Aya's POV

How many times have you packed up your entire life and moved across the country in a single year? I’m willing to wager my savings that your track record doesn’t even come close to what my family managed to achieve. 

Honestly, I used to love the upheaval. For me, changing zip codes wasn’t a chore; it was a shot of adrenaline. Every fresh destination carried the weight of a quiet expectation. It was a blank slate—a brand-new opportunity for things to finally fall into place and for my family to rediscover what genuine happiness felt like. 

It certainly helped that my entire household was a beautifully chaotic circus. Our caravan consisted of the ultimate cool dad, a classic varsity athlete, a brilliant academic prodigy, a stereotypical cheerleader, and then there was me. I was the wild card, the one still floating around trying to figure out exactly where my pieces belonged on the board. 

Venturing into unfamiliar territory, whether it was an unknown town or a completely different state, always devolved into an absolute trainwreck of an experience. But it was a magnificent, entertaining trainwreck. 

The soundtrack to our travels was invariably my father, who would single-handedly terrorize his own vocal cords—and our eardrums—by howling completely out of tune to whatever static-heavy track happened to be playing on the radio. He’d keep at it, relentless and shameless, until the rest of us finally surrendered and joined in just to make him happy. 

Then there was my oldest brother, who specialized in delivering entirely unfunny punchlines, laughing up a storm at his own wit while the rest of the car sat in dead silence. 

Right next to me, my sister would spend hours rattling on about the latest fashion trends of the season, or detailing the intricate makeup techniques and hairstyle tutorials she’d mastered on YouTube. She’d weave these rants into unsolicited lectures directed at me, offering step-by-step instructions on how I could manage to look and act like a proper, civilized girl. 

And, of course, saving the most eccentric for last, my younger brother spent the entire journey with his face practically embedded in the pages of whatever thick volume was currently glued to his fingers. Every few miles, he would casually announce bizarre, occasionally stomach-turning trivia to absolutely no one in particular. 

As for my role in this traveling theater production? I mostly preferred to play the quiet observer. I liked lingering on the periphery of their noise, just absorbing the moment and feeling an overwhelming sense of gratitude that I belonged to them. That was our dynamic. It was messy, it was loud, and I adored it. 

So, if you ever wondered why I never complained about our transient lifestyle, that’s your answer. For me, the concept of home wasn’t a fixed address. It was simply wherever those five lunatics happened to be standing. 

Once upon a time, though, we actually possessed a permanent roof over our heads. It was the house where my parents had first set up their lives together after getting married. It was the place where Alastair and I drew our first breaths—figuratively speaking, of course, but you know what I mean. It was the sanctuary where Tina and Jamey felt entirely insulated from the rest of the harsh world. 

We stayed anchored there for as long as Mom was with us. But when she passed away, the loss fractured our family in ways that felt completely beyond repair. She had been the central pillar holding the entire structural integrity of our lives together. The moment she vanished, we simply disintegrated. Each of us began falling apart in our own isolated, destructive ways. 

In the immediate aftermath of her death, a profound, heavy misery settled over us for months. But eventually, a house cannot run on grief alone; someone had to swallow their own pain and start sweeping up the shattered glass so that some semblance of recovery could begin. 

That responsibility somehow fell on my shoulders. It was an agonizing battle to keep from weeping when I found a moment of privacy, but keeping a straight face in front of my siblings was a whole different level of torture. Watching the people you love lose their grip on reality while force-feeding yourself a look of total composure is easily the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. 

It took well over a year for Dad to emerge from the dark, foggy abyss he’d trapped himself in after Mom left. By the time his mind finally cleared, his employment had completely vanished. We were essentially scraping by on fumes, surviving off whatever meager savings were left and the cash Alastair managed to bring home from odd, under-the-table jobs he picked up, despite being only thirteen years old. 

And yet, the real storm hadn't even hit us yet. 

I blinked rapidly, fighting back the sudden sting of tears, and forced a heavy breath into my lungs as I stared out at the rolling green landscapes flying past my window. The open country fields looked radiant basking under the brilliant midday sun. At the very least, nature seemed entirely unbothered by our drama. 

This particular relocation was different, though. I despised it with every fiber of my being. For the first time in my life, I didn't want to go. There was no terrible, off-key car singing this time around. No awful dad-jokes echoed through the cabin, and no one was lecturing me on how to present myself to the world. 

The reality was simple: I didn't want to leave my father behind. None of us did. But the choice had been completely taken out of our hands. Just letting my mind drift to the concept of surviving without him made me feel as though someone had reached directly into my chest, ripped out the fragile, reassembled pieces of my heart, and crushed them beneath their heel without a second thought. 

I can still vividly recall the expression on his face that afternoon. His dark eyes had begun to well up with moisture, his thick, bushy eyebrows drawing together in a tight line as he looked out at all of us simultaneously—a specific expression that only he could pull off. 

"Gather round, kids," he had called out, his voice thick with an unfamiliar gravity.  

"Pumpkin, peaches, and you little smart-asses, get over here." 

We had closed ranks around him immediately, our anxiety spiking because we had absolutely no baseline for why he was acting so incredibly sentimental. For a terrifying split second, I genuinely assumed he was about to deliver some awful news regarding Mom. But my instincts were completely off base. 

"I need you all to pay close attention to what I’m about to say, because I have zero intention of getting this emotional with you guys again," he started, attempting to lighten the heavy air. "We’ve had a seriously chaotic couple of years, haven’t we?" 

A small, involuntary smirk broke across my face at his words, but Alastair immediately nudged my ribs to make me cut it out. We were supposed to be presenting a united front of anger and resistance, so I quickly wiped the amusement from my expression and locked my best poker face back into position. 

"You all mean the absolute world to me," Dad continued, taking a slow, deliberate breath. "But ever since your mother passed, things have been incredibly difficult for me—for all of us. You see it every single day with this constant moving around, never knowing if we’re going to have enough to put together a decent dinner. But," he paused, his eyes scanning our faces, "all of that financial stress is about to evaporate. I’ve been offered a position up in Wisconsin. It’s a massive step up for us, an actual lifeline. The company is practically begging for my specific background, and honestly, they want me more than I need them. It’s an opportunity I simply cannot afford to pass up." 

A few days prior, Dad had received an unexpected phone call explaining that his professional track record was a perfect match for a new corporate project. They were eager to bring him on board immediately. At the time, I hadn't even considered the possibility that he would take the offer seriously, given that the job was located over a thousand miles away from where we were staying. 

Jamey crossed his thin arms tightly over his chest, immediately uncrossed them to shove his thick spectacles further up the bridge of his nose, and then defensively locked his arms right back across his chest. He let out a quiet, frustrated mutter. "Why can't we just pack up the car and come with you like we always do?" 

Dad let out a long, exhausted sigh, shifting his gaze directly to my younger brother. "You just hit the nail right on the head, buddy. The truth is, I’ve been incredibly selfish by dragging you all along down my own path of professional failures. Before everything fell apart, you kids had a real life. You had a permanent home, a stable school routine, and actual friendships. You don't have any of that anymore, and it breaks my heart. I never wanted this transient life for you. This is me finally putting a stop to the cycle." 

I understood exactly what he was trying to achieve, and I knew right then that no one in the room would argue with his logic. The silence that followed proved me entirely correct. 

Seeing that he had won our silent compliance, he pressed forward. "We are only talking about a six-month window, kids. If I perform well during this trial period, they’ll transition me to a permanent executive role, and then I can easily request a local transfer back to this region. The compensation package is significant, and by the time the contract wraps up, Alastair will have his high school diploma in hand." 

A fragile, genuine smile broke through his solemn expression, though the moisture in his eyes threatened to spill over again. 

Aya's POV

"None of you will ever have to pack up a backpack for a new school district ever again. You can build real, lasting connections with people without constantly fearing the day you have to say goodbye. I want you to experience what it feels like to actually have solid ground beneath your feet." 

At that point, silent tears were actively tracing lines down my face. My chest felt tight and heavy. 

"I want you to go out, make friends, have fun, and for once in your young lives, stop calculating whether we can afford groceries at the end of the week. Just let your old man handle the heavy lifting for a change, alright?" 

A single tear escaped his eye and rolled into his stubble. He stood up from the worn cushions of the sofa and expanded his arms wide, a massive, ridiculous grin breaking across his face. "Alright, enough of the heavy stuff. Come give your dad a suffocating good-luck hug." 

We all let out a collective, theatrical groan at his dramatic delivery, but we didn’t hesitate for a fraction of a second before throwing ourselves into his embrace. 

A sudden, violent rattling at my shoulder snapped me out of the memory, and my earbuds were unceremoniously yanked from my ears. 

"We’ve finally arrived!" Tina’s incredibly high-pitched, enthusiastic voice cut through the quiet cabin of the car, causing me to physically flinch away from the noise. 

I could feel the residual moisture lingering in the corners of my eyes, but before any evidence of my heavy thoughts could spill down my cheeks, I aggressively wiped them away with the back of my hand and forced out a rough, ragged exhale. 

I knew my role in this family dynamic. I had to remain the anchor for every single one of them. My job was to play the jester—to maintain a bright smile and keep the atmosphere light, regardless of how I felt internally. It wasn't a duty I resented; after years of constant practice, masking my real emotions had become entirely second nature. 

I shifted my focus to my sister, who was currently attempting to craft an expression of utter boredom, though the sheer excitement radiating from her wide, bright eyes completely gave her away. I let out a massive, exaggerated yawn. 

She immediately rolled her striking grey eyes in my direction, tossing her head back with a dramatic sigh. "How absolutely wonderful of you to match my level of enthusiasm for this place." 

Her sharp, sarcastic defense mechanism never failed to amuse me. She let out a sharp huff, retrieved a small compact mirror from the depths of her oversized tote bag, and began digging around a second time until she successfully retrieved a hairbrush and a tube of bright pink lip gloss. 

"Unbelievable," I muttered under my breath, shifting my gaze forward toward Jamey. 

True to form, my younger brother was completely checked out, his nose buried deep inside a book that looked practically fused to his palms. His eyes were darting back and forth across the printed lines with a frantic intensity, as if he were racing against an impending apocalypse and absolutely had to finish the final chapter before the world ended. 

I let out another quiet sigh, sinking deeper into the worn fabric of the passenger seat. 

It was then that I noticed Alastair had brought our battered, high-mileage Honda Civic to a complete halt along the shoulder of the pavement, idling just a few yards away from a massive set of ornate, black iron security gates. 

What was causing the delay? I scanned our immediate surroundings but couldn't find a single physical obstacle blocking our path forward. I unbuckled and leaned into the space between the front seats to get a better look at my brother. 

"Alastair?" I inquired softly, poking my head directly into the gap separating his seat from Jamey's. 

His gaze was locked straight ahead, a tiny muscle visibly throbbing along the hard line of his clenched jaw. Because I had kept my eyes shut for the vast majority of the drive, I hadn't paid a single shred of attention to our surroundings on the way over—a lapse in judgment that I was suddenly starting to regret. I tilted my head to the side, trying to peer through the windshield. 

My jaw dropped in absolute shock, and my eyes widened at the sight unfolding before us. 

Good grief, the property was completely colossal. It looked exactly like the sprawling estate grounds I had only ever encountered in the pages of unrealistic contemporary romance novels. It was breathtakingly beautiful, and to call it massive would be a severe understatement. 

There had to be some sort of logistical error. 

"Yeah?" Alastair finally responded a full minute later, by which point I had almost completely lost track of the question I originally intended to ask. 

I forced myself to swallow the hard lump that had formed in my throat, nervously running my tongue over my dry lips. My gaze remained entirely paralyzed by the sheer scale of the house, but I managed to force the words past my lips. "Where exactly are we?" 

That wasn't the question I had planned to utter, but given the architectural marvel looming over us, it felt like the only query that actually mattered. This absolutely had to be a case of mistaken identity. There was simply no way a house like this belonged to our contact. Blake Brinkley couldn't possibly possess this level of extreme wealth... could he? 

My heart hammered violently against my ribs, the sheer anxiety forcing me to lean back into the rear seat as a heavy thumping echoed in my ears. 

Alastair slowly turned his head to look back at me, a deep, dark scowl gradually carving its way across his features. "We are at the Brinkley estate." 

I instinctively bit down hard on my lower lip, while Tina immediately began bouncing in her seat right next to me, practically vibrating with excitement. She clamped a hand around my forearm, her voice a breathless squeak. "It’s absolutely stunning, isn’t it? I would lay money down that there’s a massive inground pool somewhere back there. Oh my gosh! Can we please just get out of this cramped car already?" 

Alastair let out a heavy, defeated sigh and shifted the Civic back into drive. The security guard stationed at the entrance gate immediately pressed a button to let us pass through, clearly having been briefed well in advance regarding our scheduled arrival. 

He navigated the long driveway and brought the car to a stop in a wide parking area, where a young man outfitted in a sharp, navy blue and white uniform stood waiting with a polite grin. 

Tina threw her passenger door open with significantly more force than necessary and practically launched herself onto the pavement, a radiant smile stretching across her face. She immediately retrieved her smartphone from her pocket and began furiously typing out a message—undoubtedly giving a play-by-play update to one of her old friends back in Charleston. 

I let out another slow breath and looked back over at Alastair. Deep shadows were visibly carved beneath his hazel eyes, and his messy brown hair was so completely disheveled that it made me wonder if he had abandoned the concept of grooming entirely. 

It was obvious that while Dad’s departure speech had profoundly impacted Alastair, it hadn't done a single thing to convince him that this arrangement was a good idea. He didn't want to be here. None of us did, but I could tell he was already cultivating a deep, systemic hatred for our new reality. 

He had an inherent disgust for anything that resembled charity or a handout. Personally, I wasn't a fan of it either, but I possessed the pragmatic understanding that occasionally, you have to swallow your pride and accept help if you want to keep your head above water. Unfortunately, that specific brand of survival logic was entirely absent from my older brother's worldview. 

I could see the writing on the wall: he had already written off this entire estate, the family living inside it, and the town as a whole. 

I reached out, placing a reassuring hand firmly on his shoulder, and offered him a genuine smile. "We’re going to handle this the way we always do—together. Everything is going to turn out fine." 

He offered me a tight, simulated half-smile and gave a single nod of agreement. "Always." 

Then, he shifted his focus toward Jamey, reaching over to aggressively muss up his already chaotic nest of curly brown hair. "Isn't that right, professor?" 

Jamey offered a distracted nod of affirmation without ever lifting his eyes from the printed page, leaving it highly debatable whether he had any actual comprehension of what he was agreeing to. 

Alastair and I exchanged a quiet, knowing look, a shared chuckle breaking the tension. That was classic Jamey behavior. 

Suddenly, my younger brother’s pale green eyes snapped up to meet ours. A wide grin broke across his face, and we instantly braced ourselves for the inevitable payload of information. "Did either of you know that the longest recorded time gap between the births of two identical twins is actually eighty-seven days?" 

Honestly, that was probably the single most normal, decent piece of data he had shared with us in recent memory. 

We both let out a genuine laugh, shaking our heads at his textbook delivery. We knew the brief window of interaction had officially closed the moment his gaze dropped right back to the pages of his book, effectively blocking out our presence and the entire outside world with terrifying ease. There were moments when I was incredibly jealous of his ability to just switch off reality at will. 

I forced a massive, theatrical smile onto my face and spoke to the remaining passengers. "Alright, team. Let's go introduce ourselves to the place we’re calling home for the next six months." 

Aya's POV 

The moment the engine cut out, my brothers and I stepped down onto the pristine asphalt, heading straight for the rear of the Civic to handle the cargo. Alastair possessed a naturally athletic, muscular build that the rest of us simply lacked; he was easily the powerhouse of the family, so he naturally took charge of wrestling the heaviest containers out of the trunk. Our entire life for the next two quarters was packed into a single rolling suitcase and a handful of canvas duffel bags fitted with basic over-the-shoulder straps. For most people, a six-month relocation requires a literal moving truck, but our family had long since mastered the art of packing light. 

As we stood there sorting the straps, a sharply dressed young man approached us. He introduced himself as the estate's valet and politely requested the keys, explaining that he needed to adjust the Honda's positioning so it was aligned perfectly within the designated parking zones. Apparently, Alastair had brought us to a halt a bit too far outside some unspoken boundary line. 

A valet? For a beat-up sedan? 

An involuntary giggle escaped my lips, earning me a low, irritated growl from my older brother. Despite his pride, Alastair ultimately surrendered the key ring with a reluctant sigh. Falling into step behind him and Jamey, I began a slow, tentative march toward this massive unknown chapter of our lives. Tina immediately attached herself to my arm, practically vibrating with an energy so intense it felt like she had literal springs installed in the soles of her shoes. 

I simply shook my head at her sheer, unadulterated excitement. Historically speaking, she had always been the animated, socially effortless one between the two of us. Her perfectly styled hair bounced in sync with her energetic stride as we finally reached the massive, white double entry doors and pressed the intercom button. 

"Honestly, you really should have considered putting on a slightly more presentable outfit," Tina remarked, her eyes scanning my entire form with a look of genuine aesthetic disapproval. "And would it actually kill you to run a brush through your hair once in a while? You might be surprised by the transformation." 

I offered her a dramatic roll of my eyes, completely unfazed because I knew her critiques were born out of a place of sisterly affection rather than malice. 

Up until the exact moment I laid eyes on this estate, I honestly believed my appearance was perfectly fine. The residents of this neighborhood looked like they had been pulled directly from the glossy pages of a luxury lifestyle publication, whereas my personal aesthetic leaned heavily toward survivalist casual. Today, I was sporting a simple black tank top layered beneath an unbuttoned, red-and-white flannel shirt, paired with rugged cargo pants and my absolute favorite worn-in combat boots. My dark, thick curls were loosely gathered into a chaotic, effortless topknot, with a few stray tendrils framing my face. To top it off, I had never experimented with cosmetics a single day in my life. 

Tina, on the other hand, was my absolute polar opposite. She had chosen a sleek, form-fitting grey V-neck tee, neatly tucked into a high-waisted black skirt that hit right at her mid-thigh. Her luminous, wavy blonde locks fell loose over her shoulders from a crisp side part, and her makeup application was entirely flawless. 

While she undeniably looked like a professional model, looking at her didn't trigger a single drop of jealousy in me. I genuinely appreciated my own style. I felt entirely content in my own identity, even if she would never truly comprehend why I consistently picked heavy leather boots over elegant high heels. Glamour simply wasn't wired into my DNA. 

Before I was forced to explain to her—for the hundredth time—that I had absolutely zero intention of altering my identity to appease the upper crust of society, the heavy door swung inward. 

Standing on the threshold was a impeccably put-together, middle-aged woman wearing a vibrant, knee-length floral dress and elegant black stiletto heels. A warm, radiant smile instantly broke across her features as she nodded welcomingly. 

"You must be the Rhodes family," she greeted us, her tone incredibly polite and inviting.  

"The most anticipated arrivals of the season! Please, come on inside and make yourselves at home." 

She ushered our small group through the grand entryway, letting the heavy door click shut securely behind us. Presenting what I assumed was her standard hospitable expression, she guided us into a cavernous, sweeping living area. I stood there completely paralyzed by the sheer grandeur of the interior architectural design. Right next to me, Tina was experiencing a similar state of shock; her mouth was slightly open, and her thumbs were flying across her phone screen as she undoubtedly texted her friends a highly detailed inventory of the soaring white walls, intricate plaster molding, massive crystal chandelier, and museum-quality artwork. And that wasn't even factoring in the monumental winding staircase dominating the foyer. 

The seating arrangement featured an incredibly plush, mahogany-colored leather sofa that felt so deep I half-expected to completely sink through the cushions. Directly in front of us sat a dark-wood glass coffee table, anchored by a vibrant arrangement of exotic flowers arranged inside a delicate, powder-blue tinted vase. I couldn't even begin to identify the species of the brilliant blossoms. 

We took turns introducing ourselves, and she listened with genuine warmth, nodding along as if our arrival was the highlight of her entire week. Once the initial pleasantries were out of the way, she excused herself to fetch us some refreshments. Halfway down the expansive corridor, she paused, turning back to look at us. Her golden-blonde hair was pinned into a flawless, tight chignon, and a striking shade of crimson lipstick highlighted her elegant features. 

She was undeniably stunning, which left me deeply curious about her exact role in the household. Dad had previously mentioned that the property was occupied strictly by Mr. Brinkley and his teenage son, noted that a divorce had severed the marriage roughly five years ago—coincidentally around the exact same period we had lost our mother. 

"Oh, where are my manners!" she exclaimed, offering a self-deprecating laugh. "I'm Linda. I suppose I’m just a bit flustered and incredibly thrilled to finally have you all under this roof, so I completely skipped my own introduction. Please forgive me. I manage the daily operations of the estate and assist with whatever domestic needs arise around here. If any of you require absolutely anything at all during your stay, please do not hesitate to ask me directly." 

Her delivery was so professional it felt almost like she was addressing corporate stakeholders at a high-level business summit. 

And did she actually claim to be flustered? What could she possibly have to be nervous about when welcoming a family of drifters? 

The irony of the situation wasn't lost on Jamey, who let out a quiet, knowing chuckle. Despite being only twelve years old, my youngest brother possessed an intellectual capacity that could easily outclass an adult in almost any academic discipline. 

"Don't worry about it at all," Tina intervened smoothly, her face still wearing a brilliant smile. "We're all experiencing a bit of situational anxiety ourselves. And I just have to say, this residence is absolutely spectacular." 

Linda’s shoulders visibly relaxed. She quickly disappeared into the adjacent wing, returning a few moments later accompanied by a pair of uniformed domestic staffers. They efficiently loaded the glass table with an assortment of casual refreshments—potato chips, sodas, corn chips, gourmet cupcakes, and various finger foods. 

I glanced sideways at Alastair, who was staring intently down at his mobile device. I knew for a fact the display was completely dark; he was simply using it as a shield, entirely trapped in his own thoughts as his mind desperately searched for a loophole to alter our current trajectory. 

Linda took a seat directly across from me, right next to Jamey, and let out a genuine laugh when he casually dropped a particularly graphic biological fact into the conversation. She kept the dialogue moving with effortless, standard pleasantries, and to my surprise, the vast majority of her inquiries were directed squarely at me. As our group systematically demolished the snack platters—we were entirely famished after the grueling trek—I did my absolute best to provide polite, well-rounded answers. 

She seemed incredibly kind and approachable, and I was already compiling a mental list of questions I wanted to ask her once the opportunity arose. But that would have to wait; a profound, bone-deep exhaustion was rapidly catching up to me. 

Linda eventually informed us that Mr. Brinkley had been called away to London for an emergency corporate summit, though he was expected to return to the states shortly. 

The update didn't particularly faze any of us. It wasn't as if we were collectively bursting with anticipation to meet the patriarch anyway. If I was being completely honest with myself, I felt like an unwanted intruder, as if we were forcefully occupying space in a stranger's private sanctuary—an unsettling sensation, even though the logic didn't hold up. Dad and Mr. Brinkley had been close friends since their undergraduate university days, maintaining a consistent, low-profile connection over the decades. However, we had never met the man in person, and our knowledge regarding his offspring was virtually nonexistent. 

"So, our dad mentioned that there’s a son living here..." Tina noted casually, carefully licking a dollop of vanilla frosting from her fingertips. 

Linda nodded instantly, her gaze drifting right back to my face. What exactly was she trying to read in my expression? I made a mental note to clear that mystery up the next time I caught her alone. 

"Oh, absolutely," Linda confirmed. "His name is Callum. And as it turns out, he’s actually in the exact same age bracket as you." 

Her eyes remained locked on me, forcing me to offer a polite, albeit entirely synthetic, smile in return.