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. 

A sudden wave of discomfort hit the back of my throat, and I quickly averted my gaze, focusing entirely on the scuff marks on my combat boots. What exactly was she trying to orchestrate here? I could swear a distinct spark of calculated amusement was dancing in her almond-shaped blue eyes. 

"Wow, that's incredibly cool," Tina gushed, turning to nudge me. "Don't you think so, Aya?" 

I opted for total silence, refusing to take the bait. 

"He's currently out of the house at the moment," Linda added seamlessly, "but his schedule usually has him back on the property by seven in the evening." 

I offered a subtle shrug, still staring down at my shoelaces. Ultimately, his arrival time was completely irrelevant to me. Historically speaking, no guy had ever shown even a passing romantic interest in my direction, and it didn't bother me in the slightest. My mother used to consistently remind me that eventually, someone would cross my path who would cherish me entirely for my authentic self. I placed absolute faith in her wisdom. I had no issue playing the long game, regardless of how many years it took. Consequently, the daily schedule of this Callum character couldn't possibly mean less to me. 

Alastair abruptly excused himself from the room when his phone began vibrating against his palm, undoubtedly whispering a silent prayer of thanks to whoever was calling for providing him with a legitimate excuse to catch his breath outside the heavy atmosphere of the mansion. 

Linda seamlessly redirected her attention to Tina, continuing their upbeat banter. She even made an attempt to engage Jamey in standard small talk—which proved to be highly entertaining, given that his contribution consisted entirely of reciting highly specific, random historical data regardless of what question she posed. That was simply the standard operating procedure when attempting to converse with my younger brother. 

While I kept my own contributions brief and avoided asking digging questions, Tina seemed determined to systematically check off every single inquiry on her exhaustive mental list. 

"Callum is fundamentally a wonderful young man," Linda remarked thoughtfully, her tone shifting slightly. "But... well, the reality is that the parental separation impacted him deeply, and his demeanor shifted significantly after the divorce. Still, I hold onto the firm belief that he’ll eventually cross paths with someone capable of grounding him again. I have total faith in that." 

For reasons I couldn't entirely analyze, my head snapped up at her statement. It was likely a knee-jerk reaction to the heavy sensation of her gaze targeting me once more. Why did she consistently lock eyes with me whenever the topic of this boy's emotional rehabilitation came up? I began to seriously wonder if our hostess was missing a few screws. 

Eventually, I hit my absolute limit with the introductory social hour. I stood up from the plush leather sofa, doing my best to stifle a massive yawn that threatened to overpower me. 

"Oh, my goodness!" Linda noted, instantly picking up on the cue. "You all must be completely wiped out after a six-hour road trip. Come along, let me escort you up to your quarters." 

I nodded, offering a tired half-smile. With a swift sequence on her smartphone, Linda summoned a pair of security personnel who promptly gathered our assorted luggage. Alastair and Jamey slipped back into the house, falling into file behind Linda and Tina as we moved toward the main corridor. 

"Wait, do we actually get our own individual bedrooms?" Tina squeaked from the front of the line. "Oh my gosh, how many total rooms are engineered into this place? It feels like an absolute labyrinth." 

I leaned back just enough to throw a sharp, disciplinary glare over my shoulder, silently begging her to dial down the embarrassing display of astonishment. She offered a sheepish smile, shrugging her shoulders while silently mouthing, What did I do? 

"It's perfectly alright," Linda interjected, having easily witnessed the silent sibling exchange. "Her curiosity is completely natural." 

My cheeks instantly flared with a sudden rush of heat, and I gave a stiff nod, training my eyes straight ahead as we reached the foot of a massive, sweeping staircase and began our ascent. 

"To answer your question, Tina—yes, everyone has their own private space. The layout includes roughly twelve bedrooms in total. Additionally, if you follow the sliding glass panels at the rear of the ground floor, it leads directly out to the pool area. You’re more than welcome to head down there once you’ve had a chance to decompress." 

Tina let out a muffled shriek of delight directly behind me. "Thank you so much! I am absolutely hitting the water later." 

That was entirely predictable. My sister didn't suffer from a chronic aversion to revealing swimwear; I, however, absolutely did. The concept of wearing minimal clothing that exposed my skin was an immediate source of intense discomfort for me. I mentally resolved to avoid the pool deck entirely unless I could guarantee absolute solitude out there. 

Linda guided us along the first landing, pointing out two beautifully appointed suites designated for Jamey and Alastair. According to her architectural strategy, she figured the female contingent of the family would appreciate the isolation of the upper level, which featured direct access to an expansive rooftop terrace. Tina was instantly enamored by the setup, and the moment I stepped across the threshold of my assigned quarters, a similar feeling took hold. 

My private room was technically larger than the entire square footage of the house we had occupied back in Charleston. The sheer scale of it felt completely absurd and slightly intimidating. Yet, the moment I spotted the elegant French doors opening onto a quaint, private balcony, my chest swelled with a distinct, comforting warmth. 

"Is the space to your liking?" Linda inquired, a soft smile playing on her lips. 

Tina had been allocated an identical layout at the opposite end of the long corridor, positioned much closer to the primary staircase, leaving my room feeling like it existed in an entirely separate dimension of the estate. But the isolation suited me perfectly. 

I offered a genuine grin and a firm nod. "It’s absolutely breathtaking. Honestly, how could anyone find a reason to complain about this?" 

She stepped up to the exterior railing, mirroring my posture as she looked out over the vast canopy of dense trees and immaculate landscaping defining the perimeter of the property. "Very true," she murmured, her focus shifting toward a rustic, isolated structure situated right at the edge of the dense tree line. 

"What's the story behind that building down there?" I asked, my innate curiosity instantly piqued by the unconventional structure. 

When the silence stretched out a bit too long, I turned my head to find her staring at the cabin with a deeply solemn expression. "That is Callum’s domain," she stated simply, effectively planting a massive seed of intrigue in my mind. 

I refrained from pressing for additional details, instinctively sensing that she had zero intention of expanding on the topic regardless of what I asked. 

"Dinner is traditionally served promptly at six o'clock every evening," Linda noted, shifting back to her operational tone. "However, given your travel schedule tonight, we can easily adjust the timeline to whenever your family feels ready to eat." 

I smiled, arching a single eyebrow in amusement. "Why the sudden flexibility?" 

Linda let out a quiet chuckle, straightening her posture to face me directly. "Friday and Saturday nights are typically reserved for Callum's personal routines, you see. Especially when Mr. Brinkley is traveling internationally. During those windows, he grants the entire domestic staff a complete release from service for forty-eight hours." 

Before I could ask her to clarify exactly what "Callum's personal routines" entailed, the sharp ring of her mobile device cut through the air. 

A massive smile instantly lit up her face as she checked the display. "My husband," she explained, holding up the vibrating device in her perfectly manicured hand. "I suppose I’ll catch up with you all on Sunday morning? Just a reminder, I've left my direct contact information sitting on the main kitchen island. Don't hesitate to ring me if a single issue arises." 

I offered her a deeply grateful smile, and she turned, disappearing down the corridor. 

The afternoon sun was beating down directly onto the balcony, balanced by a crisp, slightly cool breeze while the faint sound of birds echoed from the distant woods. It was the kind of picturesque landscape you wanted to freeze in time and appreciate every single day. 

Turning back toward the interior, I left the French doors wide open, allowing the refreshing mountain air to completely flood my temporary sanctuary. 

I made a half-hearted attempt to unpack a few essential items from my duffel bag, but the sheer weight of the day's journey was catching up to me. A massive yawn forced my eyes to water. Abandoning my self-imposed mandate to remain productive and responsible, I collapsed onto the expansive queen-sized mattress, which was outfitted in crisp white linens and an incredibly soft, powder-blue blanket. 

As the quiet of the massive house settled in, a familiar ache took hold of my chest, and I realized just how desperately I already missed my father. 

A violent, unceremonious jostling yanked me directly out of the fragile sanctuary of my deep unconsciousness—marking the second time in a mere span of twenty-four hours that my rest had been aggressively compromised. My initial, hazy instinct was to blame Beatrice, or perhaps one of the younger pack of siblings who usually lacked any concept of personal boundaries, but a sudden clearing of my fogged senses confirmed that none of my usual relatives were responsible for this current intrusion. 

An involuntary, guttural groan escaped the back of my throat as I blindly reached across the vast, sprawling expanse of the king-sized mattress, desperately clawing for a secondary down pillow. Once my fingers clamped around the fabric, I slammed it over my face, pressing the heavy material tightly against my skull in a futile attempt to seal off my ears from the outside world. Yet, the relentless, bone-rattling electronic bass bleeding through the floorboards did not diminish in intensity for even a single fraction of a second. 

I let out a low, frustrated snarl, a hot wave of irritation rushing through my veins. Deep down, a small voice whispered that I lacked any legitimate authority to complain given our current temporary living arrangements, but my logic was entirely overridden by the agonizing, sledgehammer rhythm pounding against the inside of my temples. 

The truth was, the entirety of the previous night had been a completely sleepless blur, spent tossing in a miserable cocktail of overwhelming sentimentality and paralyzing dread. The painful process of bidding farewell to our mentor had torn a massive rift through my emotional stability, and the lingering weight of that departure had rendered sleep an absolute impossibility. 

No matter how many times I rearranged my limbs, flipped the blankets, or shifted from one side of the mattress to the other, comfort remained entirely elusive. 

Accepting defeat, I forced my torso upright, extending my arms toward the ceiling to stretch out the stiff, aching muscles lining my back and shoulders. It was a bleak realization, but it was clear that any further attempts at catching sleep today were officially abandoned. 

Had it been Marcus in this bed, he would have effortlessly remained dead to the world right through this entire auditory assault. I possessed absolute proof of this fact because I had once intentionally practiced a chaotic percussion routine directly beside his skull, and his breathing hadn’t altered in the slightest. Frankly, the man possessed the uncanny, almost supernatural ability to slumber through an apocalypse. The mechanics behind his heavy sleep patterns were completely beyond my comprehension. While I didn’t consider myself an exceptionally fragile sleeper, I certainly didn’t possess the impenetrable, stone-like dormancy that Marcus enjoyed daily. 

Swinging my legs over the edge of the elevated frame, I slid my bare feet into a pair of worn, dark-indigo rubber slides resting on the hardwood. I dragged both hands through the tangled web of my uncombed hair, twisting the long strands upward into a loose, disorganized knot at the crown of my skull, though several rebellious wisps immediately slipped free of the restriction, framing either side of my face in messy layers. 

Right on cue, my stomach let out a fierce, demanding growl that echoed in the quiet room, signaling that an immediate trek down to the lower levels of the estate to locate the kitchen was no longer optional. 

Stepping into the wide, unfamiliar corridor, I navigated the foreign layout for roughly a minute before arriving outside Beatrice’s designated quarters. I offered a quick, courtesy rap against the wood before pushing the door inward, only to find the room completely vacant, the sheets neatly undisturbed. 

Downstairs, the playlist shifted abruptly into a chaotic, syncopated electronic rhythm. The intense vibrations traveled upward through the structural beams, causing the floor beneath my soles to throb violently. In any other context, like operating a high-performance vehicle at lethal speeds down an abandoned desert highway, that specific, adrenaline-inducing tempo would have been incredibly exhilarating. 

Forcing myself to shake away that distracting, reckless fantasy, I quickened my pace down the grand staircase, heading straight toward little Timothy’s bedroom. Peeking inside, I discovered him wrapped in a blanket, completely dead to the world, emitting soft, rhythmic snores. It was a genuine shock to realize that even a seven-year-old could maintain such a profound level of sleep amidst a sonic disturbance of this magnitude. 

Stepping quietly to the side of his mattress, I leaned down to press a gentle kiss against his brow, gently brushing away a few coarse, unruly curls that had fallen across his skin. He had been a mere toddler of seven when our mother passed away; consequently, while the rest of us possessed a rich tapestry of vivid recollections regarding her life, Timothy was left with almost nothing. 

I inhaled a ragged, steadying breath, my eyes drifting toward the framed photograph resting on his nightstand, which captured the entirety of our family unit in happier times. In the image, Mother was radiating pure, unadulterated joy, her smile stretching from ear to ear while the rest of us were hopelessly entangled around her torso, a chaotic mess of overlapping limbs and genuine, unchoreographed laughter directed at the lens. A sharp, stinging sensation flared behind my eyelids, signaling the arrival of tears, but I consciously forced the moisture back down. 

I was absolutely resolute in my determination not to weep; I had intentionally locked away my tears from the very moment circumstances forced me to step up and become an unyielding pillar of strength for the remaining members of this family. 

Silently pulling the door closed until the latch clicked into place, I turned on my heel and began walking down the opposing wing of the hallway to determine if Marcus required any sustenance. Given the sheer volume of chaotic noise filtering up from the ground level, it was glaringly obvious that a massive, unbridled social gathering was underway below, and the prospect of navigating that sea of strangers without an ally was deeply unappealing. 

Without bothering to knock—fully operating under the assumption that he would be completely unconscious and dead to the world—I pushed his bedroom door open, only to let out a sharp, horrified gasp, my palm instantly flying upward to seal my lips shut. 

"Oh my god! I'm so sorry." I blurted out, rapidly retreating into the hallway and pulling the door shut with a snap, my entire body cringing in absolute revulsion at the visual I had just inadvertently consumed. 

Ew! 

A low, internal groaning vibrated in my chest. 

Witnessing my own flesh and blood entangled in an intimate encounter with a random, dark-haired woman was precisely the kind of psychological trauma my empty, starved stomach did not need to process. And to be completely objective, she was a remarkably stunning brunette. She possessed the kind of flawless, high-fashion aesthetic that looked as though she had been pulled straight from the glossy pages of an elite style magazine. 

"Sorry!" I muttered under my breath, acutely aware that the deafening volume of the house music made it physically impossible for them to catch my apology, before turning to sprint toward the lower level. 

It was entirely clear that no one was going to rescue me; I was going to have to summon my own courage, woman up, and handle this expedition entirely on my own. 

The sheer mass of humanity occupying the primary living room was utterly overwhelming. Multiple couples were aggressively entangled on the leather sofas, a sight that made me mentally recoil with an intense, unexplainable wave of second-hand embarrassment. The young women wandering through the space were clad in nothing more than minimalist swimwear, and even those sparse garments appeared to be in various stages of being discarded entirely. 

I clamped my eyelids shut, drawing in a shaky, uneven breath through my nose. I consciously lectured myself to remain neutral. I wasn’t going to sit in judgment of these people. Absolutely not. 

Spurred by discomfort, I broke into a fast jog toward the culinary sector, shoving my way through a pair of heavy, polished timber double doors, only to find myself standing in a shockingly immense, formal dining hall. I knitted my brows together in confusion, scanning the architecture. I distinctly recalled Linda entering this specific sector earlier in the day to retrieve our meals. 

That was when my eyes locked onto yet another set of identical timber double doors at the far end of the room. 

Good grief! What was this architect's bizarre obsession with double doors? 

Were they completely pathological about it? 

A small, amused smile broke through my stress. "This is just hilarious." I whispered to myself, quickening my stride toward the threshold. 

I threw the panels open and let out another soft gasp. The culinary space before me was breathtakingly magnificent and incredibly, wonderfully IMMENSE. If the option were presented, I could comfortably set up a permanent residence within these four walls. 

My salivary glands instantly activated at the sight of an abundant arrangement of unblemished, fresh produce resting on the stone island. I stood frozen for a moment, admiring the pristine collection of high-end stainless steel cookware suspended above. The opaque, custom glass cabinetry and the array of staggeringly expensive culinary appliances felt almost entirely paralyzing to my modest sensibilities. 

Almost. 

Stepping further into the pristine space, I unlatched the massive, commercial-grade French-door refrigerator. Absolute, unmitigated WOW. 

The interior compartments were packed to absolute maximum capacity with luxury provisions. 

What exactly was this residence? Some sort of localized, miniature paradise? 

I reached inside and began collecting a loaf of artisanal bread, sliced deli ham, sharp cheese, and a handful of crisp vegetables, intending to construct a few substantial sandwiches for myself and Beatrice. Timothy was still down for the count, and Marcus was... thoroughly preoccupied. 

Wait a minute... 

Where on earth was Beatrice anyway? 

I shook my head in irritation at what felt like a severe case of temporary cognitive failure, reaching into my denim pocket to retrieve my mobile device. I realized with a pang of discomfort that I was still trapped in the exact same garments I had put on first thing this morning. 

Where the hell are you? I typed rapidly, firing off the text. 

The response from her end arrived almost instantaneously: Not in my room ;) 

I rolled my eyes, typing back: Do I have to tell Alastair you're missing? 

In our family hierarchy, now that our father figures were out of the picture, Marcus was the singular authority figure that every single one of us actually deferred to. 

My device vibrated against my palm before I could even drop my hand. Just messing with you! Jeez, chill! You're such a party popper. I'm downstairs. At the pool. 

I quickly countered: Get your ass in the kitchen. I'm making us sandwiches. 

Her text bubble popped up immediately, dismissing my peace offering: I already ate. And I'm in the pool. I can't text anymore. You want to talk? Come out. Ttyl. Love ya. 

My fingers tightened around the perimeter of the phone until my knuckles ached. She was already out by the water? She had managed to cultivate an entirely new social circle in a matter of hours? And she was already immersed in having a fantastic time? 

Well, isn’t that just spectacular! 

It felt like a blunt reminder that I was nothing more than an inherently socially inept failure—a label that had been gleefully stamped onto me by peers at virtually every single educational institution we had ever cycled through, with the sole exception of our stint in the subtropics of Florida, which had represented our only true window of geographic permanence. 

Beatrice was fully aware that I lacked the sheer bravado required to step out into that chaotic crowd of partygoers. For a fleeting second, I was heavily tempted to leverage Marcus’s authority against her behavior, but reality reasserted itself; I knew he was entirely unavailable. Besides, that would just result in him adopting his typical, dismissive attitude. He would indulge in his own vices, and regardless of how morally repellent the cycle seemed, he would eventually cast those desperate girls aside without a backward glance. But if I had to offer him any credit, he was always brutally transparent regarding his lack of commitment from the very first interaction, and every female who approached him entered the arrangement with full awareness of the parameters. 

Which, in the grand scheme of things, was an immense administrative relief, considering those girls tended to be fiercely, suffocatingly possessive. In our past schools, they had invariably transferred their burning resentment of his emotional unavailability directly onto me, effectively orchestrating a total social blacklisting that made my academic life a living hell. 

I could only offer a silent, desperate prayer to the universe that this current magazine-ready brunette didn’t attend the local institution we were scheduled to enroll in. 

Please, let luck be on my side just this once! 

Once the assembly of my sandwiches was completed, I hoisted my body up onto the polished stone countertop, perched myself on the edge, and began consuming my meal in absolute silence, washing the dry bread down with a chilled can of ginger ale. My physical form was still radiating a deep, structural soreness, and a profound exhaustion weighed heavily behind my eyes. Recognizing that the physical journey required to scale the stairs and return to my quarters would feel like an alpine expedition, I opted to remain anchored to the stone surface while I finished my initial sandwich. I had deliberately prepared a total of five portions, operating on the off-chance that Timothy or Marcus might eventually wander into the culinary zone in search of sustenance.