Crystella
I sat there for a moment longer after Davis left the kitchen, the emptiness of the house pressing down on me. The glass of milk had gone lukewarm in my hand, but I wasn't ready to move. Not yet.
But now, with Davis gone and the quiet wrapping itself around me like a thick fog, I couldn't help but wonder if I was fooling myself. Was this resolve of mine—this determination to keep moving—really enough? Or was I just convincing myself that I wasn't drowning in the weight of expectations? What scared me most was that trying meant letting Davis in. It meant acknowledging that we were in this together, that maybe he wasn't the enemy I had imagined him to be.
He had been... surprising tonight. His words, though few, had carried a sincerity that caught me off guard. We weren't in love—far from it—but he was trying. And that terrified me. Because if he was trying, that meant I had to try too. And trying meant opening myself up to the possibility of something more—something I wasn't sure I could handle.
I wasn't ready for that. Not yet.
I had spent so long building walls around myself, brick by brick, determined not to let anyone get too close. It was easier that way—safer. Every time I let someone in, it only ended in disappointment. My parents had shown me that. My sister had shown me that. The people who were supposed to love me had always found a way to leave me stranded in the cold.
And now Davis was standing there, offering me a hand, and all I could do was stare at it, too afraid to reach out. What if I let him in and he left too? What if I let him in and it only ended in more pain?
I pushed away from the counter, feeling the tension coil inside me. I needed air, space, something to clear my head. Maybe a walk through the garden would help. The fresh air would do me good, give me room to think.
But as I stepped outside, the cold night air biting at my skin, I found that my thoughts were no less tangled. The garden, once a place of solace, now felt like a maze of unanswered questions. Every path I took seemed to lead me back to the same uncertainty: What was I supposed to do with this marriage? How was I supposed to build a life with someone when I didn't even know how to trust?
I sank down onto a bench by the fountain, staring into the still water. It was the same spot where, years ago, I had found a kind of peace. I had sat here with my grandmother once, after a particularly brutal argument with my mother. I was twelve, and I had been devastated, unable to understand why nothing I did was ever enough for her. My grandmother had held my hand and told me that I was stronger than I thought. That I was destined for great things, and that one day, I would understand the burden of the Powers name.
But I had never asked her how she had carried it all without breaking. And now, it was too late.
Her words echoed in my mind, as they always did in moments like this: "You're the strongest of them all, Crystella. You're the only one who can carry this name with pride."
But was I? Was I really that strong, or had I simply become good at pretending?
For so long, I had been living under the shadow of my family's legacy, trying to be the perfect heiress, the perfect daughter, the perfect... everything. But now, as I sat there in the cold night air, I couldn't help but wonder if all that perfection had been nothing more than a mask. A way to hide the fact that, deep down, I was just as lost as everyone else.
And now, I had Davis to consider. Davis, with his quiet strength and his unexpected kindness. Davis, who had been a constant presence in my life, even when I hadn't noticed.
I thought about the small things—how he always made sure there was coffee ready in the morning, how he quietly stepped out of my way when I needed space, how he never pushed too hard when I didn't want to talk. He was... patient. It wasn't something I had expected from him.
But that only made it harder. Because patience meant he was waiting for something. And what if I couldn't give it to him?
The day-to-day realities of this marriage were starting to weigh on me in ways I hadn't anticipated. The small moments, the routines we had fallen into, the quiet companionship that had begun to form between us... it was all so different from what I had imagined. I had thought this would be easier—just another role to play, another obligation to fulfill. But it wasn't. It was real. And that scared me more than anything.
I closed my eyes, letting the sound of the fountain soothe me, if only for a moment. The weight of the Powers legacy still hung over me, but maybe—just maybe—I could find a way to carry it without losing myself in the process.
For tonight, I would hold on to that small hope. But even as I did, I couldn't help but wonder if hope would be enough. Or if I was just clinging to it because I didn't know what else to hold on to.
As I went back to my room and the first rays of morning light filtered through the curtains, i finally succumbed to sleep, the clock reading 5:00 am. However, I was rudely awoken just a few hours later, at 9 am, to the sound of my phone buzzing incessantly on the nightstand. I reached for it groggily, squinting at the screen.
It was my mother.
I hesitated for a moment before answering. The conversation was inevitable, especially after the latest round of estate meetings. Laurel Powers had never been one for small talk, and I could already hear the sharpness in her voice, even before she spoke.
"Crystella," my mother's tone was clipped, "we need to talk about the estate accounts."
Of course, it was about the estate. It was always about the estate. I resisted the urge to sigh as I sat up, feeling the familiar tightness in my chest. No matter how many years passed, the weight of my mother's expectations never seemed to ease.
"Good morning, Mother," I said, forcing myself to sound calm, even though my heart was already pounding. "What is it?"
"The quarterly financials have come through," Laurel continued, ignoring my greeting. "There are a few discrepancies I want you to look over before our next meeting. I'll send you the files."
I pressed a hand to my temple, a dull ache beginning to form there. It was always the same. My mother never called to check in on me, never asked how I was doing. Everything was framed in the context of the Powers legacy, as though my only value was in my ability to manage the family fortune.
"I'll take a look at them," I replied, my voice tight. I didn't bother asking about the details—my mother would never share anything beyond the facts.
There was a brief pause, and for a moment, I allowed myself to hope. Maybe this time would be different. Maybe my mother would ask how I was adjusting to married life, or how my business was going. Maybe she would actually show an interest in something beyond the estate.
But, as always, the silence was fleeting.
"Good," Laurel said briskly. "I'll expect your review by the end of the week."
And just like that, the call was over.
I stared at the phone in my hand, my chest tightening with a familiar ache. After all these years, I should have known better. I should have learned not to expect anything from my mother beyond what was necessary for the family's image. But it didn't stop the disappointment from washing over me, settling in my bones like a weight I couldn't shake.
I tossed the phone onto the bed, rising to my feet and pacing the length of the room. My thoughts were a whirlpool of frustration and longing—longing for something more than this hollow exchange, more than the constant demands of the Powers name.
My phone buzzed again. This time, it was a message from Jackson."Hey, we need to talk about the estate's international accounts. I'll be at the office later. Stop by if you're free."
I clenched my jaw, frustration bubbling up inside me. Jackson, the golden child of the Powers family. The one who had always lived up to our parents' expectations. I had once idolized him, back when we were younger, back when I thought there was still a chance for us to be close. I remembered the summer we spent together at the estate, running through the gardens and laughing until our sides hurt. But those days were long gone. Now, he only ever reached out when he needed something from me.
I tossed the phone onto the bed again, unable to stop the wave of inadequacy that followed. It didn't matter how hard I worked, how much I tried to prove myself to them. They only ever saw me as the youngest Powers—someone to be managed, not someone to be respected.
And yet, I couldn't shake the need for their approval. No matter how many times they let me down, there was always that small, persistent hope that maybe, one day, they would see me for who I really was. Not just as an heir to the Powers fortune, but as their daughter, their sister. Someone who mattered.
I sighed, pressing my fingers to my temples, trying to ease the tension that had settled there. My business—my fashion line—was supposed to be my escape. It was supposed to be the one thing I could control, the one part of my life where I wasn't tethered to the Powers legacy. But even there, my family's influence loomed large. They expected me to manage both—the estate and my business—without complaint, without faltering.
I thought of Davis then, and wondered if he felt the same weight from his family. We had never talked about it, not in any real way, but there was something in the way he carried himself that made me think he understood. He, too, was trying to survive under the burden of a legacy that wasn't entirely his own. Maybe he, too, was quietly navigating the expectations of people who never quite saw him for who he really was.
Maybe we were more alike than I had ever realized.
I stood by the window, staring out at the estate grounds, the sprawling gardens I used to run through as a child now felt so far removed from who I had become. The sun had just begun to creep over the horizon, casting a soft glow on the perfectly manicured lawns, but it did little to ease the tension that had taken residence in my chest.
My mother's call still echoed in my ears, the clipped tone and the brusque way Laurel Powers dismissed anything personal as though it were beneath her. It was always about the estate, always about the family legacy. There was never any room for me—only what I could do for the Powers name.
I thought back to Jackson, the brother I had once idolized. We used to be close—closer than anyone in the family. I could remember running through these same gardens with him, laughing as we chased each other through the hedges. He had been my hero back then, the one person who seemed to care about me outside of the family name. But those days were long gone. Now, he was just another voice demanding my time, my attention, my dedication to the estate.
The message he had sent that morning still sat unread on my phone, a reminder that even after all these years, I was still chasing after his approval—still hoping that maybe one day, he would see me as more than just an obligation.
I pressed my forehead against the cool glass of the window, my mind drifting to the last time I had seen him in person. It had been at one of those endless meetings about the estate's finances, where Jackson had been more interested in discussing international accounts than in asking how I was doing. I had tried to bring it up, to talk about my business, my fashion line, but he had barely listened. To him, it was a hobby—something frivolous compared to the weighty responsibilities of the Powers legacy.
I sighed, pulling myself away from the window. The weight of it all was beginning to feel unbearable, like I was trapped in a never-ending cycle of expectations and obligations that I could never fully escape. Even my fashion line—my one true passion—was starting to feel suffocated by the demands of my family.
I crossed the room to my desk, where my sketchbook lay open to a half-finished design. The lines felt lifeless to me now, lacking the energy and creativity I had once poured into my work. I used to find so much joy in designing, in creating something that was entirely mine, but lately, it felt like even that had been swallowed up by the Powers name.
I sank into my chair, staring down at the sketchbook in front of me. I needed to find a way to reclaim that part of myself—the part that wasn't defined by my family or their legacy. But every time I tried, it felt like I was fighting a losing battle.
My thoughts drifted to Davis, and I wondered how he managed to carry the weight of his own family's expectations. We had never really talked about it, but there was an unspoken understanding between us—a shared burden that neither of us could fully escape. Davis was patient, always giving me space when I needed it, never pushing too hard. It was a kindness I hadn't expected from him—one I wasn't sure I deserved.
And yet, as I sat there in the quiet of the room, I couldn't help but think that maybe Davis was the only person who truly understood what it was like to live under the weight of a legacy that wasn't entirely my own. Maybe we were more alike than I had ever realized.
But that didn't make it any easier.
My phone buzzed again, pulling me out of my thoughts. It was another message from Jackson, this time asking me to meet him at the office later to go over the international accounts. I stared at the screen for a long moment before finally typing a response.
I'll be there. I tossed the phone onto the bed and rubbed my temples, trying to ease the growing tension. I could already feel the weight of the day pressing down on me, and it wasn't even ten in the morning yet.
As the day wore on, I found myself back at the office, sitting across from Jackson as he droned on about the latest developments in the estate's international holdings. I nodded along, my mind wandering as he spoke. I had heard it all before—the same discussions, the same financial projections, the same expectations.
But no matter how hard I tried to focus, I couldn't shake the feeling that I didn't belong here. That I was only going through the motions, playing a role I had never asked for.
My thoughts drifted to my fashion line again, the designs I had left unfinished on my desk at home. It was supposed to be my escape, my way of breaking free from the Powers legacy, but even that felt tainted now—overshadowed by the constant demands of my family.
"Crystella, are you even listening?" Jackson's voice cut through my thoughts, sharp and annoyed.
I blinked, snapping back to attention. "I'm sorry, what did you say?"
Jackson sighed, rubbing his temples in frustration. "I said we need to finalize the numbers for the Paris expansion. This is important, Crystella. You can't afford to be distracted."
"I know," I replied, my voice tight. "I'll look over the numbers tonight."
Jackson nodded, but there was no warmth in his gaze—no sign that he saw me as anything more than a business partner. I felt a pang of bitterness rise in my chest, but I swallowed it down. I had long since given up on trying to bridge the gap between us.
As the meeting dragged on, my mind wandered once again, this time to Davis. He was the only person who had managed to cut through the noise of my life, even if just a little. He wasn't like my family—he didn't demand anything from me, didn't expect me to be anything other than who I was. And that, more than anything, made me want to keep him at a distance.
Because letting him in meant risking everything. It meant opening myself up to the possibility of love, of connection—and that was a risk I wasn't sure I was ready to take.
Later that evening, after another long day of meetings and obligations, I found myself back at home, standing in the kitchen where Davis and I had shared that quiet moment the night before. The house was quiet now, the only sound the soft hum of the refrigerator and the distant ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway.
I poured myself a glass of wine and leaned against the counter, my thoughts swirling with everything that had happened that day. My family, my business, Davis—everything felt tangled up together in a way that I couldn't quite untangle.
But as I stood there in the silence, I realized that maybe it wasn't about untangling everything. Maybe it was about finding a way to live with the mess—to accept that not everything had to be perfect, that I didn't have to have all the answers.
Maybe that was the real legacy my grandmother had left me—not the estate, not the business, but the strength to keep going, even when things felt impossible.
I took a sip of my wine, the warmth of it spreading through my chest. I wasn't sure what the future held for me—for my marriage, for my family, for my business—but for tonight, I was content to let the questions linger.
Because for the first time in a long while, I didn't feel entirely alone.