𝐂𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐑𝐀
THE FIRST TWENTY MINUTES of the movie were a blur of exposition and predictable character introductions. We were in a moment of manufactured peace, surrounded by the velvet hush of the theater room and the sweet aroma of buttered kettle corn. But the quiet was getting to me. It always did. The silence of the room was too heavy, too complete. It wasn't the silence of rest; it was the silence of absence.
I shifted in my reclining leather chair, my reflection on the dark screen mirroring a restlessness I couldn't shake. Mich, utterly lost in the film, didn't notice my fidgeting. She was still grinning widely, occasionally whispering comments about the lead actor's questionable life choices. I should have been focused on the movie, but the recent thought of my parents' habitual absence had settled like lead in my stomach.
I needed noise. I needed lights, chaos, and the distraction of the outside world—a world my parents had essentially walled off with high gates and armed security.
I reached out and lightly tapped Mich's knee, pulling her attention away from the onscreen disaster.
"Let's go out," I stated, the sudden decision feeling like a fresh, cold gulp of air.
Mich frowned, pausing a spoonful of ice cream mid-air. "Out? Now? Miss C, the antagonist hasn't even revealed his master plan yet! And we've got half a cheesecake left!"
"I know, but the quiet is making my teeth hurt," I exaggerated, forcing a dramatic shudder. "We've been cooped up inside the walls for three days straight. I need fluorescent lights and the smell of cheap mall cologne. It's time for an emergency shopping trip, which will, naturally, involve the arcade."
Mich's eyes lit up, the cheesecake forgotten. "An emergency shopping trip? To the city mall? Oh, Miss C, you are a genius!" She scrambled out of her chair, nearly tripping over the throw blanket. "I'll go tell Cynthia to call Ben! Wait, no, you should. She listens better to you."
I smiled, shaking my head at her enthusiasm. It was true; Cynthia treated Mich with a strict, motherly love, but she treated me with a distant, formal respect—the kind reserved for the daughter of her employers. It was a hierarchy that always felt awkward, despite our close bond.
I pulled out my phone, navigating to the housekeeper's direct line. "Cynthia," I said formally when she answered, my voice adopting the low, steady cadence I learned from listening to my father on conference calls. "Mich and I are leaving. Please call Ben now and inform him we need the car brought around immediately. We are heading to the Galleria Mall for a few hours."
There was a slight pause on the other end, a signature Cynthia pause that spoke volumes. Why are you disrupting the schedule, Miss Cassandra?
"Yes, Miss C," she finally replied, her tone cool but obedient. "I'll notify Ben. Do you require any additional security detail?"
"No, that won't be necessary. Just Ben," I confirmed, ending the call before she could offer further admonishment.
Ten minutes later, I was pulling on a leather jacket, and Mich was practically dancing with excitement as we descended the grand staircase. Ben, our driver, was already waiting outside in the sleek, matte-black Bentley Mulsanne, its engine idling softly.
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THE DRIVE TO THE GALLERIA was swift. The massive, glass and steel structure of the city mall felt like entering an entirely different universe—one of vibrant noise and uncontrolled energy, a stark contrast to the sterile quiet of the estate.
Mich's grip tightened on my arm the moment we stepped inside, surrounded by the rush of people and the competing scents of perfume and popcorn. The plan was simple: Arcade first, shopping second, dinner last.
We bypassed the high-end boutiques and headed straight for the lower level, where the neon glow of the Arcade Galaxy beckoned.
"Oh my gosh, they have the new dance-off machine!" Mich squealed, already pulling me toward a brightly lit station.
"We start with the classics, Mich," I corrected, fishing the small, matte-black card out of my wallet. It wasn't a bank debit card; it was the unlimited Black Card my father had given me on my fifteenth birthday. 'A gift for absolute freedom, Cassandra, use it wisely. It is limitless, but my name is on it.' He hadn't been home for the actual birthday party, but the card had arrived in a mahogany box, a silent, powerful proxy for his presence.
We started with the racing games. I'm competitive by nature, and Mich, while loud and enthusiastic, is terrible at manual coordination. We spent a ridiculous amount of time laughing as I expertly drifted past her cartoon avatar, which usually ended up slamming into a barrier.
"I swear, Miss C, that car hates me!" she complained, dramatically collapsing against the steering wheel.
"It doesn't hate you, Mich, you just brake on the straightaways," I chuckled, tapping the Black Card on the reader for another round.
Next came the shooting games, where my focus sharpened. I cleared the zombie horde game effortlessly, the loud, booming sound effects and the flashing lights momentarily drowning out the persistent hum of my own internal anxiety. Mich tried the claw machine and, as predicted, failed spectacularly.
"It's a scam, Miss C! It's scientifically engineered to hate me!" she insisted, her arms crossed in mock fury.
"It's not a scam; it's patience," I teased, stepping up and, on my first attempt, managing to snag a massive, iridescent plush unicorn. I handed it to her, watching her face dissolve into pure, unadulterated joy. That's what I craved—that simple, untainted happiness reflected in Mich's eyes. It made the guilt of spending an obscene amount of money (though Dad wouldn't notice or care) completely disappear.
For the next two hours, we lost ourselves completely. We played air hockey until our arms ached, we took silly photo booth strips, and Mich finally dragged me to the dance-off machine, forcing me to suffer the public humiliation of trying to keep up with her practiced footwork. It was exhausting, ridiculous, and exactly what I needed. Every flash of neon, every cheer, every loud arcade sound was a successful barrier against the unwelcome thoughts of my empty home.
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BY THE TIME WE LEFT THE ARCADE GALAXY, our pockets were full of tickets, and our energy was spent. We headed toward the top-floor restaurant specializing in high-end Western cuisine.
"I need protein, Miss C. I feel like I just ran a marathon," Mich declared, already scanning the menu before the waiter had finished seating us.
We settled into a secluded booth with a sweeping view of the city lights just beginning to twinkle into existence. I ordered the Wagyu steak, medium-rare, and Mich ordered a massive sirloin with all the trimmings. I used the Black Card again; the waiter merely bowed slightly, his expression unchanging, a clear indication that he was accustomed to serving the Smith name.
We talked about everything and nothing. Mich recounted a funny story about Cynthia accidentally using salt instead of sugar in the morning coffee. I mostly listened, watching the easy movement of her hands, appreciating her effortless presence.
When the food arrived, the conversation paused entirely. The rich, savory aroma of the grilled meat and rosemary filled the air. My steak was perfectly cooked, melting on my tongue, but the true star of the meal, as always, was dessert.
"The rules are clear," Mich announced, wiping her mouth with a linen napkin. "One slice of New York Cheesecake each, and two scoops of vanilla bean ice cream to share."
The cheesecake was heavenly: creamy, tangy, and rich. The cold vanilla ice cream was the perfect counterpoint. We ate slowly, savoring every bite, our comfortable silence only broken by the occasional clinking of spoons.
It was while Mich was carefully dividing the final spoonful of ice cream that I let my gaze drift toward the central aisle of the restaurant.
That's when I saw them. They were seated at a large, round table a few meters away, surrounded by balloons and half-empty champagne flutes. A family celebrating something. There was a father, broad-shouldered and laughing, a mother with kind eyes, and two children—a boy and a girl, maybe ten and six.
The father stood up, pulling the mother close. The son quickly grabbed a phone from the table and handed it to a passing waitress.
"Just a quick one, please," the boy requested, his voice bright and clear.
The family huddled together instantly. They didn't need direction; they just fit. The mother rested her head naturally against the father's chest. The father's arms wrapped securely around both children, pulling them tight into his frame. It wasn't a posed shot for social media; it was an organic explosion of love and belonging captured in a split second.
I watched as the camera flashed.
It was such a trivial, common sight, yet it hit me with the force of a physical blow. The easy, unforced connection—the sheer presence of the parents, fully engaged in their children's joy—was a dagger twisted slowly in my chest.
My smile, which had been fixed since the arcade, vanished instantly. A cold, heavy lump formed in my throat, threatening to choke me. I felt the sharp, sudden sting of tears behind my eyes, blurring the lights around them. They had a history captured not just in a photograph, but in the instinctive way they embraced.
The waitress handed the phone back. The children cheered. The father kissed the top of the daughter's head.
I quickly dropped my gaze back to my plate, focusing intensely on the pattern of the porcelain, willing the lump in my throat to dissolve. My hands were suddenly clammy. I felt a wave of profound, deep sadness wash over me, the kind that feels like drowning in your own empty reality.
Thankfully, Mich remained oblivious. She was focused entirely on finishing the cheesecake, muttering happily about how this dessert was "worth every calorie." She hadn't seen the family; she hadn't seen the flash. She hadn't seen the mask slip from my face. And I was profoundly grateful for her simple, glorious distraction. If she had noticed my sudden melancholy, she would have insisted on talking about it, and I couldn't bear to explain the depth of that specific, sharp ache.
We left the restaurant an hour later, the glow of the mall slightly subdued as the evening deepened. The bags were heavy with new clothes and silly arcade prizes, but the weight I felt was internal.
Ben opened the Bentley door for us, the quiet luxury of the car wrapping around me once more. Mich was already halfway asleep, her head resting against the plush window, the unicorn plush toy clutched in her arms.
The ride home was long. The city lights streamed past in a blinding rush, reflecting the chaos churning inside me. I stared out the window, watching the glittering spectacle of a city I technically owned a piece of, yet felt utterly detached from.
I had everything. I had the Good wealth, the stunning Beauty (or so people told me), and the Brains to keep up with the best tutors the Ashworth name could buy. People envied me, they whispered about the charmed life of Cassandra Smith.
But I realized, sitting there, watching Mich sleep peacefully, that the first item on that enviable list—the foundation everyone assumed I had—was rotten to the core.
Family.
It was a lie.
My parents weren't absent; they were intentionally absent. They weren't busy; they were uninterested. Their presence in my life was a transaction, secured by a black card, a mansion, and the obedience of staff like Cynthia and Ben. I was a beautiful, brainy possession, securely locked away until needed.
I leaned my head against the cool leather of the seat, letting out a long, quiet sigh—a sound heavy with the weight of the evening's realization.
I had chased the noise of the city tonight, but the silence of the car brought me back to the stark truth: My greatest fear is not being alone, but realizing I was never truly loved by the people who paid for the privilege of keeping me.
The simplicity of that family's photograph—the raw, undeniable connection—proved I didn't have it all. I didn't have the one thing money couldn't buy, and I had a terrifying, cold premonition that the secrets they held were far uglier than mere indifference.
I am a placeholder in this luxurious, cold house, waiting for the moment my true purpose is revealed.