Chapter 10

Avery’s POV

The morning light seemed hesitant, filtering through the glass windows of the university café with a diffused glow. I claimed our usual round table near the glass wall with Elize and Victoria. The sunlight looked like wisps of smoke as it touched the rising steam of our coffees.

Victoria laughed, a melodic sound, about something funny Elize recounted—a story involving a dean, a lost wig, and a fountain incident. I half-listened, offering a token smirk, but my mind wandered, stirring the froth of my cappuccino until the pattern blurred.

The atmosphere lived, a tapestry woven from the murmur of conversations, the clinking of ceramic cups, and the burst of student laughter. Yet, something unsettling pulled my attention away from my friends.

From a corner of the café, a sound rose above the hum of chatter—sharp, agitated voices. My ears picked it up, like a warning bell cutting through the noise.

It was the sound of discord, of control struggling to assert itself. I turned my head, eyes narrowing as I traced the unpleasant friction.

That’s when I saw them. A boy, tall, muscular, dressed in a crisp shirt with sleeves rolled up, stood beside a girl who looked fragile in a light blue dress.

His hand clamped around her wrist. It was a grip of force, possessive and brutal.

She tried to pull away, her posture radiating distress, but his grip remained. His knuckles turned white with the effort, and her eyes shimmered with tears, the dam threatening to break.

Something primal snapped inside me. Heat, sharp and furious, surged in my chest, replacing the cold apathy I usually wore. It was the feeling of injustice.

I stood before I realized the decision had been made, my blood roaring in my ears. But before I could take a purposeful step, Elize’s hand shot out, grabbing my wrist—an echo of the scene I was about to intervene in.

“Don’t you dare interfere, Avery,” she hissed, her eyes flashing in a warning, not of danger to me, but of the chaos I was about to invite.

I turned to her, startled by the force of her grip and the sharpness of her tone, my brows furrowing in confusion and rising anger.

“Why?” I demanded, my voice low but trembling with controlled rage. “Can’t you see the way he’s treating her? That is not acceptable.”

Elize’s grip tightened, her fingers digging into my skin as if she were determined to anchor me to the floor.

“And what’s your problem with it?” she countered, keeping her voice low. “Maybe there’s something going on between those two. A private fight. You don’t know the full story, Ave. Don’t start a scene you can’t finish.”

Her words stung, not because they were unreasonable—they were the words of caution I should heed—but because they brushed against the edge of a hesitation I battled. Intervention was messy. It was public. It was uncharacteristic of my family background.

Yet, when I looked back at the corner, saw the helplessness in the girl’s face, saw the way her lips quivered as she whispered something he refused to hear, all hesitation dissolved into a righteous fire. I pulled my hand free from Elize’s grasp with a sharp tug.

“Okay, fine,” I muttered, my jaw tightening as I forced myself to retreat. “But if this goes beyond a point, if he doesn’t let go, it won’t be just her problem—it’ll be his problem with me.”

Elize sighed, throwing her head back in frustration, a gesture that spoke volumes of our history. “You’re impossible. You just crave a challenge, don’t you?”

I did not respond. Instead, I forced myself to sit, pulling my cappuccino toward me. I lifted the cup, forcing myself to take a sip of the cool liquid, though every nerve in my body screamed for me to act.

My eyes never left them. I drew a line in the sand, a silent timer set in my mind. With each passing moment, the scene unfolded in ways that made my stomach twist with nausea and anger.

His body language became more aggressive, his face flushed with dominance. Five minutes later, the line was crossed.

I saw it—the girl’s tears broke free, silent trails sliding down her cheeks as she tried once again, weakly, to pull her hand away. But the boy did not release her.

His grip remained iron, his stance dominant, his expression set in arrogant entitlement. That was it.

I could not sit still. The image of that powerless girl was too much like the countless times I felt trapped by the family grip of expectation.

I slammed my cup down on the table, the sharp, sudden sound startling Victoria, who nearly spilled her latte. Without another word, without a glance at my stunned friends, I rose from my chair.

My steps were firm, heavy, and determined as I crossed the café floor, my heels striking the tiled surface like a drumbeat of inevitable action. The boy noticed me approaching, his brows knitting in irritation, annoyed that someone dared to invade his private display of power.

But before he could react or formulate a dismissive word, I reached them. I moved swiftly, purposefully.

With one abrupt, strong move, I grasped the back of his hand and prized his fingers away, freeing the girl’s trembling wrist from his iron grasp. The action was fast, non-negotiable, and shocking.

His head snapped toward me, his eyes blazing with the shock of interruption and wounded ego.

“Who are you?” he barked, his voice heavy with self-importance, his arrogance dripping from every syllable. “You have no right to touch me!”

I straightened to my full height, meeting his glare, my own eyes cold and steady. I felt the powerful mask slide into place, granting me the required, terrifying authority.

“You don’t know me,” I said, my tone firm, uncompromising, cutting through his bluster. “But you don’t get to treat anyone like that. Not under my watch. Never again.”

The café had gone quiet, the murmur of student whispers beginning to rise into the tense air as they realized a dramatic confrontation was underway. They witnessed the emergence of my scandalous side, but this time, the scandal was righteous.

The boy scoffed, running his tongue over his teeth, a gesture of mockery, before letting out a sharp laugh.

“Who the hell are you to interfere in my personal matter? She’s my girlfriend. We were having a talk.”

I did not flinch. Instead, I turned my gaze briefly to the girl, whose eyes were wide with a mix of terror and disbelief, her breathing shallow. She was too frightened to speak.

Then, I looked back at him, my expression one of distilled contempt.

“Of course she’s your girlfriend,” I replied, my voice dangerously cold. “But before that—she’s a person, a human being. And you don’t get to behave like this with her. You don’t get to scare her or impose your will with force. Ever.”

His jaw clenched, his nostrils flaring, the realization that I was not just some random girl, but someone who commanded attention, starting to dawn on him.

“You don’t get it. This is between us. Stay out of it.”

“No,” I said, my voice rising just enough to be heard clearly over the whispers. “If you think love gives you a right to control or hurt her, then you’re wrong. You’re disgusting. And if you try this again, if I ever see you lay a hand on her or anyone else in aggression, I’ll report you straight to the principal’s office. I promise you, I will make sure our family legal team handles your expulsion. Don’t test me.”

For a moment, his arrogance faltered, replaced by a flash of genuine fear as he finally assessed my clothes, my posture, and the unshakeable promise in my eyes. He knew, instinctively, that I was someone who could deliver on that threat.

Then, his lips curled into a venomous smirk, trying to salvage the last of his pride.

“I’ll see you later, heiress,” he sneered, his voice low and toxic. “Watch your back. You just made an enemy.”

With that, he turned sharply and stormed out of the café, his footsteps heavy with frustrated fury, leaving behind a trail of shocked silence. I exhaled, the tension in my shoulders easing.

Turning to the girl, I softened my expression, dropping the icy mask I used on my enemies.

“Are you okay?” I asked, my voice gentle.

She blinked, tears still shimmering on her lashes. Then, to my surprise, she stepped forward and hugged me tightly.

For a second, I froze, my arms awkwardly suspended at my sides. I was not accustomed to genuine, unrestrained emotional contact.

But then I felt the tremor in her body, the way she clung to me as if she had just escaped something suffocating and was desperate for an anchor.

“Thank you,” she whispered, her voice cracking with residual fear. “Thank you so much. I didn’t know what to do.”

I gently placed a hand on her shoulder, pulling back so I could look into her eyes, which were wet but clearer now.

“But why didn’t you speak up for yourself? Why didn’t you just walk away?” I asked, the concern in my tone overriding the impulse to judge.

Her lips quivered as she shook her head, unable to meet my gaze.

“I tried. I really did. But… he wasn’t ready to listen. He never listens when he’s angry. I was scared of what he would do if I screamed.”

I studied her face, feeling both anger at the boy and sympathy for her fear. She was trapped, not by a physical restraint, but by a psychological one.

“Listen to me,” I said, my voice steady but infused with firm kindness. “If something like this ever happens again, you know my name now. You can come to me. Or better yet, you should go straight to the principal’s office and report him. Immediately. Don’t let anyone treat you this way. Ever. Your safety and your dignity come first.”

Her eyes glistened as she nodded. “I will. I promise. Thank you again, Avery.”

She gave me a small, shaky smile before turning and hurrying out of the café, her figure disappearing quickly through the glass doors, seeking escape and distance.

I let out a breath, running a hand through my hair, trying to calm the chaotic storm of emotions raging inside me—the adrenaline, the residual fury, and the satisfaction of doing the right thing, regardless of the consequences.

And then—

I felt it. That shift in the air, a presence that was magnetic and imposing.

As I turned back toward my table, my eyes caught a figure standing in the far corner of the café, near the emergency exit, partially cloaked in the shadows cast by a pillar yet unmistakable. Ms. Rose.

Her arms were folded across her chest, her posture as composed as ever, but her eyes… her eyes were piercing, sharp as daggers, directed entirely at me. She had not merely noticed the scene—she had observed every minute detail.

She was not passively watching me—she was studying me, dissecting every move I had made, every word I had spoken, absorbing the true, unfiltered persona that had stepped out of the shell of the heiress.

For a moment, my heart skipped a beat and then began to race. Her gaze was too intense, almost suffocating.

It was as if she had seen through me—not just my actions, but the profound, passionate fire that had driven them. She had seen the vulnerability, the need for justice, the sheer refusal to tolerate cruelty.

I straightened instinctively, matching her intense stare. The café seemed to blur around us, fading into a silence, as though there was no one else in that space except the two of us, locked in a silent exchange of acknowledgement.

Her lips curved—just slightly, a movement of millimeters—into something between a skeptical smirk and a knowing smile. It was an expression that suggested she was revising her personal file on me.

Then, without a word, she turned and walked out, her heels clicking sharply against the tiled floor, the rhythm deliberate and final.

I stood frozen for a moment, my chest tightening with unanswered questions. Why had she been there? How long had she been watching? Why the silence?

And what, precisely, did that look mean to the woman who had only seen me as arrogant and spoiled?

When I finally returned to my seat, Elize was staring at me with exasperation, though Victoria’s eyes sparkled with a genuine, rare admiration.

“You just don’t know how to stay out of trouble, do you, Ave?” Elize muttered, rolling her eyes and then immediately checking my empty coffee cup. “You’re going to get yourself killed. That guy looked like he just crawled out of a cage.”

I smirked, still unsettled but unwilling to admit it, running my hand over the cool ceramic of the table.

“Maybe trouble finds me,” I said, lifting my coffee cup, though the taste had gone cold and flat. Yet, somewhere in the back of my mind, Ms. Rose’s piercing gaze lingered—like an unanswered question, a profound shift in our dynamic, that would return to haunt me sooner than I expected.

The corridors of the university the next day echoed with murmurs, the buzz that always came before something significant. Today, it was the sound of students bracing themselves for the weekly assessment.

I walked between Elize and Victoria, both of them radiant in their own ways, though they could not have been more different. Elize had that playful, rebellious smirk, ready with a sarcastic remark and a plan for mischief.

Victoria carried herself with an elegance that rivaled royalty, chin raised, eyes calm but sharp, an observer of the world. Me? I was supposed to walk with that aura of untouchable confidence, the kind that made people whisper, “That’s her. That’s Avery.”

And they did. But inside, most days, I just wished I could vanish into the crowd, or at least, that the weight of my family name would lift for an hour.

The classroom door loomed ahead, dark and ominous. Elize nudged me with her elbow, her voice low and teasing.

“Your face looks like you’re about to be sentenced to ten years of hard labor in a salt mine,” she commented.

I sighed, already ruffling my hair in a restless gesture, frustration simmering beneath my usual composure. “I just have this bad feeling today, Elize. A premonition of doom, possibly brought on by our resident Ice Queen.”

“Oh, come on,” Victoria’s voice was smooth, a touch amused, her composure unshakable. “You make grand entrances, stand up to thugs in the cafeteria, and break rules without blinking. What’s a little class compared to that? At least today, you won’t have to fight anyone.”

“This isn’t just a little class,” I muttered, a knot forming in my stomach as we stepped inside.

The first thing I saw was the blackboard. A single word written across it, bold, merciless, and underlined with a severe straight line: TEST.

My jaw tightened. The dread was immediate and physical.

“Oh, damn,” Elize whispered, leaning closer, her mischief momentarily replaced by student panic. “Did you even study the fiscal policy section?”

“Shut up,” I hissed back, pulling out my notebook, mentally reviewing the last five chapters.

Victoria let out the faintest, most elegant chuckle. “I assume this explains your grim expression. You knew she was ruthless about weekly checks, Avery.”

I sighed again, letting my fingers drag through my hair. This was great. A mandatory test, out of nowhere, and with Ms. Rose, failure was not an option one could comfortably entertain.

The chatter in the room slowly died down as a hush swept across. The air seemed to thicken, tense, as if everyone sensed the incoming storm.

And then—

Click. Click. Click.

The sound of heels against the polished tiles of the corridor. Rhythmic. Unforgiving. Commanding. Ms. Rose entered the room.

Her presence was magnetic. Her eyes were sharp enough to cut through steel, her jawline so precise it could have been carved by a sculptor of ruthless perfection.

Her posture was regal and intimidating. She was polished, poised, every movement controlled, a living embodiment of the cold discipline she demanded.

The room seemed to shrink in her presence. No one dared whisper. No one dared slouch. Her gaze swept the classroom like a blade.

For one fleeting, horrifying moment, I thought her eyes landed on me, piercing straight through, acknowledging our tense conversation from the day before, acknowledging the café incident she had witnessed. But no—she did not stop. She never did.

She carried herself to the desk with that flawless demeanor, setting her bag down. And then, without preamble, she began distributing the test papers.

The silence was deafening, broken only by the rustle of the paper. When my paper landed on my desk, placed with the precision of a guillotine, I stared at it. For a moment, my mind was a blank canvas, my heart pounding against my ribs.

“This test,” Ms. Rose announced, her voice cool, professional, and unyielding, “is for your monthly analysis. You will have thirty minutes. No phones, no talking, no excuses.”

She paused, eyes sweeping over us again, daring anyone to challenge her authority. She paused just long enough for the tension to become unbearable.

“Your time starts… now.”

The frantic sound of pen scratching filled the air. Desperate, focused—it sounded like a storm of ink and paper. I inhaled and looked at the paper.

Line after line of complex economic theories and concepts. At first, my mind was indeed blanked by panic.

But then… something shifted. The natural sharpness of my mind, the one trained since childhood to absorb complex financial data, kicked in.

I knew this. Every single question. Every theory. Every definition. Every explanation. The countless hours I was forced to spend listening to family discussions, the early exposure to high finance—it was not just knowledge; it was intuition.

I exhaled, relief washing over me. Finally, something was going right. I bent over the paper, my pen racing across the lines.

My handwriting, usually a careless scrawl, danced across the page with surprising confidence. I answered every question meticulously, layering the textbook theory with the real-world application my privileged life had afforded me.

I made sure there was not a single flaw she could point out. Not today. Not me.

I was not going to let Ms. Rose look at me like I was some spoiled brat who did not care about studies, someone wasting her talent and privilege. She was wrong about me. And today, I was going to prove it.

Time blurred. My world shrank to the paper and the determined movements of my pen. And then, her voice cut through the silence, calm and absolute.

“Time’s up.”

The room froze. Reluctantly, pens stilled. Papers were gathered. I leaned back in my chair, a quiet, unfamiliar confidence flickering in my chest. For once, I felt like I had done something right, something flawless.

Ms. Rose collected the last paper and returned to the front of the class, the stack of tests heavy in her hands. Her heels clicked softly as she placed the stack on her desk.

She did not smile. She never did. Instead, she looked over us with that same piercing gaze, her lips pressed in a severe, thin line.

“Tomorrow,” she began, her tone systemized, professional, yet strangely heavy and deliberate, “you will have your results.”

She paused for an agonizing moment, letting the students breathe a sigh of relief before delivering the rest of the news. “Along with the announcement of the Teaching Assistant who will be working under me this term. That,” she emphasized, her eyes sweeping over the room once more, “was the primary purpose of this test.”

The words hit me like a thunderbolt. I blinked, staring at her, my mouth agape.

What? My heart sank, a lead weight dropping in my chest.

She was not serious. She could not be.

A TA? 

Her TA?

No. No, no, no. The worst outcome. I had written that test like my life depended on achieving perfection—but I did not want this.

Being Ms. Rose’s Teaching Assistant would be a nightmare. Spending hours under her hawk-like gaze, every mistake magnified, every flaw exposed.

She would not tolerate me; she would supervise me. She would chew me up and spit me out with cold precision.

Elize leaned toward me, her eyes wide, whispering in a voice that trembled with amusement and disbelief. “Avery… imagine you as her assistant. That’d be hilarious. She’d assign you to count paperclips.”

I shot her a glare, muttering under my breath, “Don’t even joke about it. I’d rather be stuck in a long family briefing for a week straight.”

Victoria, composed, arched a brow, an expression of interest crossing her face. “You’re panicking already? Avery, you did well, didn’t you? You didn’t even use a cheat sheet.”

“That’s the problem!” I whispered, leaning closer, my agitation contained. “I did well. Too well. The test was designed to filter out the best. She’ll think I’m perfect for this job. And then—boom—I’m trapped. Under her command.”

Victoria allowed herself a delicious smirk. “Trapped under Ms. Rose’s command. Having to report to the Ice Queen daily. That does sound… poetic, Avery. A punishment for all your arrogance.”

I groaned, sinking back in my seat, burying my face in my hands. My mind spun in chaos.

All I could do now was pray that fate, for once, would spare me this ironic joke. I needed a flaw in my paper. I needed James or Elena to have scored one point higher.

Meanwhile, Ms. Rose was already gathering her things, her movement sharp and decisive. She did not cast a glance at me.

No acknowledgment, no suspicion, nothing to suggest she knew the terror she had just inflicted upon the most privileged student in the room. Just the sharp sound of her heels striking the floor as she turned and walked toward the door.

Click. Click. Click.

Her departure was as composed as her arrival. Not a word wasted. Not a glance spared.

And just like that, she was gone. But my heart still thundered.

My chest felt heavy, weighed down by the terrifying thought of tomorrow’s announcement. The classroom burst into chatter the moment the door closed.

“Who do you think it’ll be?” someone whispered.

“Probably James. He’s always topping the charts. He has to be.”

“Or maybe Elena. She’s obsessed with getting close to Rose.”

Elize leaned back in her chair, grinning at me, enjoying my discomfort. “Or maybe Avery, the most unlikely TA ever. That’d be drama for the entire semester.”

I groaned louder, burying my face deeper in my hands. “Don’t. Even. Say. It.”

Victoria tilted her head, her eyes softening—a display of empathy. “You’ll survive, Avery. Even if it’s you. You’re good at surviving impossible situations.”

“No,” I muttered through my palms. “Not this. Not under her. Anyone but me.”

But the truth, cold and certain, gnawed at the back of my mind. I had done well. Too well. And that might have just sealed my fate, ironically, by succeeding.

The classroom chatter faded in my ears. All I could hear was the echo of her words, like a judgment delivered from a cold mountain peak: “That was the purpose of this test.”

Somewhere deep inside, despite my dread, there was a tiny, inconvenient flicker of curiosity I refused to admit. What would it be like—standing so close to Ms. Rose’s world, seeing the woman behind that flawless façade?

To have that piercing focus directed not in challenge, but in instruction? I shook my head, trying to dislodge the thought.

“No,” I whispered. “This can’t happen. It won’t happen. I’m going to find a way to get someone to change the score.”

But as the sound of her heels echoed in my memory, a constant, sharp rhythm, I was not so sure.

The sleek black car rolled down the long driveway, tires crunching over the imported white gravel that lined the path to our estate. The mansion rose ahead like a monument—grand, immaculate, flawless, a projection of power, but never home.

Its tall, imposing glass windows caught the late evening light, reflecting gold and crimson from the dying sun, like cold, watchful eyes that saw everything but revealed nothing. I sat back against the leather seat, running my fingers through my hair in that restless way of mine, lost in thought.

The university day lingered in my mind—Ms. Rose, her piercing gaze, the dramatic confrontation in the cafeteria, and the paralyzing dread of being her newly appointed TA. I wanted to escape it, push it away, but even the mansion’s opulence felt too suffocating to offer comfort.

❖ 

The car came to a halt with a silent, hydraulic sigh. The chauffeur stepped out and opened the door for me with disciplined precision.

I nodded, stepping out, my expensive shoes clicking against the cold, gray marble steps leading up to the grand double doors. As soon as I entered, the conditioned air greeted me—the scent of polished dark wood, heritage, and a faint, soothing lavender.

The massive crystal chandeliers above sparkled, light dancing off their countless drops, illuminating the tapestries. Everything was perfect.

Too perfect. And then, a warm voice broke through the oppressive silence, shattering the cold perfection.

“Oh, my darling—come, come! You are late! Look what I have cooked for you tonight!”

I turned, and there she was. Emily.

Not blood, not family in the traditional sense, yet she was the most constant and reliable presence I had ever known. She had been with us for longer than I had been alive—the housekeeper, the caretaker, the guardian of the mansion’s soul, the one person whose presence made the cold, marble walls feel warmer.

She bustled forward, a short, stout woman with a smile wide enough to light the hall, her eyes shining with that unshakable, non-judgmental affection that no wealth could buy. She always called me my darling, a term I never fought against because, coming from her, it did not feel patronizing or contractual.

It felt… safe. I raised my brows, amused, curious, a real, unforced smirk playing on my lips.

“What is it this time, Emily? Another one of your attempts to make me happy and well-fed?”

She wagged a finger at me, her voice brimming with mock seriousness, but her eyes twinkling. “None of that spoiled, lazy talk with me, young lady. I’ve made your favorites. Come to the dining hall, and you’ll see. It’s a special occasion.”

I shrugged, tugging at the buttons of my jacket, feeling the need to shed the formal armor. “Favorites, huh? That’s dangerous, Emily. You know my list is longer than the driveway.”

She laughed, a warm, hearty, genuine sound that echoed off the high walls and managed to soften the mansion’s intimidating silence. “Oh, hush now. Just wait until you see it. Go on, hang up your coat and tell me all about the trouble you got into today.”

I took a few steps toward the cloakroom, then stopped, noticing something in her tone—gentle, but evasive about the real reasons for the elaborate meal. “Where are they, Emily?” I asked, the lightness dropping from my voice. “Father and Mother. Why the banquet?”

Her smile faltered, though she tried to replace it with a bright, convincing expression. “Your parents aren’t home tonight, my darling. In fact, they won’t be for the next week. Important travel. Overseas. Unexpectedly extended.”

I froze, then let out a weary sigh, dragging my hand down my face. Of course.

The expected was always the last to happen; the unexpected departure, the norm. They did not even… I trailed off, shaking my head, unable to finish the sentence—call me? Leave a note?

Emily’s eyes softened, watching me with that mixture of understanding and sadness she always carried when it came to my parents and me. “They love you, Avery,” she said, her tone a plea for understanding.

“Do they?” My voice came out sharper than I intended, laced with bitterness.

I exhaled, lowering it. “Love me… or love the idea of me? The heir. The image. The flawless mask they’ve worked so hard to sculpt.”

Emily did not argue. She never did. She stepped closer and placed a reassuring hand on my arm, squeezing.

“Don’t be disappointed, my darling. They have their world, but you have yours. And right now, your world includes a good dinner waiting in the hall. You deserve a break from all that pressure.”

Her words pulled a reluctant chuckle out of me. She always knew how to soften the edges of the reality, even when the underlying ache remained.

“All right,” I muttered. “I’ll freshen up first. I need to shed this heavy skin.”

“Good,” she said, smiling again, regaining her composure. “You’ll want to be sharp before you see what I’ve done. Go now. And don’t take too long—I won’t have cold food on my table. I worked too hard for that.”

I nodded and climbed the grand staircase, my footsteps echoing in the pervasive emptiness of the hallway. The mansion was vast, a museum filled with priceless art, polished marble, golden frames, and antique vases.

But as I walked through it, I could not shake the hollowness. Wealth screamed from every corner, but warmth was a whisper.

My private suite was no exception—grand bed, silk sheets, carved wood, and a massive window overlooking the estate gardens. I set my jacket aside, loosened my collar, and splashed cold water over my face in the bathroom, using the icy sting to clear my head of Ms. Rose’s test and the boy’s arrogance.

Staring into the mirror, I saw the same face the world saw—the flawless heir. Strong jawline, dark hair tousled, eyes carrying that careless gleam people mistook for confidence.

But beneath, I knew the truth. I was not untouchable.

I was not unshakable. I was just… tired.

After changing into comfortable cashmere trousers and a soft knit shirt, I descended again. The rich scent of roasted herbs and fresh bread wafted through the halls, making my stomach rumble despite my mood.

As I stepped into the dining hall, I stopped short, my breath catching. Emily had outdone herself.

The long mahogany table gleamed under the soft light of the chandelier, silverware lined with obsessive precision. But at its center lay a spread that could rival a banquet—perfectly grilled salmon with a lemon-herb glaze, tender roasted vegetables, rich, buttery mashed potatoes, garlic bread fresh from the oven, and a dessert tray with small pastries I had not seen since I was a small child.

It was a feast, prepared for one. I blinked, touched. “Emily… you cooked all this? All of this? For just me?”

She stood proudly at the far end of the table, hands on her hips, smiling like a queen surveying her feast. “Of course I did, my darling. What else was I to do with a whole week of quiet in this big, empty house? You deserve a good meal, Avery. More than anyone else I know.”

I stepped closer, my chest tightening in that strange way it did when gratitude and guilt collided. “You didn’t have to go through all this trouble…”

“Oh, hush!” she interrupted, waving me toward the chair at the center of the table. “Sit. Eat. No more of your dramatic sighing or your talk of empire tonight. Not at my table. Just let me take care of you.”

I chuckled, defeated by her kindness, and obeyed, sinking into the high-backed chair. She began serving, humming under her breath, moving with the grace of someone who knew every rhythm of this house, but who preferred the rhythm of the kitchen.

As she placed the first plate before me, she looked down at me with that smile again—the kind that made the mansion feel a little less empty, a little more like a refuge. “You carry the expectations on your shoulders, Avery. The weight of that name is too heavy for anyone, let alone a young man. But tonight, just let yourself be twenty-four. Just eat, and laugh, and be… my darling girl.”

Her words hit deeper than I expected, recognizing the duality of my life without judgment. I smiled, lifting my fork.

“Fine,” I said, my voice softer than before, conceding the point. “But only because you made my grandmother’s recipe for the salmon glaze. Don’t think I didn’t notice.”

She laughed, the rich sound bouncing off the chandelier. And for the first time that day, I felt the professional knot in my chest loosen, allowing me a small moment of peace.

Dinner began, and though the mansion was vast and echoing, for once, surrounded by the warmth of Emily’s food and her unconditional affection, it did not feel so terrifyingly empty.