I woke up with a strange tightness in my chest.
Not pain, exactly. Just a weight. Like something had shifted during the night, and the air had forgotten how to be light.
I sat up in bed, the sunlight filtering through the curtains too warm, too bright. My room looked the same as always—pristine, clean, curated. But it felt wrong. The silence was deeper than usual. Almost expectant.
Lately, everything felt like that.
Ever since Uncle Elliot came back.
He wasn’t someone I had grown up with. He’d been away for most of my childhood, always on "business trips," always too busy for birthdays or holidays. I barely knew him.
And yet, he came back acting like family mattered to him. Like he had always been around. Like we should be grateful.
Something about him always rubbed me the wrong way. The way he smiled too long. The way his eyes lingered on people like he was imagining things he shouldn’t. The way his voice dipped when he talked to Mother.
I don’t even know if he did it seriously or just to make a statement.
I just know that I felt sick. The idea of him with her. Of him touching her. Of him standing where my real father should’ve been.
Mother didn’t give him an answer. But she didn’t outright refuse either. That scared me more.
She was always the warmest part of my world. The only person who never demanded anything from me I wasn’t willing to give. Who never treated me like a pawn or a symbol or a title.
More than I say. More than I show.
And now... I don’t know. Something feels wrong.
My phone buzzed beside me. I glanced at the screen—Zane had sent something in the group chat. A meme. Of course.
I sighed and unlocked it.
That’s when I thought of them.
Zane—still throwing himself into chaos like it was a sport. Stupid, reckless, somehow endearing.
Iris—eyes sharp as razors. She sees everything. Always calculating.
Lena—heart too big for this world. Always the first to care. The first to hurt.
And Emphera—unfiltered, chaotic, brilliant in the most infuriating way.
For a moment, it grounded me. Reminded me that there’s a world outside this prison of crystal and silence.
"Miss Celeste," a maid called gently through the door. "Sir Elliot requests your presence."
I woke to the scent of food.
Something savory. Eggs. Toast. Garlic. The faint edge of something burnt. My stomach twisted—part hunger, part disbelief.
A soft, tuneless hum. Lazy, almost cheerful.
I cracked one eye open. Light streamed in through half-drawn blinds. I was still on the couch, wrapped in a blanket I didn’t remember asking for.
Everything ached. My arms, my back, my head. Even my jaw felt heavy.
He stood at the stove, barefoot, wearing a plain black t-shirt that clung just enough to trace the shape of his back and shoulders. The sleeves were rolled to reveal forearms lined with faint scars and veins that caught the light.
Messy black hair fell across his forehead, still damp from a shower, a cigarette tucked behind one ear and another between his lips, unlit.
I have to admit he does look handsome.
He flipped an omelet with the casual grace
Then he turned, finally noticing I was awake.
He looked at me with a gentle smile..