-Treasure.
The days after Devon left bled into one another until I could no longer tell where one ended and the next began. Time felt like a damp cloth wrung out over my head, dripping slowly, drop after drop, but never washing anything clean. I kept replaying what he had said, the sharp edges of his words turning over and over in my mind. Every thought clattered against the others like stones in a jar. I didn't know which of us had been the selfish one.
If he had grown up as I had, without anyone choosing him, would his judgement have been the same? If no one had ever looked at him and said you're the one I want, would he still have stood there telling me those things as if they were truth carved in stone? Or was it me who had failed—blind to my own inconsideration, buried so deep in the habits of survival that I could no longer tell them from my own nature?
The more I tried to sift through it, the murkier it became. I couldn't tell if I deserved every word he'd thrown at me, or if he had simply been hurting and wanted me to hurt too. Maybe both. Maybe neither. My head was a tight space with no air, and every question just circled back to him.
Still, somewhere in me, there was the soft, stubborn part that would have forgiven him without hesitation. If he walked through the door, I would have set everything aside, every bruise his voice had left. I would have watched my words, my tone, my timing, careful not to step where it would cut again. I would have done all of that, just for him to stay.
Out on the lawn, the sun hung heavy above us, pressing its warmth into the back of my neck. The air smelled faintly of cut grass and the sharp tang of metal from the golf clubs. I tried to focus on the slow rhythm of Elias's swing, the thud of the club meeting the ball, but my thoughts kept wandering into places I couldn't clear. The silence around us felt like still water—too smooth, too stagnant. I kept wishing for some small disruption, something to break the surface so I could feel the ripple.
Elias straightened suddenly, turning to look at me with that unreadable calm. "Haven't you grieved enough?"
I blinked, unsure if I'd heard him right. "I'm sorry… what do you mean?"
"Your friend's departure. I feel like you've been grieving it ever since. It's been three days now. Shouldn't you just… move on? Forget about it? It's not like he disappeared from the face of the earth. He's just working another job."
I shifted my weight, the club hanging loose in my hand. "I wish him good luck. I'm not grieving his absence. I mean, I hadn't seen him much since we came here anyway. It's just… strange now, knowing he's not somewhere nearby. I'll get used to it. Don't bother yourself with it."
"Good. I'll be looking forward to you being over it and focusing on what is important—your job."
"Yes, sir. Don't worry about that."
He studied me for a moment, then asked, "What would you like for dinner tonight?"
I hesitated, caught off guard. "Whatever you like."
"No, I'm asking you. I already have something in mind, but I want you to choose tonight. Maybe it will brighten your mood."
I forced a faint smile. "Surprise me."
"Okay, whatever you want." He set up for another shot, swung clean, and murmured, "Yeah, that's sick." Then, almost without ceremony, he slid the club into the bag and walked away. One of his assistants swooped in to carry it, trailing behind as we moved toward the house.
Inside, the cool air felt like a relief against my skin. Elias said he'd shower and talk to Daniela about dinner. I nodded, stepping aside as he went up the stairs. Something about the echo of his steps and the sudden quiet left the air in my chest feeling trapped.
That was when Cassandra came into view, her eyes sharp, mouth curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "You should attend to him now," she said.
I turned to her, caught between surprise and the sour taste of annoyance. "Cassandra… what exactly is it that you do? What's your job title?"
She smirked, tilting her head slightly. "I don't even know anymore. Don't argue so much—you talk back too often, and I don't like that. Just like your friend. Whoever raised you did a terrible job."
She brushed past me, her perfume lingering like smoke in the air, and walked away without looking back. My jaw tightened until it ached. There had to be a way to get back at her. I didn't know when or how, but I wasn't going to let it slide. Not this time.
The bathroom could have been a ballroom if someone had thought to put in chandeliers instead of recessed lights. White marble stretched in every direction, its surface veined with silver so faint it looked like threads of frozen rainwater. The sound of the faucet running filled the space in a slow, steady rush, the scent of eucalyptus steam curling up from the water.
Elias sat in the middle of it, the massive porcelain tub cradling him like a throne. His head was tilted back against the edge, eyes closed, hair slicked dark from the water. For a long while, neither of us spoke. I sat on the floor across from him, knees drawn to my chest, my back pressed against the cool stone wall. My elbows rested loosely over my knees, fingers locked together, the air warm against my face from the heat rising off the bath.
When I finally broke the silence, my voice sounded smaller than I intended. "Can I ask you something?"
Elias didn't open his eyes. "Mm. Go ahead." His tone was relaxed, almost indulgent, as if granting permission for something he had already decided to answer.
"Have you ever been in love?"
His lips curved faintly, not enough to be a smile. "Of course I have."
"What happened?"
That made him open his eyes, though only partway, his gaze cutting through the steam between us. "Too complicated to even put into words."
I shifted my weight, resting my chin on my knee. "And have you always been used to getting what you wanted… or was that something you learned later?"
This time, he laughed—quiet, the kind that seemed to travel only a short distance before fading. "An after effect." He moved lazily, resting his arm along the rim of the tub, fingers trailing over the edge like he was drawing invisible shapes. "You're actually smart, Treasure."
I met his look without a smile. "You had your doubts?"
"No," he said, tilting his head slightly, "I just thought I'd say it out loud."
I let the silence breathe for a moment, tracing the condensation on the floor tile with the edge of my shoe. "And when you want something… do you take it? Or do you wait until it's offered?"
His brow lifted just enough to suggest interest. "Depends. Sometimes taking it ruins the taste. Sometimes waiting too long lets someone else take it." He closed his eyes again, like the thought didn't require more explanation.
"And how do you know which one is the better choice?" I asked, watching his jaw tighten ever so slightly.
He shifted in the water, droplets sliding off his shoulders in slow arcs. "Instinct. The same way you seem to know when to push and when to hold back." His gaze flicked to me briefly. "You do that more than you think."
The warmth in the room began to press heavier on my skin, making me feel both restless and oddly anchored. I leaned my head back against the wall. "Do you ever change your mind about what you want?"
Elias's mouth curved again, this time closer to a smile. "Rarely. Changing your mind means you didn't really want it in the first place."
The answer sat between us, thick as the steam. I tried to catch any flicker of sincerity in his expression, some trace that would tell me if he was speaking in generalities or if he meant me. If he wanted me. But he gave me nothing except the steady calm of a man who knew how to keep his cards hidden.
The steam had turned the air thick enough to taste. My shirt clung faintly to my back, and the floor beneath me radiated a slow heat through the fabric of my pants. Elias hadn't moved much until then, content in his stillness, but something in my question must have settled differently.
He dipped one hand into the water, letting his fingers glide lazily just beneath the surface before lifting them out again. Droplets trailed from his skin in deliberate, unhurried lines, catching the light like small pieces of glass. He rested that damp hand on the rim of the tub, closer to where I sat, his knuckles angled toward me.
"It's easy to tell when someone wants to know more than they're asking," he said, his voice softer now, not a whisper but weighted so it seemed to travel slower. "The trick is deciding whether to answer them… or to make them ask properly."
My eyes followed the curve of his wrist before I forced them back up to his face. He was watching me now, fully, the kind of gaze that felt like it stripped the excess from you until only the answer remained.
I lifted a shoulder. "Maybe I like the questions better than the answers."
He leaned back again, but the corner of his mouth lingered in that near-smile. "That," he murmured, "is the problem with clever people. They forget that answers have their own weight."
His fingers tapped the porcelain once, slow and thoughtful, before sliding back into the water. The surface shivered outward in tiny ripples, like the still pond I'd imagined earlier finally disturbed. I stayed where I was, knees tucked tight, pretending not to wonder whether the stone had just been thrown.
"Do you ever get tired of Cassandra?"
Elias's eyelids didn't lift, but I saw the faint shift in his breathing. "Tired?"
"Mm," I said, adjusting my knees and leaning my chin on them. "She seems… efficient. Though sometimes it's hard to tell if she's guarding you or guarding herself. She talks like she owns part of you."
One of his fingers traced the tub's edge, slow and deliberate, leaving a faint wet trail behind. "Cassandra has been with me for years. She has earned the right to speak plainly."
I tilted my head slightly. "Plainly, or sharply?"
This time, his eyes opened fully, fixing on me with a calm that was just a shade too heavy. "Does she bother you?"
"She's not exactly warm," I said, my voice low, almost thoughtful. "I can't tell if she hates me or if that's just her way. But I think she hates me."
The corner of his mouth moved, not quite a smile, not quite dismissal. "Cassandra is useful. I don't expect her to be warm. That isn't her job."
I let a beat pass, then asked, "And what is her job, exactly? To keep people like me away from you, or to keep you from letting people in?"
His gaze didn't waver. "She knows where the lines are, and she keeps them intact. For my sake, and sometimes for theirs."
The water shifted as he adjusted his posture, the ripple running toward me like a small pulse. "You sound as though you've been thinking about her a lot."
"Just trying to figure out what she means to you," I said, picking at a seam in my pants. "If she's the kind of person you'd actually listen to, or if she's just… there because she's always been there."
His hand dipped into the water again, breaking the surface with a quiet splash. "Everyone has their place, Treasure. Cassandra knows hers. Do you?"
The question sat between us like a candle's small, steady flame—easy to ignore, but impossible not to feel. I looked away first, letting my gaze settle on the swirl of steam above the water, trying not to show how much his words had landed.
"I think," he said slowly, "that Daniela should prepare something rich tonight. Maybe veal. Or the duck, if she can manage it the way I like."
The change in subject was so clean it almost made me laugh. I pressed my lips together instead, resting my chin back on my knees. "I thought you said you were letting me choose dinner."
"I am," he replied without opening his eyes. "I'm just giving you good options."
"That's not really letting me choose," I said, watching the faint curve tug at his mouth.
"It's guidance," he murmured, letting one hand skim the water's surface in a slow arc. "People make better choices when they're… gently directed."
I hummed low in my throat, unsure if I was more intrigued or irritated by how easily he could sidestep a question without leaving a mark. "So, what you're saying is—you're the guidance."
He opened his eyes just long enough to meet mine, the kind of look that felt as if he'd read more from my words than I'd actually given him. "Exactly."
The water shifted again as he moved his arm, sending another ripple outward, and I found myself thinking about Cassandra, about what he'd left unsaid, and about how the ripples always came from the center.
I rose from the floor slowly, the cool of the marble slipping over my palms like water, my knees cracking softly in the heat-heavy hush. The air was thick enough to taste, damp and fragrant with eucalyptus, sticking to my skin and hair. I had only just found my balance when his fingers wrapped around my arm.
It was no mere touch—it was a closing, deliberate, the curve of his hand fitting with ease around my upper arm as though it belonged there. His palm was hot through the paper-thin fabric, the steady weight of it communicating everything without a word. The bathwater shifted once, a muted lap against porcelain, before falling still again.
Elias didn't rise. He didn't lean toward me. He simply turned his face up, droplets running in languid tracks from his temple to the edge of his jaw, catching light before vanishing into the water. His eyes—dark and fixed—pulled at me in a way that was less invitation and more command, quiet but absolute.
I leaned in because there was no space to do otherwise. The pull was there in the set of his gaze, in the heat radiating off his skin, in the soft drag of steam curling between us. The scent of eucalyptus was sharp enough to make my breath shift. His mouth found mine with deliberate precision, unhurried but anchored, his lips moving slow enough that I could feel every faint adjustment, each one making it clear the pace wasn't mine to decide.
His mouth was heat softened by water, his taste carrying the green edge of the herbs with that faint metallic thread—unsettling and intimate, like biting into a secret. My free hand landed on the slick rim of the tub, grounding me, but his grip didn't loosen. His thumb pressed faintly into the inside of my arm, where my pulse thudded fast under the skin, a point of control that tethered the rest of me to him.
The rest of his body barely moved, the water's surface a mirror except for the gentle sway caused by his breathing. He held that stillness like a net, keeping me in place not with force, but with an unspoken certainty that I wasn't going anywhere until he allowed it.
When I tried to lean back, his hand was already guiding me forward again—just enough that our lips almost touched, the heat of his breath spilling into mine. The nearness was suffocating in its quietness, each heartbeat making me aware that the moment's close wasn't mine to call.
Only when he released my arm did I straighten fully. The movement was unhurried, his fingers loosening one by one, as though he were setting something down carefully rather than letting it go. It felt like a silent cue, the kind that told you the moment was over because he had decided so.
His gaze stayed on me, steady and unreadable, the faintest curve at his mouth as if he were cataloging my reaction. No words followed, no nod, no change in expression—just that calm observation, like a man watching the last ripple fade from the surface of the water.
I stepped back, the warmth of his breath still clinging to my lips, the air between us thick enough to carry with me. It didn't feel like I was leaving because I wanted to. It felt like I was leaving because he had let me. And maybe I wouldn't say that out loud, not even to myself, but the thought settled somewhere low in my chest, quiet and heavy, as I walked to the door.
The hallway felt cooler, though it didn't do much to cut through the heat that still clung to me. My steps were quiet on the polished floor, but inside my head everything still hummed—his touch, the measured pace of that kiss, the way he'd let go as if it was his permission that sent me out the door.
I was halfway to the stairs when Cassandra appeared at the far end of the corridor, her heels clicking in a rhythm that didn't belong to anyone in a hurry. She looked at me as if she already knew where I'd been, her eyes narrowing just enough to sharpen the edges of her face.
"Enjoying yourself?" she asked, her voice wrapped in a sweetness so thin I could see the bitterness through it.
I stopped, letting my weight settle into one leg. "Shouldn't you be busy doing… whatever it is you actually do?"
Her lips pressed into a smirk that didn't reach her eyes. "I do enough. More than enough, actually. But I notice things, Treasure. And I noticed you."
I tilted my head slightly. "Careful, Cassandra. You might make it sound like you care."
She stepped closer, her perfume cutting into the faint eucalyptus still lingering in my senses. "Don't mistake noticing for caring. I only pay attention to what might get in the way. And you? You're starting to look like trouble that doesn't know when to leave a room."
Her words slid under my skin, but I kept my expression still, letting her think I hadn't felt them. "Guess you'll just have to keep noticing, then."
She gave a low hum, almost amused, and brushed past me, her shoulder grazing mine. The scent of her stayed behind, mingling with the heat I'd carried from the bathroom, and for a moment I couldn't tell which one was heavier.
The kitchen smelled like roasted herbs and fresh bread, warm and full in the air, the kind of smell that could pull you toward it without thinking. Daniela was at the counter, her sleeves rolled to the elbow, working on something I couldn't quite see from the doorway. She looked up the second I stepped inside.
"Did Mr. Maxwell say what he wants for dinner?"
"Okay, Daniela, I have a question," I said, holding up a hand as if I was about to tell her a secret worth locking away. "And this is just between us. You can't tell anyone."
Her brows lifted, the ghost of a smile tugging at her mouth. "Alright."
"So what I know," I began, leaning a little against the counter, "is that whatever Mr. Maxwell eats, everyone else eats too, right?"
"That's exactly it," she said without hesitation, still working with her hands.
"Perfect. So… what doesn't Cassandra like to eat?"
Daniela paused, looking down for a moment as though she was scrolling through some mental list. "Oh, that's tricky. She isn't a fan of any beef meat."
"Good to know." I nodded with a bit too much satisfaction. "Veal sounds fine, then. I mean, Mr. Maxwell did suggest that, I swear on my dead ancestors, he said he would like veal."
"Mhm," she murmured, her tone dry enough to cut through butter.
"And don't make anything else, okay? Maybe some side dishes she can pick at, I don't care. Just… nothing she'll be thrilled about."
Daniela's gaze flicked up to mine, one brow arching. "You're playing a very fine line here, Treasure. If she knew you said that—"
"Well," I cut in lightly, "you'd be the one telling her. And I'd hate for that to happen, you know?"
She gave a small laugh, shaking her head as she went back to her work. "Be careful. Being close to Mr. Maxwell doesn't mean the power dynamic has changed."
"Oh, I'm very aware of that," I said, the corner of my mouth lifting. "I just think she's the one who doesn't understand that the power dynamic doesn't change. So… veal it is. I'll be expecting it for dinner, okay? Thank you, Daniela. Love you."
I left the kitchen with the faint hum of her laughter following me down the hall. In my room, the air was cooler, quieter. I sat down on the bottom bunk, leaning forward with my elbows on my knees. My voice came out softer than I meant, almost like I was talking to the space in front of me instead of to anyone real.
"What would you have done, Devon… in this situation? What would you have done?"
The room stayed still, the only answer was the faint creak of the bed frame under my weight.
I leaned back until my shoulders touched the wall, the faint chill of it seeping through my shirt. My eyes traced the ceiling without really seeing it, the question still sitting in the air like smoke that wouldn't clear.
Devon would've handled it differently. He always had a way of stepping into a room and making it tilt without raising his voice. With Cassandra, he wouldn't have needed the detour, the games. He'd have said something sharp enough to pin her where she stood, then left her holding the silence. And with Elias… he would've known exactly how close to stand without giving anything away, just enough to make the man curious, maybe even uneasy.
I could almost picture him here—arms folded, weight set into one hip, watching the two of them with that look he had when he was measuring a situation. He'd have seen the seams in it, the soft spots no one else noticed, and he'd have found the right place to press.
Me, I had to settle for veal and little victories. And maybe that was fine, maybe not. But it was hard not to think about the way he could move people like pieces on a board, how he always seemed to know when to act and when to wait.
The thought left a strange pull in my chest, somewhere between missing him and wishing I could borrow his way of seeing things for just a day. I shut my eyes, and in the quiet, it felt almost like he might answer back.
Dinner was served in the main dining room, the long polished table gleaming under the soft light of the chandelier. The doors had been closed the moment we sat down, sealing us into the quiet that only the clink of cutlery and the faint hum of the air vents disturbed. The veal had been cooked exactly how I'd imagined—tender, with a buttery richness that lingered on the tongue. Elias carved his portion with an unhurried grace, the kind that made even the smallest movement feel intentional.
I ate slowly, letting the silence play its part. There was something about dining with him like this, away from the noise of the rest of the house, that felt as though we were sitting in the center of a stage with the audience hidden in the dark. When dessert came, a simple dish of poached pears, the weight of the meal settled warm in my chest.
When the doors opened, the cool air from the hallway brushed against my skin. We stepped out together, Elias just behind me. Cassandra was coming toward us from the opposite end of the hall, her stride measured, a small clutch bag in her hand.
"I'm heading out to have dinner with friends," she said, her gaze passing over me before landing on Elias.
He regarded her with the same mild curiosity he might offer a shift in the weather. "Why didn't you eat here?"
"You know I don't like beef," she replied, her voice smooth but clipped, before moving past us without waiting for his response. Her perfume lingered for a moment in the air she left behind.
Elias glanced at me then, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth. "Oh, well. I forgot this part."
He didn't elaborate. Instead, he began walking toward his room, the sound of his steps muffled by the carpet, his hands loose at his sides. I followed him with my eyes for a moment.
I stood there for a beat longer. The faintest smile tugged at my mouth, small enough to pass for nothing if anyone noticed. It wasn't much, but it was something.
Elias's words still hung in the air—I forgot this part—but I wasn't entirely convinced it had slipped his mind. Whether it had or hadn't didn't matter. What mattered was the quiet satisfaction curling in my chest, the knowledge that I'd steered the evening in a way that left her stepping out into the cold while I sat at his table behind closed doors.
It was a small win, but I could feel how easily it could become a habit. These little turns, these quiet adjustments no one else would think to look for. I knew I'd keep doing it, slipping the blade in just deep enough that she'd feel it without ever seeing me hold it.
I stayed where I was for another moment, letting the warmth of victory settle before I followed the sound of his steps down the hall.