Mrs. Montero had not slept well since the night before.
No matter how tired her body felt, her mind refused to rest. Each time she closed her eyes, the same image returned—Oliver standing outside, the sound of the motorbike fading into the night, and then that moment. The kiss. The way her son had leaned into another boy without fear, without shame.
It scared her.
Not because she hated him. Never that.
But because she knew the world. And she knew this house.
That morning, she stood in the large, spotless kitchen of Mrs. Gracie's mansion, moving slowly as she prepared lunch. The kitchen alone was bigger than the house she and Oliver lived in. Everything shone—marble counters, silver appliances, tall windows that let in too much light.
She worked there as Mrs. Gracie's live-in nurse, a job she was grateful for. Mrs. Gracie was old, fragile, and often kind in her own quiet way. Taking care of her paid the bills, paid Oliver's school fees, and kept a roof over their heads.
Still, this house had rules—spoken and unspoken.
As she stirred the pot gently, a dull ache spread across her chest. She paused, pressing her hand there, breathing slowly until it eased a little. She had learned how to hide pain well. There was always work to do.
Just then, footsteps echoed into the kitchen.
Her heart skipped.
She turned.
Mrs. Adrien stood there, dressed neatly as always, her posture straight, her eyes sharp. A woman who never raised her voice, yet somehow always made others feel small.
Mrs. Montero forced a polite smile. "Good morning, ma'am."
Mrs. Adrien glanced around the kitchen briefly, as if inspecting it, before responding. "Good morning."
Mrs. Montero wiped her hands on her apron. "Hope there's no problem ma'am," she said gently. "You've been very busy lately. It must not be easy."
Mrs. Adrien's lips curved slightly, though there was no warmth in it. "Hard work is expected in this family," she replied. "Comfort does not come from idleness."
Mrs. Montero nodded. She had heard those words many times before.
For a moment, she allowed herself to hope. Maybe she didn't see anything. Maybe I'm worrying for nothing.
She turned back to the stove. "I'm making lunch for Mrs. Gracie," she said. "Something light. The doctor recommended—"
"I didn't come here for that."
Mrs. Montero froze.
She turned slowly.
Mrs. Adrien folded her arms. "I came to speak to you about your son."
The air in the kitchen changed.
Mrs. Montero's chest tightened again, sharper this time. "Is… is there a problem?" she asked carefully.
Mrs. Adrien's eyes hardened. "You need to talk to him. He must stay away from Liam."
The words felt like a blow.
Mrs. Montero gripped the edge of the counter. "Stay away?" she repeated softly. "Why would you say that?"
Mrs. Adrien took a step closer. "Because what is happening between them is inappropriate. And dangerous."
Mrs. Montero shook her head weakly. "They're close, yes. But Oliver is a good boy. He would never—"
"Don't pretend you don't understand," Mrs. Adrien interrupted. "I know exactly what kind of closeness that is."
Mrs. Montero's voice trembled. "They care about each other."
"And that is precisely the problem," Mrs. Adrien said coolly. "My son's life is already arranged. His future is clear. He does not need confusion introduced by someone who doesn't belong to his world."
The words stung deeply.
"He doesn't belong?" Mrs. Montero whispered.
Mrs. Adrien looked away slightly. "Oliver is… temporary. Liam is not. People like your son attach themselves quietly. They don't look dangerous, but they are. When the damage is done, they disappear and leave ruin behind."
Mrs. Montero felt tears burn behind her eyes. Her chest ached badly now. "Please," she said softly. "Oliver has already lost so much. His father, his peace… he only wants to feel safe."
Mrs. Adrien straightened her coat. "Then you should teach him to know his limits."
Silence filled the large kitchen.
Mrs. Adrien picked up her bag. "I expect you to handle this like a sensible mother," she added. "I do not want my son entangled in something shameful."
She turned and walked out, her heels echoing against the marble floor.
The door closed.
Mrs. Montero sank slowly onto a chair.
The mansion felt too big. Too cold.
She pressed a hand to her chest again, breathing carefully through the pain. Her thoughts were filled with fear—fear of losing her job, fear of losing Oliver, fear that she might not have enough time left to fix any of this.
How do I protect you, she thought painfully, when loving you might destroy you?
After a long moment, she stood up again.
Mrs. Gracie would wake soon.
The food still needed to be finished.
And life, cruel as always, did not pause for a mother's fear.
Oliver pushed through the heavy iron gates of Golden Crest just as the morning bell rang its warning. The sun was already too bright, glaring off the concrete paths like it wanted to expose everything. He kept his head down, backpack slung low over one shoulder, hoping if he walked fast enough, he could blend into the crowd of uniforms and chatter.
But the whispers started before he'd even crossed the quad.
"Did you see? The bottom's here."
A group of juniors clustered near the fountain—girls mostly, but a couple of guys too—didn't even bother lowering their voices. One laughed, sharp and mean. "Yeah, look at him scurrying like he's scared Liam's gonna jump him again."
Oliver's stomach twisted. He sped up, sneakers squeaking on the pavement.
Another voice, louder: "I always knew he was a sissy. The way he talks sometimes, all soft and shit. Bet he cries during it."
Snickers rippled out. Someone mimicked a high-pitched moan, exaggerated and cruel. "Oh Liam, harder, please—"
A guy near the lockers snorted. "Wonder how many times Liam does it to him in a day. Probably can't even sit right anymore."
Oliver felt heat crawl up his neck, burning behind his eyes. He clenched his jaw so hard his teeth ached.
Near the main entrance, a cluster of Lorette's friends spotted him. One of them, Mia, crossed her arms and tilted her head. "Poor Liam. Betrayed his girl for that. What a waste. Lorette's way hotter, and she actually has standards."
Her friend leaned in, stage-whispering: "Seriously, though. Liam could do anyone. Why settle for the faggy little—"
Oliver's vision blurred at the edges. The words felt like knives sliding under his skin.
He walked faster, almost running now, shoulders hunched like he could make himself smaller.
Then someone stepped right into his path, smirking. "Yo, Oliver. Quick question." His voice carried, drawing more heads. "Does Liam make you call him daddy, or is it the other way around?"
Laughter exploded around them.
Oliver froze for half a second—long enough for the humiliation to sink bone-deep—then shoved past, shoulder-checking Tyler hard enough to make him stumble. He didn't look back. Didn't breathe properly until he rounded the sharp corner into the east hallway and shoved open the door to a boys' restroom—the one nobody used much because the lights flickered and the sinks leaked.
The door banged shut behind him.
The noise echoed.
Oliver stood there, breathing hard, his hands pressed against the sink. His reflection stared back at him—pale face, wide eyes, lips pressed tight like he was holding everything in by force.
This, he thought bitterly.
This is what I was afraid of.
The restroom smelled of soap and disinfectant. He leaned forward, resting his forehead against the cool mirror, trying to steady himself.
He had known people would talk. He just hadn't known they would be this cruel. This bold. This eager to tear him apart like entertainment.
His chest ached.
If Liam hears this…
The thought alone made his throat tighten.
Oliver swallowed hard and straightened slowly. He wiped his face with his sleeve, even though there were no tears yet. Crying here would make things worse. Crying would mean losing.
He took a deep breath.
Then another.
Just get through the day, he told himself.
Just survive this.
Still, as he reached for the door, his hand hesitated.
Because now, school didn't just feel like a place of classes and exams anymore.
It felt like a trap...