THE RELOCATION

The cardboard boxes stacked in the corner of my room felt like coffins. Each one held a piece of the life I wasn’t ready to bury.

​I shoved a stack of folded sweaters into a suitcase, my movements jagged and numb. It had been exactly one hundred and eighty-four days since my father’s funeral. Six months. To some, it was half a year of "healing." To my mother, it was apparently just enough time to find a replacement with a bigger bank account and a mansion across the city.

​I picked up a framed photo from my nightstand—the last one taken of my dad and me at the lake. He was laughing, his eyes crinkling at the corners. My chest tightened, that familiar, sharp ache blooming behind my ribs.

​The door to my bedroom clicked open without a knock.

​"Summer, for heaven's sake, you aren't even finished?"

Celine stepped into the room, smelling of expensive Peonies.

She looked radiant... too radiant for a woman who had been a widow only two seasons ago. Her blouse was draped perfectly, and the diamond on her left hand caught the sunlight, mocking me.

​"I’m going as fast as I can," I muttered, not looking up.

​"Well, 'fast' isn't good enough. The driver has been idling at the curb for ten minutes, and William is expecting us for lunch. First impressions matter, Summer. You could at least try to look like you aren't attending a wake."

​I finally looked at her, my grip tightening on the photo frame. "Maybe because for me, this is one. Or did you forget we buried Dad six months ago?"

Her expression didn't soften, rather it hardened into a mask of practiced composure. "I am trying to secure a future for us. A life where we don't have to worry. You should be grateful that a man like William Knight is willing to take us in."

​"Grateful?" I let out a dry, hollow laugh. "You’re marrying a checkbook, Mom. Don't pretend this is about anything else."

​"Enough," she snapped.

"Zip that bag and get downstairs. Now. We are moving into the Knight estate today, and I will not have you ruining this with your dramatics."

​She turned on her heel, her heels clicking rhythmically against the hardwood.

​I looked back at the empty room. It wasn't a home anymore. It was just four walls. Taking a deep breath, I grabbed my bags and followed her out.

The drive to the Knight estate felt like a funeral procession, only with more leather and better suspension.

​As the black town car drove through the iron gates of the Knight property, the sheer scale of the place hit me like a physical blow. This wasn't just a house but rather a monument to excess. Manicured lawns that looked like they were trimmed with nail scissors, a fountain that belonged in a European plaza, and a sprawling limestone facade that screamed "old money."

​The air inside the car practically reeked of wealth—that sterile, expensive scent of wood and high-end cologne.

​"Summer, fix your hair," my mother whispered, her voice tight with a warning. "And for heaven's sake, smile. William has gone to a lot of trouble to make this transition seamless."

​I didn't smile. I stared out the tinted window as the car came to a smooth halt.

​A uniformed maid appeared almost instantly, her movements practiced and silent as she began unloading our luggage. She didn't make eye contact, she just worked.

Then, the massive front doors swung open.

​A man stepped out onto the portico. He was tall, well-built, and wore a tailored navy suit that probably cost more than my late father’s entire car. William Knight was undeniably handsome in that silver-fox, effortless way that suggested he had never faced a single day of genuine hardship in his life.

​"Celine," he called out, his voice a deep, resonant baritone.

​My mother didn't even wait for the driver to fully open her door. She practically threw herself out of the car and into his arms. I watched, my stomach turning, as she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him—a deep, lingering kiss that felt like a betrayal to every memory I had of my father.

​I looked away immediately, my gaze fixing on a stray pebble on the driveway. Disgusting.

​"And this," William’s voice drifted closer, "must be Summer."

​I felt his presence before I looked up. He was standing there, my mother tucked under his arm like a prize trophy. He offered me a warm, paternal smile that didn't reach my cold heart.

​"Welcome to your new home, Summer," he said kindly. "I know this is a big change, but we’re so happy to have you here."

​"Thank you, Mr. Knight," I managed, my voice flat.

​"William, please," he corrected gently. He turned back to my mother, his eyes glowing. "Come, let's get you settled. I believe my son is around here somewhere... probably hiding in room or the gym. I'll have him come down to meet his new sister shortly."

​My skin crawled at the word "sister."

William gestured toward the grand entryway, his hand resting possessively on my mother’s waist. "Let’s get you inside."

​The interior of the mansion was even more intimidating than the outside. Marble floors polished to a mirror finish, a chandelier that looked like a rain of frozen diamonds, and a silence so thick it felt heavy.

​"Maria," William called out to a second maid waiting in the foyer. "Please show Summer to her suite. It’s the one in the East Wing, overlooking the gardens"

​"Of course, sir," the woman bowed slightly.

​"Go on, Summer," my mother said, her eyes pleading with me to be on my best behavior. "Freshen up. We’ll have a light lunch in an hour."

​I didn't argue. I just wanted to be behind a closed door where I didn't have to watch them fawn over each other. But as I turned to follow Maria toward the sweeping staircase, the air in the foyer suddenly changed.

​A door on the second-floor landing creaked open.

​A thin, grey trail of smoke drifted over the mahogany railing first, followed by the heavy, rhythmic tread of boots. I froze, my foot hovering over the first step.

​He didn't walk down the stairs so much as he stalked them.

​He was younger than William, but he carried the same imposing height. He wore a black leather jacket over a white t-shirt that hugged a frame built of lean, hard muscle. A cigarette was perched between two long fingers, the cherry glowing as he took a final drag. His hair was dark and effortlessly messy, falling over eyes that looked like obsidian.

​He wasn't just handsome, he was dangerous. The kind of "hot" that made your survival instincts scream at you to run in the opposite direction.

​"Xavier," William’s voice lost some of its warmth, replaced by a sharp edge of correction. "I told you, no smoking in the house. And we have guests."

​Xavier reached the bottom of the stairs, stopping just a few feet from me. He exhaled a cloud of smoke, the scent of expensive tobacco and something metallic stinging my nose.

​He didn't look at his father. He didn't look at my mother either. 

​His gaze landed on me, heavy and clinical. He tracked his eyes down to my scuffed sneakers and back up to my face, his lip curling in a way that made my blood simmer.

​"Guests?" Xavier’s voice was a low, gravelly rasp. He looked at William, a mocking glint in his dark eyes. "A new gold-digger family? You never learn, Father."

​The silence that followed was deafening. My mother gasped, her hand flying to her throat, while William’s face flushed a deep, angry red.

​"Xavier! That is enough," William barked. "This is Celine, and this is her daughter, Summer. Your sister."

​Xavier didn't flinch. He turned that cold, piercing stare back to me. For a second, the air between us felt electric, charged with a sudden, inexplicable friction. He didn't say a word to me. He just flicked the ash of his cigarette onto the pristine marble floor at my feet.

​"Welcome to the madhouse, Princess," he murmured, his voice dripping with venom.

​Without another word, he shouldered past me, his arm brushing mine for a split second, a spark of heat that made my skin tingle, and walked straight out the front door into the bright afternoon sun.

​I stood there, trembling with a mix of fury and a strange, terrifying jolt of adrenaline.

I hate him already.