"Carl! Get your ass out here."
The voice cracked through the hallway like a whip.
Carl flinched, nearly dropping the dish in his hand. He set it down quickly on the counter, wiped his palms on his shirt, and rushed toward the living room. His heart beat a little faster. That voice—it was Aunt Vivian. The loud one. The one who always had something to yell about, whether it made sense or not.
He stepped into the open, head low, hands clasped.
"You called for me, Aunty," he said, voice soft, respectful. He knew better than to raise it.
But Vivian just rolled her eyes and waved him off with her hand, long nails painted fire red.
"Don't look at me," she said, smirking. "She's the one who called you."
Carl blinked and turned his head slowly.
There she was. Sitting at the far end of the room like she owned the world—because, in a way, she did.
Aunt Claudia.
She didn't need to raise her voice. She didn't need to shout or curse like the others. Claudia didn't have to say much at all. When she walked into a room, the walls seemed to hold their breath. Even the other two aunts, loud and sharp as they were, kept quiet when she spoke.
Carl swallowed hard.
She was dressed in her usual all-black suit—fitted, clean, sharp-edged. No jewelry. Just a silver watch on her wrist and a small diamond pin on her collar, the one with his father's old company logo. She crossed her legs slowly, one heel tapping the polished floor with steady rhythm.
"You know why I called you?" she asked without looking at him.
Carl shook his head. "No, ma'am."
Claudia finally lifted her eyes. They were cold, flat, unreadable. Not angry. Just… empty.
"You forgot to clean the guest room this morning."
Carl's shoulders stiffened. "I—I was going to after breakfast. I just—"
"Don't explain," she said, voice smooth like glass. "Just listen."
He went quiet immediately.
"You were supposed to clean it yesterday," she said, standing now. Her heels clicked once, twice, as she walked past him. "You didn't. So I gave you today. And even with a second chance… you failed again."
She paused near the sideboard and picked up a glass of wine, already poured.
"This isn't about a room, Carl. It's about reliability. Discipline. If you want to survive in this house, you need to learn what happens when your word means nothing."
He stayed quiet. His hands clenched just slightly.
"I gave you space. I let you keep your little sketchbooks. I didn't stop you from wasting hours watching your silly cartoons. I even let you lock your door." She turned to him. "But don't mistake that for freedom."
Carl looked down.
"I'm sorry," he said.
"You always are."
She took a sip of wine, then set it down gently.
"I'll let it go—for now," Claudia said. "Because we have a guest coming tonight. Important one. Business partner. He'll be staying in the guest room, and I don't want it looking like a teenage boy's dream dungeon."
She glanced at him again. "I want it spotless. Bed made. Windows wiped. Floor scrubbed. You will handle it before five."
"Yes, ma'am."
"And when he arrives…" She walked past him now, brushing faintly against his shoulder. "You'll be polite. You'll serve drinks. You'll stay quiet unless spoken to. I don't want a single slip."
Carl nodded.
"Understood."
She stopped at the door, opened her small clutch, and pulled out a few bills.
"Take this," she said. "Go down to the corner shop."
He stepped forward and took the money with both hands.
"You'll get a pack of Benson Lights. A bottle of cognac. And a box of condoms—standard size."
Carl hesitated.
She didn't repeat herself.
"Yes, ma'am," he said quietly.
Then Claudia stepped out of the room.
Vivian chuckled from behind the couch.
"You better hurry," she said, laughing under her breath. "You know what happens when she has to ask twice."
Carl turned, said nothing, and left through the back door.
The sun outside was hot. The sky was clear. But inside, his chest felt heavy.
Like always.
The screen door creaked shut behind him as Carl stepped out into the backyard, the sun beating down on his skin like it had something personal against him. He let out a long sigh and sat on the low, cracked step beside the flower bed—if it could still be called that. The flowers were dead. Just like everything else in that house.
He looked at the money in his hand.
Crinkled bills. Just enough for smokes, cheap booze, and a pack of condoms. Nothing more. Nothing for him.
"Unbelievable…" he muttered under his breath.
He ran a hand through his hair, leaning forward, elbows on his knees.
"I'm not even a person to them anymore," he said quietly, as if trying to convince the wind that he existed. "I'm a damn delivery boy. A butler. A goddamn servant."
He kicked at a pebble near the step and watched it skitter across the dry dirt.
"Condoms?" he scoffed. "Really? That's what it's come to now? I'm eighteen and instead of thinking about college or getting out of here, I'm running errands so Claudia can screw some bald businessman in the guest room I was supposed to grow up in."
He bit the inside of his cheek, jaw tight.
"Dad's house. Dad's money. And I can't even sleep in my own damn room."
Carl looked up at the sky. It was blue. Too blue. The kind of sky that made you feel like something better was out there—just not for you.
"They all said they'd take care of me," he whispered. "The court. The social workers. The lawyers. And where are they now?"
Silence answered him. A bird chirped somewhere up on the fence, then flew off.
Carl stood up slowly, brushing the dirt off his pants.
He looked back at the house. At the windows where curtains swayed behind glass like watching eyes. He could almost feel Claudia's gaze through them. That cold, unbothered look that always made his skin crawl.
He sighed again and turned away.
"Whatever," he muttered. "Let's get this over with."
He shoved the money into his pocket and walked toward the rusted gate, each step slow and heavy, like his body knew he was walking toward more humiliation—but couldn't do anything to stop it.