ELLA'S POV
The morning light crawled through my curtains like an unwelcome guest. I felt it before I saw it, a dull, persistent ache that started in my lower back and wrapped around my abdomen like a tight, burning band. I groaned, pulling the covers over my head, willing myself back into the darkness.
It was that time of the month. The particularly cruel kind where my body decided to wage war against me. The cramps weren't just cramps; they were sharp, twisting knives that made me want to curl into a ball and cease existing. My head throbbed in rhythm with my pulse. Every joint ached. Moving felt like wading through concrete.
I peeked at my phone. 9:47 AM.
Pearl's dinner was tonight. 7 PM. At her parents' house. The Smith family mansion that I'd known since I was a kid, climbing trees in their backyard and stealing cookies from their kitchen. Pearl had travelled home a day early to help her mom with preparations. She'd texted me last night: "Mom is going full Martha Stewart. Help. Send reinforcements. Also, wear something cute, my brother will be there, even if he's a robot, I want you to make me look good by association."*
I'd laughed at the time. Now, the thought of putting on real clothes felt like climbing Everest.
I could cancel. My body was screaming at me to cancel. Pearl would understand. She knew about my cramps; she'd held my hair back during the really bad ones in high school. One text. That's all it would take. "Sorry, can't make it, dying, send soup."
But then I remembered her face at The Grind. The anxiety. The way she'd said, "It'll feel less like facing a tribunal alone." I'd promised. I'd made a vow with cinnamon in my latte and indie music playing too loud. And Ella Greene kept her promises. Even when her uterus was staging a rebellion.
I sat up slowly, the world tilting dangerously before righting itself. The floor was cold against my bare feet. I shuffled to the bathroom, caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, I looked pale, dark circles under my eyes, hair a bird's nest and sighed. This was going to take work.
An hour later, after a scalding shower that did nothing for the cramps and everything for my will to live, I was dressed. Casual. That was the plan. The Smith house wasn't a formal venue; it was Pearl's home, my second home. I pulled on soft, high-waisted jeans that wouldn't dig into my aching stomach, a cozy cream sweater that hung off one shoulder, and my most comfortable ankle boots. I added a swipe of tinted lip balm so I didn't look like I was attending my own funeral.
The flight to Smiths' house wasn't a real flight, just an hour, forty-minute train ride to the affluent suburbs where Pearl's family had lived for generations. The kind of neighborhood where houses had names, not numbers. Where driveways were long enough to get lost in. I'd made the journey hundreds of times since childhood. The familiarity was its own kind of comfort.
Before boarding the train, I stopped at a little market near the station. Mrs. Smith, Abigail though I'd never dared call her that to her face had a weakness for the lavender shortbread from this particular bakery. And Mr. Smith loved those weird artisanal nuts that cost more than a meal. I grabbed both, along with a bottle of Abigail's 's favorite elderflower cordial. It was a ritual. I never showed up empty-handed.
The train was mercifully uncrowded. I found a seat by the window, pressed my forehead against the cool glass, and closed my eyes. The rhythmic clatter of the tracks was almost hypnotic. The pain was still there, a persistent throb, but manageable. I focused on my breathing. In through the nose, out through the mouth. You're fine. You're just going to see Pearl. You've done this a thousand times.
By the time the train pulled into the small, picturesque station, the sun was starting its slow descent, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink. I grabbed my bag, clutched my offerings, and stepped off.
A car was waiting. Mrs. Smith, being Mrs. Smith, had insisted on sending their driver. "Don't you dare take a taxi, Ella-girl. Roger will be at the station at 6:15 sharp." I'd tried to protest, but you didn't argue with Margaret Smith. The woman could probably negotiate peace treaties with her eyebrow game alone.
Roger, a kindly man in his sixties who'd driven me to school more times than I could count, smiled as I climbed into the backseat of the sleek black sedan. "Miss Ella. Good to see you."
"You too, Roger. Thanks for coming to get me."
"My pleasure. Mrs. Smith has been in the kitchen all day. Pearl said you were coming. The house is in a state of happy chaos."
I smiled, leaning back against the plush leather seat. The familiarity of it all was a balm. The winding roads lined with ancient trees. The sprawling estates that peeked through iron gates. The scent of freshly cut grass and expensive flowers.
The Smith house because it was too grand to be called just a house appeared around a bend. It was a Georgian-style mansion, all red brick and symmetrical windows, surrounded by perfectly manicured lawns and gardens that exploded with color even in the fading light. I'd always loved it here. It was warmth and laughter and the smell of Margaret's cooking. It was safety.
Roger pulled up the circular driveway and stopped at the grand entrance. Before I could even reach for the door handle, it was swinging open.
"Ella-girl!"
Abigail Smith stood there, arms wide, face lit with a smile that could power the entire neighborhood. She was elegant in that effortless way, silver-streaked hair swept back, a simple but expensive-looking dress, and an apron dusted with flour because of course she'd been baking.
I barely had time to step out before she enveloped me in a hug. The kind of hug that squeezed the air from your lungs but in the best way. She smelled like vanilla and roses and home.
"My darling, how are you?" She pulled back, holding me at arm's length, her sharp, kind eyes scanning my face. "You look pale. Are you eating enough? Are those art students feeding you? I knew it. I should send care packages. Pearl said you've been working too hard."
"Mama A," I laughed, the childhood nickname slipping out easily. "I'm fine. I promise. I brought you things."
Her eyes lit up as she took the bag. "Lavender shortbread! And cordial! And is that Joshua's ridiculous nuts?" She beamed. "You spoil us. You really do. And look at these" she lifted the cordial bottle, examining the label. "Perfect. Come in, come in. Let me look at you properly."
She ushered me inside, one arm still around my waist. The foyer was as grand as I remembered marble floors, a sweeping staircase, fresh flowers on the antique console table. But it was warm, not intimidating. Family photos lined the walls. Pearl's school pictures. Vacation shots. And there, in a silver frame, a younger version of Pearl with a gangly teenage boy who had the same eyes. Jackson. Before he became a headline.
"I saw what you got for Pearl," Abigail said, leading me toward the large, sun-drenched kitchen at the back of the house. The heart of the home. "The watercolor set from that little shop she loves? She hasn't stopped talking about it. You're too good to her. I really appreciate it, sweetheart. You've always been such a wonderful friend."
I shrugged, warmth blooming in my chest that had nothing to do with the cramps. "She's my person. It was just a small thing."
"Small things matter most," Abigail said wisely, gesturing for me to sit at the massive kitchen island while she bustled around, putting the kettle on. "Now. Tea. And then you must tell me everything. Your classes, your art, that roommate with the terrible taste in music"
"Chloe sends her love," I offered.
"Of course she does. She's a sweetheart." Margaret set a steaming mug in front of me, Earl Grey, just how I liked it and settled onto the stool beside me. "It's so good to have you here, Ella. It's been too long. Pearl keeps you all to herself at that university."
"I know. I'm sorry. Life gets busy."
"It does. But tonight, you're here. And" she paused, her eyes taking on a mischievous glint. "You'll finally get to see my son. After all these years."
My stomach flipped. Not from the cramps. From something else. Nerves, maybe. Or the residue of that conversation with Pearl, the one about the "boardroom voice" and the distant storm.
"JAbigailas soft, knowing. "Jackson doesn't get excited about much. But he's here. That's enough." She stood, smoothing her apron. "He should be down soon. He's been in his study on calls since he arrived. The man never stops working. Pearl is upstairs doing something with her hair, she's been at it for an hour. Henry is in the library, pretending to read but probably napping. We're a chaotic bunch, but you know us."
I did know them. That was the thing. I'd been coming here since I was seven years old, shy and clinging to Pearl's hand. I'd learned to ride a bike on their driveway. I'd cried on their sofa when my parents fought. I'd celebrated birthdays and holidays and ordinary Tuesdays within these walls. This house knew me. This family knew me.
Except for one person.
The distant storm was about to make landfall.
I sipped my tea, letting the warmth spread through me, trying to ignore the low ache in my abdomen and the higher, sharper ache of anticipation in my chest. It's fine. He's just a man. Pearl's brother. A stranger with a good voice and a billion-dollar company. Nothing to do with me.
The kitchen was warm and golden, filled with the smell of whatever Margaret was preparing—something rich and savory that made my stomach growl despite itself. I let the comfort of it wash over me, the familiar sounds of a house settling around us. The distant murmur of a television. The creak of floorboards upstairs. Margaret humming as she stirred something on the stove.
For a moment, I almost forgot the pain. Almost.
Then I heard footsteps on the stairs.
Not heavy, but deliberate. Measured. The kind of footsteps that announced themselves without trying. They came down the hallway, growing closer, and I felt something shift in the air. A change in pressure. A charge.
Margaret looked up, her face softening. "That'll be him. Jackson, honey, come meet"
He walked in.
And the world stopped.
It wasn't just his height, though he was tall. It wasn't just the way he filled the doorway, broad-shouldered and immaculate in a dark gray sweater that probably cost more than my rent. It was the 'aura'. The sheer, unapologetic presence of him. He commanded the room without trying, without even looking at me. His eyes swept the kitchen, cataloging, assessing, dismissing.
His back was to me at first as he greeted his mother with a brief kiss on the cheek. I saw the sharp cut of his shoulders, the way his sweater clung to muscles that spoke of private gyms and personal trainers. He moved with the confidence of someone who had never been told no. Who had never been made to feel small.
I shivered. Not from cold. From something deeper. A recognition that prickled along my skin like static.
Then he turned.
Our eyes met.
And the world didn't just stop. It shattered.
"YOU."