Six

When I woke up the next morning, for a moment I couldn’t recall where I was. The ceiling wasn’t the same familiar one I’d looked at for years back home; it was brighter, the curtains looked fancy, and a light hint of lavender lingered in the air. That’s when it hit me—I was at the Harrigan mansion. My new home.

I let out a quiet exhale and rubbed my face, letting the reality of it all wash over me. "Right. New life, new family, same old nightmare," I mumbled to myself.

Then came a soft knock at the door.

"Mr Atlas?" a woman’s voice called gently. "Breakfast will be served in thirty minutes. Mrs. Harrigan asked me to let you know."

"Okay, thanks," I replied, still feeling the sleep in my voice.

Once the door clicked shut, I rolled onto my back and stared at the ceiling. The sheets felt luxuriously soft, and the bed was like something out of a fancy hotel, yet it still didn’t feel like mine.

With a sigh, I dragged myself out of bed. "Thirty minutes," I reminded myself. "Plenty of time to get it together and pretend everything’s okay."

After brushing my teeth and enjoying a warm shower, I faced the mirror. Morning light streamed through the window, casting soft golden streaks on the marble floor. For a brief moment, everything seemed picture-perfect—except for the anxious flutter in my stomach, reminding me that I’d have to see Rowan again.

Just as I was reaching for my towel, my phone buzzed on the counter.

Millie: I’m on my way to the Harrigan mansion! Be ready, bestie. We’ve got a semester to slay.

I couldn’t help but grin. Leave it to Millie to brighten my cloudy world.

Me: You ready to step into enemy territory?

Her reply came almost right away.

Millie: Please, I’ll bring holy water if I have to. Just be cute when I get there.

Laughing softly, I slipped my phone into my pocket and finished getting dressed.

By the time I made my way downstairs, the aroma of breakfast—fresh coffee, pancakes, and something buttery—filled the air. The dining room looked like it was straight out of a luxury magazine, sunlight glinting off the crystal glasses and polished cutlery. My mom was chatting away with Roderick, both of them glowing with that newlywed happiness that still felt strange to me.

And then there was Rowan. He was across the table, wearing a casual black shirt, his hair tied back just like last night, looking effortlessly good in that infuriating way he had.

"Good morning, sweetheart," Mom greeted warmly, waving me over. "Did you sleep well?"

I managed a smile as I slid into the nearest empty seat—right across from Rowan, naturally. "Yeah, I did. The bed’s ridiculously soft. Almost didn’t want to get up."

Roderick chuckled lightly. "That’s the danger of luxury sheets. You end up late for work half the time."

I smiled politely, but my gaze kept straying back to Rowan. He didn’t look up at all, just kept stirring his coffee like I was invisible.

I sat next to Rowan, even though every fiber of my being protested. Being this close to him after what he’d said last night made my stomach twist. He didn’t even glance my way, but I could feel that same careless arrogance from him, like he owned the air around us.

The clinking of cutlery filled the silence for a while, until Mom—ever the peacemaker—decided to break it. "So, Rowan," she began in that hopeful tone she always used when she was trying too hard, "your dad mentioned you’re on the basketball team. That must be exciting! Do you play forward or defense?"

Rowan didn’t look up from his plate. "Forward," he said flatly.

"Oh, that’s nice," she pressed on, still smiling as if his dry response didn’t sting. "I used to love watching basketball back in college. You must practice a lot to stay in shape."

"Guess so."

Roderick cleared his throat gently, giving his son a warning look, but Rowan just kept eating, his fork softly scraping against the plate.

Mom tried again, undeterred. "Do you have any other hobbies besides basketball?"

"Not really."

Just like that. No elaboration, no effort. And the silence that followed was heavy and awkward, stretching longer than it needed to.

I poked at my pancakes, wishing she’d just stop. He clearly wasn’t interested in talking, and honestly, I couldn’t blame him. If I were in his shoes, I wouldn’t want to talk to me either—but for completely different reasons.

I shot a sideways glance at him, recalling how he’d called my mom a gold digger last night, his voice cold and sharp. That memory made something bitter rise in my chest. He might’ve been beautiful, but that didn’t hide the ugly side of him.

"Atlas, are you excited for your shopping trip today?" Mom suddenly asked, redirecting the attention back to me with a smile that felt like a lifeline.

"Yeah," I said, forcing a small grin. "Millie’s on her way. We’re just picking up some stuff for school."

Roderick nodded approvingly. "That’s great. Maybe you can take Rowan along. You two could—"

Rowan scoffed softly, pushing his chair back before Roderick could finish. "Pass. I’ve got practice."

Mom’s smile faltered, and the silence came rushing back—this time sharper, like everyone was trying to ignore the tension.

The quiet after Rowan left was thick enough to choke on. I focused on cutting my pancakes into tiny, unnecessary pieces, pretending not to notice the awkward stillness hanging over us.

Then Mom nudged Roderick gently with her elbow. He blinked, surprised, and cleared his throat like he was about to step into a battlefield. "Uh, you know," he started, forcing a smile, "Rowan used to play the violin when he was younger. He was pretty good at it too. Maybe he’ll pick it up again someday."

I nodded absently, unsure of how to respond.

Roderick looked at me with a hint of eagerness. "Do you play any instruments, Atlas?"

I swallowed a bite before answering. "No," I said flatly, not bothering to dress it up.

His smile faltered just a bit, and he let out a small, awkward chuckle. "Ah, that’s alright. Not everyone’s into music."

Mom shot me a look that said to try and be nicer, but honestly, I had hit my social limit for the morning.

After that, nobody seemed to want to start another topic. The rest of breakfast passed in near silence—just the sound of cutlery clinking, a sip of coffee here and there, and the faint ticking of the dining room clock.

When it finally ended, I couldn’t have been more relieved. I excused myself as politely as I could, practically escaping the table.

If every morning was going to feel like that, I’d need either a lifetime supply of patience or headphones strong enough to drown it all out.