The cold chill of the garden bites at my skin, a stark contrast to the heat still simmering beneath my clothes. I walk away from the chaotic house, heading for a spot shielded by a towering hedge.
My hand dives into the hidden pocket of my jacket, searching. My father strictly forbade them, but fuck, I need something to calm these nerves. I always keep one for emergencies, and seeing my father on that stretcher definitely counts.
My fingers close around the single, thin cylinder. I pull it out, flick the lighter, and the small flame illuminates my hand. My fingers are trembling. I notice my knuckles are bruised and red a souvenir from the two security guards back at the gate.
My gaze lingers there for a second as I take a long, rasping drag. I lean my head back, puffing a cloud of gray smoke into the blue sky. My taut nerves seem to unwind, just a fraction.
I glance toward the back of the property. There's a massive, confusing maze of hedges visible in the distance. A memory, cold and sharp, flashes in my mind: a little girl, running in sheer fear.
I recall how Regal and his little friends had unleashed vicious dogs after me in that maze, turning a childish game into a hunt. I remember the paralyzing feeling that day, the certainty that I was going to die if I didn't keep moving.
My tiny legs were weak and tired, and several times I had fallen, only to get back up and keep running. One of the dogs managed to bite my thigh before the gardener intervened. I have the scar to this day.
I laugh, a short, hard sound devoid of humor, recalling what my mother had said when Leif threatened to call the police. She had said it was just kids being playful. She insisted Regal wanted to play with me.
I take another long drag and puff out the smoke, the ghost of a smile that is deeply unsettling stretching my lips.
Then, I hear voices.
I'm pulled instantly out of my dark thoughts. I glance over the top of the hedge and see Angelica standing a few yards away, speaking to a man. He has his back toward me.
He's exceptionally tall and wears a tailored suit. Even from this distance, I can tell he's well-built; the expensive fabric stretches across shoulders that look like they belong in a boxing ring, not an office.
I don't feel like eavesdropping, so I start to walk away. But my steps pause when I hear Angelica's voice, slightly raised in distress.
"Oh no, it's a small bruise. She didn't mean it."
I stop dead.
My mind processes the words: small bruise... she didn't mean it. She's talking about me taking my arm away just now.
I take another long drag before exhaling deep and slow. The smoke burns the back of my throat, bringing me back to the present.
Suddenly, a maid appears in front of me, startling me slightly. She's breathless and anxious. "Miss, sir is calling you to come inside."
My lips twitch. The old man is impatient.
"Thanks," I say, putting out the cigarette under the heel of my sneaker. I look toward the house, a fortress of gilded manipulation.
I tell myself: "Let's get this over and done with."
I walk back into the lounge, and the atmosphere has shifted entirely. The tense, chaotic scene is gone, replaced by the excited murmur of conversation. The air practically vibrates with false cordiality. Everyone is excitedly chatting, and the chaos from before is completely forgotten. There are now three additional people in the room.
My grandfather is standing in the center, and he's actually smiling from ear to ear, looking like a triumphant Cheshire Cat. Beside him is my mother, Amara. She is as drop-dead gorgeous as always, a perfect, polished nightmare of tailored silk and expensive jewelry. She is well-reserved, joining in on the conversation only with the third newcomer.
That man is the one I saw in the garden. He's standing near the fireplace, and the suit he wears looks like it was molded to his well-built frame.
My brow twitches. I don't belong here. I pick the furthest seat in the lounge, a deep armchair, and take out my phone. I intend to ignore them and watch a match while waiting for them to finish fawning over their guest.
I get so immersed in the brutal perfection of the fight on my small screen that I don't notice the approach. Suddenly, my phone is snatched away.
My head snaps up, my expression instantly fierce and dangerous. But when I see it's my mother, I calm down a little enough to keep the punch in reserve.
"Don't you hear your grandfather calling you, you child?" she says, her voice soft but laced with brittle disapproval. "We have guests. Why didn't you change your clothes? I prepared some for you."
As Amara speaks, her hands are in constant, fluttering motion, and the phone moves with her, making it impossible for me to grab it back. My mother's incessant, shallow yapping washes over me like white noise.
Amara turns, directing her perfect smile toward the man by the fireplace. "Please don't mind how she is dressed, Mr Vastano," she says, dismissing me with a wave of her wrist. "She just came from training, and she wasn't prepared."
A deep, husky voice suddenly speaks. "On the contrary, I find her attire… efficient."
I crease my brows. Why does that voice sound so familiar? It's a complete mystery to me where I've heard it before. I look up and my eyes meet the handsome man's gaze.
I'm taken aback for a moment by that breathtaking face, it's striking, perfectly sculpted, and almost unsettling in its beauty. But my admiration is fleeting. I can sense the danger radiating from this man. He has the eyes of someone who is both powerful and entirely ruthless. I know when to stay clear of such predators.
Amara turns back to me. "Tyr, this is Mr. Vastano."
I keep my expression blank. I utter a perfunctory acknowledgment, my attention focused not on him, but on the prize in my mother's hand. I snatch my phone back with a quick flick of my wrist.
Amara is so utterly embarrassed by my lack of performance that she just sighs, laughing softly while saying, "This kid."