I smooth it over the bed, then twist my damp hair into a simple bun at the base of my neck. No makeup. At least I look presentable enough not to embarrass anyone.
I slip on a pair of simple flats and glance at the clock. Still forty minutes until dinner. I move back to the window and watch the grounds below. Pack members go about their evening routines: adults heading home from work, children playing in the distance. It all looks so normal. So peaceful. From up here, I could almost believe I belong.
Almost.
At five minutes to seven, I leave my room and make my way downstairs. The walk to the dining room feels longer than it should. My footsteps echo in the empty hallways, and I force myself to breathe steadily.
