Chapter 6

RHETT

It’s warm

Mom’s voice drifts through the dark, soft and familiar, calling my name the way she used to when dinner was ready.

The air smells like sugar and fruit, sweet and bright, like peaches left too long on the counter.

“Rhett,” she says again, gentle. Closer.

I smile before I even open my eyes.

Dad’s laughter follows- low, fond - and I hear him teasing Keith in that half-English, half-something-else way he did when he was happy.

“Solnishko,” he says, and Mom laughs, swatting his arm.

I want to stay here.

I want to turn toward the kitchen, feel the warmth of the oven, steal a slice of peach before Mom catches me.

But the warmth fades.

The smell changes.

Rot replaces sugar. Dampness seeps into my skin. Cold crawls up my spine.

It’s dark when I open my eyes.

Too dark.

I’m not in the kitchen. I’m not home.

I’m curled on cardboard, my pyjamas thin and useless against the concrete. My feet ache, numb and stiff. My stomach twists, empty and sharp, and I realize with a sick lurch that I don’t remember the last time I ate.

The alley presses in around me.

The wind cuts through, sharp and merciless, carrying the stink of pee, beer, and something decaying I don’t want to identify. A bottle clinks somewhere behind me.

Rats scurry near a dumpster. Water drips from a rusted pipe, each drop echoing like a countdown.

I hug my knees to my chest, trying to make myself smaller.

If I close my eyes hard enough, maybe I can go back.

Back to Dad in the living room.

Back to Keith rolling his eyes while Mom laughs.

Back to warmth. To safety.

My stomach growls, loud in the silence.

Tears burn my eyes before I can stop them.

“I want to go home,” I whisper, my voice breaking. “I want Mom.”

The words crack something open in my chest. A sob escapes, raw and ugly. My throat burns. My heart pounds like it’s trying to break free.

Then-

A hand brushes my cheek.

Warm. Real.

A thumb catches a tear before it falls.

I suck in a breath, heart slamming against my ribs.

“Keith?” I whisper.

He’s there.

He has to be.

Relief floods me so hard it almost hurts. He finally came back. He didn’t leave me here.

I reach for him-

I wake up gasping.

Sheets twist around my legs, soft and expensive, nothing like cardboard. My skin is slick with sweat, my chest heaving. The air smells clean - cedar and soap- wrong in the worst way.

I jolt upright.

This isn’t my dorm.

I look around, heart hammering.

The room’s big- too big- with a glass wall stretching from floor to ceiling. Dawn light bleeds through, soft and grey, glinting off polished marble floors and a sleek black rug.

There’s a bed, a dresser, a chair facing the window.

No clutter. No personal touches. No trace of who lives here.

It’s the kind of place that looks expensive but unlived in- sterile, careful.

My clothes are folded neatly on the nightstand. My phone, watch, and wallet arranged beside them like a display.

I lift the sheets and true, I’m naked except for my boxers that are the only thing I have on.

Someone undressed me.

And put my stuff back together like it never happened.

The clock on the wall reads 5:32 a.m.

Lucien.

Shit.

I swing my legs off the bed, the cold floor biting at my feet. I grab my clothes- which oddly enough smelled like pine and cedar-, shove them on fast, and pocket my things.

The elevator ride down feels too long, my reflection staring back from mirrored walls. When the doors open, I’m in a quiet lobby, modern and minimal- marble counters, dim lighting, not a single sound.

Then I see it.

A small plaque beside the elevator: PH.

Penthouse.

Of course.

Must be the damn creep from last night.

Damn trusties.

I step outside, the early morning air slapping my face awake. The city hums faintly in the distance, half asleep, half alive.

A lone taxi slows when I wave it down, and I climb in without looking back.

By the time Ravenwood’s gates come into view, the sun’s up and the courtyard’s empty.

Lucien’s car isn’t there.

Neither is he.

He didn’t come back.