The Boy Waiting Upstairs

Aya's POV 

The moment the engine cut out, my brothers and I stepped down onto the pristine asphalt, heading straight for the rear of the Civic to handle the cargo. Alastair possessed a naturally athletic, muscular build that the rest of us simply lacked; he was easily the powerhouse of the family, so he naturally took charge of wrestling the heaviest containers out of the trunk. Our entire life for the next two quarters was packed into a single rolling suitcase and a handful of canvas duffel bags fitted with basic over-the-shoulder straps. For most people, a six-month relocation requires a literal moving truck, but our family had long since mastered the art of packing light. 

As we stood there sorting the straps, a sharply dressed young man approached us. He introduced himself as the estate's valet and politely requested the keys, explaining that he needed to adjust the Honda's positioning so it was aligned perfectly within the designated parking zones. Apparently, Alastair had brought us to a halt a bit too far outside some unspoken boundary line. 

A valet? For a beat-up sedan? 

An involuntary giggle escaped my lips, earning me a low, irritated growl from my older brother. Despite his pride, Alastair ultimately surrendered the key ring with a reluctant sigh. Falling into step behind him and Jamey, I began a slow, tentative march toward this massive unknown chapter of our lives. Tina immediately attached herself to my arm, practically vibrating with an energy so intense it felt like she had literal springs installed in the soles of her shoes. 

I simply shook my head at her sheer, unadulterated excitement. Historically speaking, she had always been the animated, socially effortless one between the two of us. Her perfectly styled hair bounced in sync with her energetic stride as we finally reached the massive, white double entry doors and pressed the intercom button. 

"Honestly, you really should have considered putting on a slightly more presentable outfit," Tina remarked, her eyes scanning my entire form with a look of genuine aesthetic disapproval. "And would it actually kill you to run a brush through your hair once in a while? You might be surprised by the transformation." 

I offered her a dramatic roll of my eyes, completely unfazed because I knew her critiques were born out of a place of sisterly affection rather than malice. 

Up until the exact moment I laid eyes on this estate, I honestly believed my appearance was perfectly fine. The residents of this neighborhood looked like they had been pulled directly from the glossy pages of a luxury lifestyle publication, whereas my personal aesthetic leaned heavily toward survivalist casual. Today, I was sporting a simple black tank top layered beneath an unbuttoned, red-and-white flannel shirt, paired with rugged cargo pants and my absolute favorite worn-in combat boots. My dark, thick curls were loosely gathered into a chaotic, effortless topknot, with a few stray tendrils framing my face. To top it off, I had never experimented with cosmetics a single day in my life. 

Tina, on the other hand, was my absolute polar opposite. She had chosen a sleek, form-fitting grey V-neck tee, neatly tucked into a high-waisted black skirt that hit right at her mid-thigh. Her luminous, wavy blonde locks fell loose over her shoulders from a crisp side part, and her makeup application was entirely flawless. 

While she undeniably looked like a professional model, looking at her didn't trigger a single drop of jealousy in me. I genuinely appreciated my own style. I felt entirely content in my own identity, even if she would never truly comprehend why I consistently picked heavy leather boots over elegant high heels. Glamour simply wasn't wired into my DNA. 

Before I was forced to explain to her—for the hundredth time—that I had absolutely zero intention of altering my identity to appease the upper crust of society, the heavy door swung inward. 

Standing on the threshold was a impeccably put-together, middle-aged woman wearing a vibrant, knee-length floral dress and elegant black stiletto heels. A warm, radiant smile instantly broke across her features as she nodded welcomingly. 

"You must be the Rhodes family," she greeted us, her tone incredibly polite and inviting.  

"The most anticipated arrivals of the season! Please, come on inside and make yourselves at home." 

She ushered our small group through the grand entryway, letting the heavy door click shut securely behind us. Presenting what I assumed was her standard hospitable expression, she guided us into a cavernous, sweeping living area. I stood there completely paralyzed by the sheer grandeur of the interior architectural design. Right next to me, Tina was experiencing a similar state of shock; her mouth was slightly open, and her thumbs were flying across her phone screen as she undoubtedly texted her friends a highly detailed inventory of the soaring white walls, intricate plaster molding, massive crystal chandelier, and museum-quality artwork. And that wasn't even factoring in the monumental winding staircase dominating the foyer. 

The seating arrangement featured an incredibly plush, mahogany-colored leather sofa that felt so deep I half-expected to completely sink through the cushions. Directly in front of us sat a dark-wood glass coffee table, anchored by a vibrant arrangement of exotic flowers arranged inside a delicate, powder-blue tinted vase. I couldn't even begin to identify the species of the brilliant blossoms. 

We took turns introducing ourselves, and she listened with genuine warmth, nodding along as if our arrival was the highlight of her entire week. Once the initial pleasantries were out of the way, she excused herself to fetch us some refreshments. Halfway down the expansive corridor, she paused, turning back to look at us. Her golden-blonde hair was pinned into a flawless, tight chignon, and a striking shade of crimson lipstick highlighted her elegant features. 

She was undeniably stunning, which left me deeply curious about her exact role in the household. Dad had previously mentioned that the property was occupied strictly by Mr. Brinkley and his teenage son, noted that a divorce had severed the marriage roughly five years ago—coincidentally around the exact same period we had lost our mother. 

"Oh, where are my manners!" she exclaimed, offering a self-deprecating laugh. "I'm Linda. I suppose I’m just a bit flustered and incredibly thrilled to finally have you all under this roof, so I completely skipped my own introduction. Please forgive me. I manage the daily operations of the estate and assist with whatever domestic needs arise around here. If any of you require absolutely anything at all during your stay, please do not hesitate to ask me directly." 

Her delivery was so professional it felt almost like she was addressing corporate stakeholders at a high-level business summit. 

And did she actually claim to be flustered? What could she possibly have to be nervous about when welcoming a family of drifters? 

The irony of the situation wasn't lost on Jamey, who let out a quiet, knowing chuckle. Despite being only twelve years old, my youngest brother possessed an intellectual capacity that could easily outclass an adult in almost any academic discipline. 

"Don't worry about it at all," Tina intervened smoothly, her face still wearing a brilliant smile. "We're all experiencing a bit of situational anxiety ourselves. And I just have to say, this residence is absolutely spectacular." 

Linda’s shoulders visibly relaxed. She quickly disappeared into the adjacent wing, returning a few moments later accompanied by a pair of uniformed domestic staffers. They efficiently loaded the glass table with an assortment of casual refreshments—potato chips, sodas, corn chips, gourmet cupcakes, and various finger foods. 

I glanced sideways at Alastair, who was staring intently down at his mobile device. I knew for a fact the display was completely dark; he was simply using it as a shield, entirely trapped in his own thoughts as his mind desperately searched for a loophole to alter our current trajectory. 

Linda took a seat directly across from me, right next to Jamey, and let out a genuine laugh when he casually dropped a particularly graphic biological fact into the conversation. She kept the dialogue moving with effortless, standard pleasantries, and to my surprise, the vast majority of her inquiries were directed squarely at me. As our group systematically demolished the snack platters—we were entirely famished after the grueling trek—I did my absolute best to provide polite, well-rounded answers. 

She seemed incredibly kind and approachable, and I was already compiling a mental list of questions I wanted to ask her once the opportunity arose. But that would have to wait; a profound, bone-deep exhaustion was rapidly catching up to me. 

Linda eventually informed us that Mr. Brinkley had been called away to London for an emergency corporate summit, though he was expected to return to the states shortly. 

The update didn't particularly faze any of us. It wasn't as if we were collectively bursting with anticipation to meet the patriarch anyway. If I was being completely honest with myself, I felt like an unwanted intruder, as if we were forcefully occupying space in a stranger's private sanctuary—an unsettling sensation, even though the logic didn't hold up. Dad and Mr. Brinkley had been close friends since their undergraduate university days, maintaining a consistent, low-profile connection over the decades. However, we had never met the man in person, and our knowledge regarding his offspring was virtually nonexistent. 

"So, our dad mentioned that there’s a son living here..." Tina noted casually, carefully licking a dollop of vanilla frosting from her fingertips. 

Linda nodded instantly, her gaze drifting right back to my face. What exactly was she trying to read in my expression? I made a mental note to clear that mystery up the next time I caught her alone. 

"Oh, absolutely," Linda confirmed. "His name is Callum. And as it turns out, he’s actually in the exact same age bracket as you." 

Her eyes remained locked on me, forcing me to offer a polite, albeit entirely synthetic, smile in return.