-Treasure.
The house was still, the kind of stillness that sits heavy before sunrise. The air carried that faint hush of early morning, when nothing has yet been set in motion. I stepped out of Elias' room and began my descent down the long staircase. My hand slid lazily along the polished banister, the wood cool against my palm. For once, I wasn't being ordered or summoned. I was walking freely, my own steps, my own time.
Halfway down, Cassandra appeared, cutting across the hallway below with her usual clipped stride. Her sharp eyes caught me instantly. I flashed her a smile, a deliberately casual one, the kind that belonged to someone unbothered. She stopped, pivoted, and came toward me, heels tapping like punctuation marks.
"You get us all wondering here," she said, tilting her head slightly, her expression unreadable. "What are you really made of?"
My smile didn't falter. "Out of admiration," I asked, "or out of despise?"
She let out a laugh, but it was cold, humorless, more like a door clicking shut. "You're doing well, I see."
"I'm doing great, Cassandra," I replied, keeping the smile fixed, not offering her more than that. "Thank you for your concern."
I didn't wait for her to say anything else. I left her standing in the hall, my shoes silent against the marble, and walked toward the kitchen. The scent of brewed coffee reached me before I opened the door, earthy and bitter, grounding in a way that Elias' entire mansion never managed to be.
Daniela was at the counter, a spread newspaper folded neatly in her hands, glasses perched low on her nose, a mug steaming beside her. She looked like the only real thing in this house.
"Good morning, Daniela," I said brightly as I stepped inside.
She raised her eyes to me, and they softened, but not before I caught the flicker of worry that passed over them. Her gaze lingered on my cheek. I knew what she saw—the faint bruise, still shadowing my skin. I could almost feel her eyes tracing it, pressing questions she would never ask outright.
"Good morning, Treasure," she said, her voice gentle, but I heard the weight behind it.
I leaned against the counter, pretending not to notice, though I did. She set the paper down. "Do you want to eat something? Should I start plating breakfast?"
I shook my head. "No, not hungry yet. I'll eat with Elias when he wakes up anyways… oops." I caught myself with a grin. "I meant Mr. Maxwell."
Her lips tugged into a tight smile. "Of course."
I leaned in a little, resting my elbows on the cool counter. "Are you okay, Treasure?" she asked then, her tone quieter.
I tilted my head, amused, though something in me sank at her tenderness. "It seems like I've become a point of concern for everyone around here."
"Well, I don't know about everyone else," she said, pushing her glasses back up her nose, "but I know you must be tired… and… are you in any pain?"
I chuckled softly, shaking my head. "No. I'm completely fine. And don't worry, Daniela. I know how to look after myself." I paused, letting the words breathe, then added, "I just came by the kitchen because I wanted to see you."
That made her grin, wide and genuine, the kind of smile that cleared the shadows for a moment. "Then sit," she said, pushing her paper aside. "I'll make you some coffee so we can drink together."
I slid onto the stool, the wood creaking faintly under my weight. "I haven't seen someone read the newspaper in ages," I said, watching as she moved toward the counter to grind fresh beans.
"I like the feel of paper in my hand," she said, scooping grounds into the machine, her movements slow, practiced, almost meditative.
I reached for the folded paper she had set down. My fingers brushed the rough print, the texture uneven, smudging faint ink onto my skin. I lifted my hand to my nose and inhaled. The faint smell of newsprint, dusty and chemical, hit me with a wave of memory.
"When I was a kid," I said, more to myself than to her, "I used to love this smell. The ink on paper. Miss Monica loved reading newspapers. I think it rubbed off on me."
Daniela's head turned, curiosity soft in her eyes. "Then who's Miss Monica?"
"She was the manager of the orphanage where I grew up." My voice surprised me, lighter than I thought it would be when naming that place.
Her brows rose slightly, her hands pausing over the machine. "You were in an orphanage?"
"Yes," I said, fingers still touching the print. The ink clung faintly to my fingertips, and I rubbed them together, as if the sensation itself was a bridge back to those mornings when I sat near the doorway of that old building, waiting for her to finish the crossword before she handed the paper over. "That was home, for a long time."
Daniela poured water through, the smell of coffee blooming rich and deep between us. "You speak of it like it never left you."
I exhaled, slow. "It didn't."
The machine hissed, filling the kitchen with steam and aroma, wrapping around the silence we shared. For once, I didn't mind silence. It wasn't heavy here. It wasn't Elias' silence, thick with control. This was just Daniela, a woman with ink on her hands and warmth in her eyes, making coffee as though that was enough.
And in that moment, maybe it was.
The smell of coffee thickened in the air, warm and grounding, filling every corner of the kitchen until it almost felt like the room itself exhaled. Daniela reached for two porcelain cups, the handles delicate, painted with faint blue patterns that looked like drifting waves. She poured slowly, steady hands, and the sound of the liquid hitting the bottom of the cup reminded me of rainy days at the orphanage, water tapping on the cracked tin roof.
I sat there, elbows resting on the counter, fingers still stained faintly with the ink of the newspaper, and let the words roll out before I could change my mind. "Miss Monica had this habit," I said, watching the steam rise, "of reading the newspaper cover to cover every morning. She never missed a day. Even if there was no money for proper breakfast, she made sure to bring that paper home. Sometimes she'd buy it the night before just to be certain it was there in the morning."
Daniela slid one cup toward me. "And she read it out loud?"
A smile found its way to my mouth. I picked up the cup, the porcelain warm against my hands, and shook my head. "No. She'd sit by the window, glasses slipping down her nose, and it was like the world outside those walls was leaking in through the print. She'd hum sometimes, tap her pen against the paper. Always the crossword first. She'd save the important things for later, the headlines, the politics. I'd sit nearby and wait. Not for her to finish, but for the moment she'd look up and tell me one or two things she thought I should know. She used to say, 'Treasure, even if you don't have much, you can still have words. Words are free. Learn them, and no one can take them from you.'"
The coffee was strong, slightly bitter, but it carried me somewhere softer. My throat tightened around it, but I swallowed anyway.
Daniela leaned her cheek against her palm, studying me with that gaze she had, the one that looked like it could read through more than words. "She sounds like someone who gave you more than most."
I nodded, staring into the swirl of steam above the cup. "She did. She gave me enough to believe I could belong to something, even if I never really did. She made the orphanage feel less like a place you were trapped in and more like a place you could grow from. Not all of us believed her. Some kids ran away, some broke themselves against the walls. But she stayed, and for a while, so did I."
The paper still sat on the counter. I reached out and touched it again, running my thumb along the rough edge. "She told me once that ink had memory. That when you touch it, you're touching everything written, all the eyes that have read it, all the hands that held it. I didn't really understand then, but I liked the way it sounded. Maybe that's why I still like the smell. It feels like I'm touching her hand again. Like she's here."
Daniela poured herself another half cup, her lips pursed as though holding back words. Finally, she said, "It's rare to hear someone speak about the past with that kind of warmth. Most people I've met try to bury it."
I gave a small laugh, though it caught in my chest. "Maybe I should bury it. Maybe it would be easier if I did. But the past doesn't stay buried, not really. It sticks. It's in the ink, it's in the smell of old paper, it's in the way you sip coffee and suddenly remember something you didn't plan to. Miss Monica is long gone from my life, but she's here, every time I breathe in something that reminds me of her."
I looked up at Daniela then, and her eyes softened, a rare kind of softness that wasn't pity. More like recognition.
She set her cup down. "Then keep her close that way. Don't let this house make you forget the smell of ink on paper."
I nodded, letting the words settle between us. Outside, the world was waking—the faint hum of traffic in the distance, a bird calling once from the trees beyond the garden walls. Inside, it was just us, the ink, the coffee, and the memory of a woman who had taught me that words, even when they cost nothing, could feel like wealth.
Daniela's hand lingered on the rim of her cup, her thumb circling slowly as though tracing the thought before speaking it aloud. Her eyes lifted to me again, soft but unrelenting. "What was it like? Growing up in an orphanage."
The question dropped between us like a stone into still water, rippling through the quiet. I leaned back slightly on the stool, my hand wrapped tight around the warm porcelain. For a moment, I stared at the surface of the coffee, watching the faint tremor of steam curl upward.
"What was it like?" I repeated, my voice low, more to myself than to her. "It was like being in a house where the doors were always open, but none of them were yours to walk through."
Her eyes didn't leave mine. She wanted an answer, not a riddle. So I gave her one.
"It smelled of damp wood in winter, of laundry soap in summer, and of the kitchen's weak stew that tried to stretch into enough for everyone. The walls were lined with chipped paint, and the mattresses were older than the kids sleeping on them. Nights carried every sound—snoring, crying, whispers from the beds lined in rows like soldiers waiting for orders. We shared everything. Socks, toothbrush cups, secrets we weren't supposed to say. But the thing we shared most was the waiting. Waiting for someone to look at you and decide you were worth taking home."
The coffee scalded my tongue as I sipped, but I didn't stop.
"Sometimes people came. Couples dressed nice, shoes polished, smelling like they belonged to another world. They'd walk through, smiling too wide, and we would sit up straighter, smile brighter, laugh louder, because we thought if we looked like joy they'd pick us. Most of the time they didn't. They'd pat someone on the head, say they were lovely, and then leave. It was like being displayed in a store window, but when the store closes, the dolls get put back on the shelf."
Daniela's lips parted, but she said nothing, only nodded for me to go on.
"There was one time," I said, my voice low, "a couple visited and they brought a little dog with them. A scruffy white thing that kept licking my hands. I thought maybe… maybe if they saw how the dog liked me, they'd decide to keep me too. I told Miss Monica afterward I didn't care if the dog was theirs, I just liked that someone let me feel part of something. But the couple never came back. I waited by the fence for weeks, listening for barking that never came. That's when I learned you can be good, and kind, and still not be chosen."
I rubbed at my cheek, not the bruise this time, but the skin just below my eye where it itched faintly when I spoke of the past.
"It wasn't all bad," I added, softer. "There were nights we'd sneak into the kitchen and steal sugar cubes, sit in a circle and suck on them until they dissolved. We played soccer with socks stuffed into a ball, scraped knees on the cement until they scarred. We had birthdays without cake, but with songs we sang off-key just to laugh at how bad we were. That was family, in its way. A rough, uneven family, but it was ours."
The silence in the kitchen pressed close. Daniela's eyes shone, though she blinked it away and reached for her coffee again.
"You talk about it like it shaped you," she said finally.
I let out a quiet laugh. "It didn't shape me. It built me from the ground up. Every time someone didn't come back, every time I saw another kid pack a bag and leave while I stayed behind, it hammered something into me. You stop expecting. You stop waiting. You learn that the only person who can carry you is you. I think that's why I'm still standing. Because back then, I didn't have the choice to fall."
I set the cup down. My fingers lingered on the handle, warm and steady.
"And yet," I said, glancing back at her, "I still remember the smell of ink on paper. I still remember Miss Monica's voice when she said words are free. I guess even in a house that wasn't mine, I found something that was. That's what keeps me from turning into stone."
Daniela didn't move for a long moment. Then she reached across the counter and set her hand over mine. Her skin was warm, firm, motherly without claiming to be.
"You may think you only had yourself," she said softly. "But sometimes the people who give us words give us more than we realize."
The kitchen felt different then. The newspaper still lay folded between us, the coffee steam still curling into the air, but it wasn't just ink and porcelain anymore. It was memory and inheritance, and it was mine to keep.
Daniela's hand still rested over mine, her fingers warm, the weight steady, not pushing but present. She drew in a breath, her eyes drifting to the window where dawn light began to silver the edges of the glass.
"When I was a girl," she said, her voice quiet, "my father read the paper every morning before work. He never let anyone touch it until he was done. When he died, I found myself holding the paper as though it was his hand. That's why I still read it now. Not because the news is any different on paper, but because the act itself feels like a thread back to him."
Her thumb brushed lightly against the side of my knuckle before she pulled her hand away, folding it neatly around her cup again. "Sometimes the smallest rituals are the only proof we were once cared for."
Her words sank into me, heavier than I wanted them to, because they touched the place where my own memories lay. The ones I didn't like turning over. The ones that had been written down about me, as though I were a case study and not a boy trying to exist.
I remembered the evaluator's report, the one Miss Monica never meant for me to see but left in the wrong folder one afternoon. I was twelve. Old enough to read it, old enough to understand what it meant. The page was thin, the ink blunt, and the words pressed into me like they had been carved with a chisel. Unsuitable to be placed in a home with infants or animals. Displays signs of agitation in their presence. Recommendation: structured environment, no vulnerable dependents.
At twelve, reading that was like being told I was a hazard, a thing too jagged to be trusted near softness. I had carried that line with me ever since. It wasn't true—I never wanted to hurt anything—but I had no way to prove otherwise. And maybe the truth was I did grow restless, fidgeting when babies cried or when pets tried to nuzzle against me, not because I wanted them gone but because I was afraid I'd do the wrong thing. Afraid that I'd break what was fragile just by being near it.
I took another sip of coffee, the heat burning my tongue, pulling me back into the kitchen. Daniela didn't interrupt. She simply waited, her silence a permission rather than pressure.
And from there, the other memory rose, the one I hated most, the one that lived in my scalp like a ghost.
My hair. Always my hair.
Hands had tugged at it too hard once, not in play, not in love, but in discipline that was more about control than care. Fingers digging in, yanking until my neck strained back, the sting sharp enough to blur my vision. I learned to flinch before fingers reached me, to duck away as if a hand near my head was a storm about to break.
It was why, when I was eight, the only haircut I ever allowed was from Devon. His hands had been clumsy, the scissors blunt, but he never hurt me.
I rubbed my temple now, my nails grazing the side of my scalp, and felt the echo of that memory as if it were still fresh. Elias touching my hair without asking had brought it all back—his hand sinking where it didn't belong, his possessive stroking dressed as affection. It made my skin crawl even when my body stood still.
I placed the cup down slowly, letting the porcelain click against the counter.
"Speaking of rituals, the hair thing," I added, my throat tight, "that's not vanity. It's a memory. It's being pulled back until you thought your neck might snap, and then being told it's correction. It's years later, still feeling hands on you even when there are none."
I pressed my palms together, knuckles white, then let them fall back against the counter, my fingers brushing the ink-stained paper again. "That's why I never let anyone touch it. Except once, when I was a kid, I let Devon. And I only let him because I knew he wouldn't make it hurt."
My chest rose and fell, and I realized I had been holding my breath. I exhaled, long and slow, the sound mingling with the faint hum of the coffee machine settling itself back into quiet. I sat there staring at her, my throat thick, and before I could stop myself, my eyes began to sting. I blinked hard, but the heat built anyway, and when I looked at her, I knew she saw it.
"Can I tell you a secret?" My voice came low, shaky, more fragile than I intended.
She didn't speak, only gave a small nod, her chin dipping, her eyes steady on me as if promising she would hold whatever I gave her.
I drew a breath that trembled on the way out. "I miss Devon so fucking much."
The words split me open. Tears slid free before I even felt them gather, running quietly down my face. No sobs, no sound, just that slow salt-water burn over my skin.
Of everything I had spilled already—the orphanage, Miss Monica, the reports, the hair—this was the only thing I realized I had kept locked tight. Missing him. That was the secret. The part I couldn't say out loud without breaking.
I bowed my head, staring at the ink smudge still faint on my fingertips, thinking how absurd it was that I had shared so many truths, so many wounds, yet the one thing I dared to call a secret was simply that I missed him. Missed him like breath. Missed him like a limb that had been taken away and still ached.
Daniela didn't interrupt. She didn't rush to fill the silence or brush away the tears. She let me sit there, hunched slightly over the counter, eyes wet, coffee cooling in my hand, and gave me the space to unravel without shame.
And for a moment, in that quiet kitchen smelling of beans and ink and paper, I felt less like a man being studied, less like a possession someone had claimed, and more like a person who had dared to admit the only truth that mattered: that I still carried Devon inside me, heavier than anything else.
I wiped the corner of my eyes with the heel of my palm and forced a smile. "Thank you, Daniela. For listening. And I'm sorry for ruining your morning with all that."
She shook her head, her mouth pulling into something faint and sad. She set her cup down, rounded the counter, and came to me. She was shorter, but when her arms came around me she tugged firmly, pulling me down until my chin brushed the crown of her hair. For once, it wasn't me offering comfort. It was her holding me tight, as though she wanted to tuck me away somewhere safe.
Her voice was muffled against my chest when she spoke. "You make it hard not to want to keep you around safely… safely." She repeated the word, softer this time, as if tasting it twice to make sure I heard her. Then she let me go and stepped back, her hands lingering on my arms for a heartbeat. "I'll prepare breakfast now."
I nodded, my throat thick, and managed, "I'll leave you to it."
The kitchen air smelled of roasted beans and ink on paper as I stepped out into the garden. The morning was crisp, the grass heavy with dew, and the stone under my shoes still cool. Michael stood at his usual spot, leaning against the balustrade with a cigarette between his fingers, smoke curling lazily into the pale light.
When he turned and saw me, his eyes widened. "What the hell happened to you? Did you get in a fight?"
I didn't answer right away. I walked up, plucked the cigarette from his hand, and drew in the smoke until it burned at the back of my throat. The harsh taste settled like an old scar I hadn't touched in years.
Michael scoffed, pulling another from his pocket. "Since when do you smoke?"
"Just reconnecting with a bad habit I once had." I let the smoke trail slowly from my mouth, drifting upward to dissolve in the sky. My eyes stayed fixed on the distance. "Do you know anything about Devon's whereabouts?"
He blinked at me as though I'd just spoken in another language. "Everyone knows where Devon is. Are you kidding me? That boy's living the time of his life. His face is everywhere. Girls can't get enough of him online."
I shook my head, taking another drag. The heat stung my lungs, but it steadied me in its own way. "No, not that. I don't mean the feeds or the fans. I know he's with that guy. I mean his actual location."
Michael's brow creased as he exhaled his own smoke. He stared at me with a mix of confusion and concern. "No, I don't know the location. No one would. That's not the kind of information people hand out. But Bryce Villa's location? That you could find in less than a minute if you cared to look."
The name sank into me, heavy and strange, but I said nothing. I pulled another drag and let it out slowly, watching the smoke scatter in the breeze.
Michael's eyes flicked over me again, catching details. "What happened to your hair? Damn. You disappear for two weeks and show up like this? All these changes at once?"
I nodded slowly, still exhaling the smoke. The ends of my hair felt unfamiliar against my neck, lighter, stripped of what it once carried. The cigarette glowed between my fingers, fading to ash.
And for a moment, standing there under the pale morning light, I thought about how much had already been burned, how much still lingered, waiting for flame.
Michael flicked his own cigarette to the side, sparks scattering against the gravel. He squinted at me through the haze. "You've got that look again. Like you're about to do something stupid. You want to tell me what's going on, or should I just assume?"
I half-smiled around the cigarette, letting it hang from my lips before pulling it free. "When do you ever assume right?"
"Don't joke with me." His tone sharpened, almost brotherly, almost tired. "You've been gone for two weeks. You come back with bruises on your face, your hair hacked off, and now you're smoking again. You look like someone who lost a fight with his own life."
I let the words sit. He wasn't wrong, but he wasn't right either. My head tilted back, smoke trailing from my mouth as if it could spell the answer for me.
Michael sighed, dragging hard on his cigarette. "You don't change overnight unless something breaks. So what broke?"
My jaw clenched. I tapped the ash off the edge of the balcony, watching it fall. "Nothing broke. I just stopped pretending things weren't already broken."
That shut him up for a moment. The garden was quiet except for the sound of sparrows fussing in the hedges and the faint hiss of our cigarettes. The kind of morning silence that presses harder than noise.
I dropped mine to the ground, crushed it under my shoe, and finally turned to him. "Listen, Michael, I don't care about rumors. I don't care about videos, pictures, screaming fans, or any of that shit. I need to know where Devon is. Not his stage. Not his spotlight. Where he is when the lights go out."
Michael looked at me, bewildered but also wary. "Why do you want to know that bad? If he's out there with Villa, why do you even care? You said it yourself before— he's moved on, he's living it up. Maybe you should do the same."
I laughed once, bitter and quiet. "You think moving on is that simple? You think I can just unlearn a whole lifetime of him in my shadow?"
Michael shook his head, muttering, "You're going to drive yourself mad."
"Already there," I said under my breath, my gaze sliding past him to the wide stretch of garden. My chest ached with the truth of it. "I just need to see him. Just once. Then I'll know if I can let go or if I'm cursed to keep circling him forever."
Michael stared at me, then finally ground out his cigarette. "Bryce Villa's the only breadcrumb you'll find. Start there if you're really going to do this. But don't say I didn't warn you."
I nodded, slowly, my pulse heavy in my throat. Bryce Villa. A name that would lead me closer, whether toward relief or ruin.