The road to Samuel's mansion is too clean. Too smooth. Too quiet.
It gives me too much room to think, which is dangerous right now.
I grip the steering wheel harder than I need to. My pulse hasn't slowed since I walked out of the house.
I keep telling myself I am doing the right thing.
Then my mind does what it always does.
It spirals.
I think about Lena.
I always assumed she lit up around Samuel. She would smile, laugh, act like she was comfortable with him.
But now that the dust has settled and I am looking back with clearer eyes, something feels different.
She looked happy, yes, but not the Lena kind of happy.
Not the real laugh that used to explode out of her, head thrown back, hands waving around because she could not contain it.
Not the easy glow she had whenever she told me a story she knew I would love.
With Samuel, it was a different kind of brightness. Stiff at the edges. Polished.
Like she was performing happy instead of feeling it.
Maybe I did not want to see it then. Maybe I was too wrapped up in my own mess.
My knuckles turn white against the steering wheel.
Then Samuel slips into my thoughts, and it feels like watching someone I never actually knew.
I used to think he was just jealous of my closeness with Lena despite our break-up. I did not like him either, but there was something heavier in his behavior. Something meaner. I just didn't understand it then. And I certainly don't understand it now.
A car passes me in the opposite lane, its headlights flashing across my windshield. The jolt pulls another memory forward.
Samuel knew my mother got engaged before I did.
He said it casually, like it was common knowledge. Like he had access to parts of my life no one outside my family should have known.
At the time I thought Lena must have told him, but she did not even know.
She found out from me.
And she is not the type to gossip about my family behind my back.
The air in the car feels colder.
All these things I shrugged off or explained away are stitching themselves together now, forming a shape I cannot understand but definitely do not like.
I take a slow breath and try to calm myself.
Stop overthinking, I mutter. You are stressed. You are reading too much into things.
Jealousy.
Insecurity.
Paranoia.
Those are easier explanations.
But something twists deep in my gut, something instinctive that does not care about logic.
I shake my head as if that will scatter the thoughts. It does not.
⟡ ✧ ⟡
The mansion's neighborhood comes into view. Glass walls. Security gates. Perfect lawns.
The feeling only gets worse.
Like I am driving toward something that has been waiting for me for years.
The ride feels longer than it is. When I park, I walk the last stretch with my hands stuffed in my pockets, still trying to make sense of something that refuses to make sense.
If Samuel is doing all this because of Lena, then something still does not add up.
He already has her.
He already won.
So why go after me like this.
Why the lies, the posts, the humiliation.
Why drag Alice into it.
It feels personal in a way I cannot explain.
And I barely know him.
By the time I reach the gate, I am tired of thinking.
The mansion stands in front of me, huge and polished and expensive in a way that is almost exhausting. Tall windows. Stone walls. Neatly trimmed hedges. The kind of place that tells you exactly how much your life costs compared to theirs.
I let out a breath and push the gate open. It is unlocked, which somehow makes everything worse. Like this house cannot imagine anyone being a threat.
The driveway is long enough that I feel stupid walking down it alone. My shoes scrape too loudly in the quiet. Samuel's face flashes in my mind again, along with every confusing piece of his hostility.
My stomach tightens.
I ring the bell.
A minute passes.
The door opens and a housemaid looks at me with the exact expression I expected. Confusion.
No recognition.
Just a stranger standing on expensive marble.
Yes, she says.
I am here to see Samuel, I tell her.
She hesitates. He is not home.
Of course he is not.
I almost laugh.
She steps aside anyway. You can wait in the sitting room if you want. I will inform madam someone is here.
I follow her inside.
The marble floor is so white it looks untouched. The air feels filtered. The silence is not peaceful. It is empty.
A house that looks lived in but does not feel lived in.
The sitting room is even worse. The couch looks like it has never been sat on. The art pieces belong in a museum I would never pay to enter. The glass table reflects my face too clearly.
The maid leaves. Her footsteps fade.
And suddenly I am alone in a house big enough for ten families.
I sit down, elbows on my knees, trying to slow my breathing.
Maybe coming here was stupid.
Maybe very stupid.
But running from Samuel felt worse.
I stay.
I hear footsteps before I see her.
Sharp, steady, confident.
The sound of someone who has never hurried for anything in her life.
I stand up.
She appears in the doorway.
Samuel's mother.
I had seen her once, years ago, at some school event. But standing this close, she looks even more composed. Perfectly styled hair in a low twist. A cream silk blouse. Jewelry that does not sparkle because it does not need to.
Her presence forces your posture to straighten without permission.
She takes one more step into the room.
Then she stops.
Completely.
Her lips part. Her eyes widen. The hand holding her delicate bracelet trembles just once.
Her voice comes out in a small whisper that barely reaches me.
Mark?
The name hits me like a punch.
Mark.
My father.
My useless, absent, always yelling father.
My brain stalls.
Everything inside me pulls tight.
I open my mouth but nothing comes out.
She keeps staring. Her eyes move across my face like she is searching for something she used to know too well. Her expression softens for a fraction of a second, as if she is looking at a memory instead of me.
Then the softness leaves as quickly as it came.
Her brows tighten. She steps closer, just enough to really see me, and the moment she registers my age and my clothes and the life I come from, her whole face falls.
You are not him, she says quietly.
She blinks. Her back straightens. Her blouse smooths under her hands. The mask returns.
You are Mark's son.
Not a question.
Not neutral.
She says it like someone says you are the stain on my carpet.
I swallow. Yes. I...
She flinches when I speak, like my voice burned her.
Something happened between my father and you, did not it. Why did you call me his name.
She steps back fast, her bracelet clinking sharply against her wrist.
Her breathing changes. Controlled. Tight.
Like she is holding something in place with both hands.
Get out, she says.
I try once more. I only want to know—
Out.
The word cuts.
She turns away from me. Her heels hit the marble hard as she walks off. A door slams somewhere down the hall.
And I am alone again.
In a mansion that suddenly feels much colder.
I stare at the doorway she disappeared into, my heartbeat loud in my ears.
I came here expecting Samuel's anger.
I did not expect this.
Something shifts inside me. A quiet instinct that feels older than the situation.
This hatred Samuel has for me did not start with him.
And it was never only about Lena.
Something else is buried here.
Something that belonged to my father.
I walk out of the mansion and let the cold air hit my face.
Her voice echoes in my head with my father's name wrapped in it.
Mark.
I wonder what he did.
And whether Samuel's hatred is just the first crack in a truth I never saw coming.