Mitchell's POV
The gasp tore from my throat, my hand flying to my abdomen as if to confirm it was still whole. The surreal pain from the dream—the same one that had haunted me for years, the sensation of my tummy being sliced open—lingered like a cold sweat. But this time, the doctor's face leaning over me hadn't been a blurred stranger. It had been Alistair, those garnet eyes inscrutable, his hands steady and sure.
Speaking of Alistair… a fresh, different ache bloomed in my chest. The word he'd used when we'd last spoken, cool and factual, had cut deeper than I wanted to admit. He wasn't wrong. We were strangers. But the memory of his silent protection, the food, the phone, Mike's brotherly pat… it had woven a fragile thread of hope. Him calling it what it was felt like having that thread snipped.
Shaking off the remnants of the nightmare, I focused on the one bright spot from yesterday: Liam. The little boy with the black beautiful eyes and an old soul. Catching him when he'd tripped had sparked an instant, easy connection. We'd spent the afternoon talking—well, I talked, he answered with a quiet, startling wisdom. I felt oddly familiar with him, a comfort I chalked up to my general love for children.
Needing a distraction, I reached for my new phone. The notification that glowed on the screen made me sit bolt upright. My job application had been approved! A real, proper part-time position at a respected architecture firm, something that aligned with my studies. "Yay!" I whispered-yelled to the empty room, a genuine smile breaking through the gloom. For the first time in years, something was happening because of me, not in spite of me.
Excited by the news, I freshened up with an energy I hadn't felt in ages and practically floated downstairs. The dining room was unusually lively, the sound of the Turnstones' laughter and clinking cutlery echoing through the hall. It all died the second I crossed the threshold.
The silence was heavier than their usual disdain. I refused to let it dampen my mood. Humming the tune I heard in the amusement park, I walked to my seat and began serving myself from the platters. But the weight of their collective stare was impossible to ignore. It wasn't just their usual coldness; it was a tense, expectant scrutiny. A paranoid thought flashed: Is the food poisoned?
My hand stilled. I looked up, meeting their eyes one by one.
Mr. Turnerstone cleared his throat, the sound like a judge's gavel. "Mitchell," he began, his voice carrying a finality that froze my blood. "You will be leaving this house."
What?
I stared, my spoon hovering mid-air. Did I hear that correctly? My wide eyes traveled over their faces—Mr. Turnerstone's stern resolve, Mrs. Turnerstone's pinched lips, Clara's poorly concealed smirk of triumph. Was my presence now so utterly repulsive that they were formally evicting me? Where was I supposed to go?
"We feel it's time you learned to be an independent person," Mrs. Turnerstone added, her tone suggesting this was a tough-love lesson, not a brutal casting out.
Then came the kicker, the true motive unveiled. Mr. Turnerstone leaned forward. "You can, of course, decide to live on your own. If you do not accept the marriage proposal from Mr. Woods."
The name hit me really hard. Mr. Woods? The image of the elderly, diminutive man, whose scandalous affairs with much younger women were city legend, made bile rise in my throat. "Have you lost your minds?" The words were out before I could stop them.
"Watch your tone," Mr. Turnerstone snapped, raised his hand and slapped me. "You turn twenty-five soon. You're ripe for marriage. Mr. Woods may not be the… most ideal choice, but he is a choice. And he is interested. Our family business is declining. We need the Woods' financial support."
They all stared at me, a tribunal awaiting my plea. In that moment, any last shred of familial pretense evaporated. They weren't family. They were opportunists, ready to trade me for a business lifeline.
A strange, icy calm settled over me, surprising even myself and even as the slap stung. The panic, the fear, the hurt—they were still there, but locked behind a clear sheet of glass. I placed my spoon neatly on the table.
"I'll leave," I said, my voice remarkably steady.
Their surprise was palpable. They'd expected tears, begging, negotiation. Clara's smirk faltered.
I stood up, my breakfast untouched. "Today."
I didn't wait for a response. I turned and walked out of the dining room, my heart hammering against my ribs, but my head held high. I didn't know where to go. My savings were pitiful, my new job didn't start for a week. But I knew one thing with absolute certainty: I had to get out before they took the choice away. Before Mr. Woods "dropped by for tea" and my drink was "spiked" for my own good.
Back in my room, I looked at the few belongings that were truly mine. My old phone with its damning videos. My new phone, my lifeline. An average sized suitcase.
It was time to stop being a ghost in this house. Even if the outside world was terrifying, it had to be better than being sold. I zipped the suitcase closed.
The click of the back door shutting behind me felt more final than any grand, dramatic exit through the front. I dragged my small, battered suitcase down the service pathway, the wheels catching on the uneven cobblestones. The morning air was crisp, carrying the scent of damp earth.
Where do I go? The question hammered in time with my footsteps. The job interview was tomorrow. School started soon. I had enough for a few nights in a questionable hostel, maybe. A hollow, panicky feeling began to gnaw at the edges of the calm I'd mustered downstairs.
I walked slowly, barely registering the curious or pitying glances from early-morning dog walkers and commuters. I was a girl with a suitcase, leaving the grandeur of the estate. The story wrote itself on their faces.
Then, a soft, polite beep from a car behind me. I moved aside without looking, assuming they wanted to pass. But the car, a sleek, dark sedan that seemed to absorb the morning light rather than reflect it, slowed to a crawl beside me. The tinted rear window slid down.
The face that appeared was the most welcome sight I could have imagined. Big, intelligent emerald eyes blinked up at me from under a fringe of that blue-black hair.
"Liam," I breathed, my tension easing a fraction. "How are you?"
"I'm good," he said, his voice serious for a five-year-old. His gaze flicked to my suitcase, then back to my face. No childish questions, just a quiet assessment. "Come on in."
I hesitated for only a second. Walking aimlessly versus accepting a ride from this enigmatic little boy and his clearly wealthy family? The choice was simple, even if it was potentially reckless. At least it was a decision I was making for myself.
I slid into the spacious backseat beside him. The interior was all soft, grey leather and polished. It smelled of lemon polish and, faintly, of rain. Liam's chauffeur, a stern-looking man who nodded once at me in the rearview mirror, pulled smoothly back onto the road.
Liam and I fell into easy conversation. We talked about the zoo he'd visited, debating the merits of tigers versus lions, and the intelligence of octopuses. His observations were startlingly sharp, devoid of a child's whimsy but full of a genuine, focused curiosity. It was a welcome distraction.
I wasn't paying attention to the route until the car slowed again. We approached a set of immense, wrought-iron gates, intricate with scrolling patterns that hinted at art nouveau vines and mythical creatures. They swung open silently, and we drove down a long, tree-lined avenue.
The house that came into view wasn't a house. It was a manor, a modern edifice of glass, steel, and pale stone that somehow managed to look both imposing and serene. It was all sharp, clean lines and vast windows, reflecting the surrounding forests and manicured grounds. A cascading water feature ran along one side, the sound a gentle, constant murmur.
Before I could fully process its scale, we were at the front door—a massive piece of dark, polished wood set within a frame of gleaming steel.
"Come in," Liam said, hopping out and taking my hand with a surprising, confident grip. He led me inside as if I were the guest he'd been expecting.
My breath caught. The interior was a masterpiece of understated luxury. The entry hall soared two stories high, dominated by a breathtaking sculpture of intertwined glass forms that caught the morning light, casting fractured rainbows on the pale oak floor. The walls were a soft, warm grey, adorned with what looked like original, abstract paintings. Furniture was minimal but stunning—a long, low sofa in charcoal velvet, a side table made from a single slab of raw, polished geode. It was a space that spoke of immense wealth, but also of a specific, refined taste. It felt like Alistair, I realized instantly. Powerful, beautiful, and intensely private.
"If you don't have any place to stay, you can stay with us," Liam announced matter-of-factly, releasing my hand to shrug off his small jacket, which a silent, uniformed staff member appeared to take. "I'll let my dad know."
I stared at him, stunned. How could he possibly know? I'd said nothing about my situation, about the suitcase. But his emerald eyes held that same knowing look they'd had at the Ferris wheel. He really does analyze things.
Before I could formulate a response—a polite refusal, a grateful acceptance, a flood of questions—my gaze was drawn past him, up the floating staircase that seemed to drift weightlessly in the center of the hall.
Alistair stood on the landing.
He was dressed in a simple black turtleneck and trousers, his long hair loose around his shoulders. He wasn't looking at me. His garnet eyes were fixed on Liam, his expression an unreadable blend of affection, caution, and something else—a deep, profound weariness. In that silent moment, the dynamic was clear: this beautiful, austere mansion revolved around the small, serious boy, and the enigmatic, powerful man who watched over him.
Liam followed my gaze and called out, his voice clear in the vast space. "Dad. Mitchell needs a place to stay."
Alistair's eyes finally shifted from his son to me. They traveled from my face down to the suitcase at my feet, then back up. The silence stretched, filled only by the gentle trickle of the water feature outside. He didn't look surprised. It felt like he was… considering.
Finally, he descended the stairs, his movements fluid and silent. He stopped a few feet away, the scent of sandalwood and cold air wrapping around me.
"Is that so?" he said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated in the spacious hall. His gaze held mine, asking a dozen questions without uttering a single one.