After stepping out of the bathroom, I walk into a closet bigger than the one I had in Brooks mansion, where I used to live. I pull on a beige knitted sweater, soft and oversized, the sleeves swallowing my wrists.
Off-white slacks followed, fitted but cozy. I take a moment to look in the mirror. I completely forgot how I looked in these three months. Now I am looking at myself, but it feels like a prisoner is standing in cashmere.
My stomach growls, loud and persistent.
I need food. Anything, even burnt toast, will do.
I recall the rules Lucien told me. Allowed to roam. Not to speak. This wing of the mansion.
Fine. I can work with that.
I wander through polished hallways, silent and endless, the sound of my flat shoes lingering faintly in the space. Oil paintings line the walls. Heavy drapes framed the tall windows. The whole place smells like power, money, and danger.
Ten minutes have passed. Maybe more. I am starting to think I'll die of hunger before I see another living soul in this gothic mansion.
Then I hear it...voices.
No, giggles. They are definitely giggling.
I follow the sound, heartbeat picking up slightly, and finally, I turn into a warm, sunlit space that smells of butter and garlic.
A kitchen. I look around. Fuck, no. It's one hell of a kitchen.
A woman is standing at the stove, in her late fifties, maybe older, with olive skin and high cheekbones. She has a big scar in the middle of her face from her forehead to her nose, and then it ends at her right cheek. Her silver-streaked dark hair is twisted into a neat bun.
She is wearing a buttoned gray blouse tucked into a long navy skirt, with an apron tied at her waist like armor. Gold hoops peeking through her curls. She has the look of a woman who rules her kitchen like a general.
Two girls are sitting on high stools by the island counter. One is maybe in her early twenties, with sleek dark hair in a low ponytail and almond-shaped brown eyes. The younger girl, probably nineteen, is more playful-looking, with bouncy curls and mischievous dimples.
Both are wearing belted shirt dresses with ankle boots. All three kept quiet and stopped whatever they were doing, like someone had told them to turn to stone. I clear my throat. "Hello. I am Anaya. Anaya Brooks."
The girl with dimples holds out her hand. "Hi, I am Beatrice." She gestures towards the other girl with a ponytail. "And she is my sister Clara."
I shake hands with both and feel genuinely warm in their smiles. Beatrice gestures to the elderly woman. "And this is Signora Viviana."
I step forward to shake hands with Signora when she narrows her eyes. "You shouldn't be here," she says in her thick Italian accent.
I faintly smile. "I am kinda hungry. Actually, super hungry. I was looking for some food. Genuinely, I have no ill intention."
Clara and Beatric are staring at me like I have grown a second head. Signora sighs, then waves a hand toward the table. "Sit. With the girls."
I smile and slide onto a stool.
"What do you want to eat?" Signora asks.
For a brief moment, I process her question and then exhale a bit longer. "Whatever, signora, as long as I can easily chew and swallow."
Beatrice giggles and shakes her head. "Signora means 'Madam' in Italian."
I squint and ask. "You call your mom, madam?"
Clara jumps in. "She is not our mom."
I look at Viviana as she is still standing and waiting for my answer. I square my shoulders. "Can I have a cup of coffee and a Croissant?"
Viviana doesn't respond. She moves like clockwork, pulling out beans to grind and slicing butter, her silence neither warm nor cold. Just efficient.
Before I ask them about who they are, Beatrice leans towards me, eyes wide. "So you are the girl Matteo brought last night?"
I blink in confusion. "Matteo? Who's that?"
Clara leans in, whispering like it is gossip too hot for open air. "I heard Matteo dragged you out from some party...to have sex with you."
My spine stiffens. "I thought his name was Lucien."
Both girls gasp at once, and Beatrice's eyes dart to Clara.
"No," Clara breathes. "I saw you. It was Matteo. He dragged you out of the car like...like he owns you."
I swallow and take a slow breath. "You mean the mean-looking guy? Doesn't talk much?"
The nod in unison.
I frown. "No, that damn 'M' didn't buy me. And by the way...what is his deal?"
Beatrice leans in like she is sharing something forbidden. "Matteo is second in command. He doesn't talk because Lucien cut out his tongue."
I am frozen. "What?" My hand flies to my chest like I can't catch my own heartbeat. My eyes dart toward the door, toward the shadows, toward the silence in this damn place that suddenly feels louder than ever.
Swear to God, a cold chill slithers down my spine. So that is why danger radiates from those blue eyes...he doesn't need to raise his voice to command obedience.
I look at Viviana, who is silently kneading dough with practiced hands; her back is rigid as if pretending not to listen. "Did Lucien do that to her face, too?"
My voice cracks as I gesture toward the scar across Vivana's face.
Beatrice and Clara look at each other, then nod once again in sync.
My heart is pounding against my ribs like it wants out. This place isn't a mansion. It is a beautiful cage, and everyone in it has already learned not to rattle the bars.
Vivana turns sharply, her voice sharp and crisp. "Enough gossip. Out. Both of you."
Clara flinches. Beatrice sighs but obeys. They scurry out like mice caught in the open. Silence returns, heavy and thick.
Viviana walks over and sets a steaming cup of coffee and a buttery croissant in front of me without a word. The aroma hit me like a punch to my chest—warmth, comfort, everything I haven't felt since the morning betrayal dropped on me.
Tears well up before I can stop them. One slips free and falls on my cheek before I swipe it away. I grab the croissant with shaking fingers and take a bite. Chewing like I haven't eaten in days.
Viviana turns back to the stove, and I am sitting here, quiet, the taste of fear mixing with the sweet, flaky bread.