Boiling point

Rory’s POV

Morning comes too fast after too many memories I can’t unsee.

I lie still in the unfamiliar bed, staring at the ceiling through the faint beams of sunlight cutting across the floor. The sheets are too soft. The pillows too perfect. Everything smells like polished wood and faint lavender instead of home.

But I’m not at home. I’m in a mansion full of leather jackets and secrets. And last night, I watched a man scream as he lost three fingers.

What exactly are they? I wrap my arms tighter around myself. There’s a knock.

Soft. Measured. I don’t answer right away, so the door cracks open. A maid peeks in, young, dark-haired, wearing the same silver brooch as the others.

“Miss Vale,” she says gently, “your mother has instructed that you take your bath and come downstairs for breakfast.”

I blink at her. It takes me a second to remember what a normal morning is supposed to feel like.

Then I shrug. “Alright.” She gives a tight smile and disappears just as quietly as she entered.

I sit up slowly, dragging my legs over the edge of the bed. My chest is heavy. Not from grief exactly, grief is sharper, louder. This is something else. A quiet kind of emptiness. Like a hole was torn through me and the wind won’t stop slipping through.

I think about her. Celeste. My mother. I remember her laugh. I remember the smell of her shampoo when I was a child, how she used to hum under her breath while folding laundry. And then I remember how she vanished. No note. No phone call. Ten years of silence, and now she wants me to sit down for breakfast like we’re the freaking Brady Bunch.

I scoff under my breath. Mother. It’s almost funny. Almost.

I drag myself into the bathroom. The tub is claw-footed and enormous, like something ripped from a royal suite. I fill it with hot water, sink into it slowly, and let my head fall back against the porcelain.

The silence presses in again. But now, under it all, there’s a noise. A memory.

The crunch of bone. The wet sound of a knife splitting skin. Screams. I squeeze my eyes shut.

The man begged. I saw his face. I saw the blood. I dunk my head underwater just to make it stop.

When I finally come downstairs, my hair is still damp and clinging to my neck. I wear a simple black dress that fits like a second skin, one of the few clean pieces my mother packed for me. It’s plain but decent.

The heels clack against the marble stairs, and the sound makes my stomach turn.

They’re all already there. The dining table is long. Like everything else in this house, it feels excessive and cold. My mother sits at the head like a queen. Her husband, the tattooed man sits silently beside her. Jaxon slouches lazily in a chair halfway down the table, twirling a fork between his fingers, and Damien…

Damien sits across from an empty seat. My seat. I walk in without saying a word.

No “good morning.” No fake smiles. I just pull the chair back and sink into it, folding my arms on the table like I’m bracing for something.

I feel their eyes on me. My mother clears her throat. “Aurora.”

I raise an eyebrow but don’t look up. “Is something wrong?” She asks.

That makes me laugh. Not a real laugh. It was bitter and sharp. “Since when do you care if something’s wrong?”

She opens her mouth. Closes it. I see her fingers twitch on her crystal glass. “I’m trying,” she says quietly.

“Try harder.” I say then I pick up my cutlery and start eating.

There’s food already laid out, too much of it. Eggs. Sausages. Pastries. Things I’d never buy for myself. I stab a piece of fruit with my fork and focus on chewing so I don’t say more than I should.

That’s when I notice her. The maid. She’s tall. Blond. Pretty in that obvious, low-effort way. She’s pouring juice into glasses with too much sway in her hips. Her lashes flutter like she’s in a shampoo commercial. And the whole time, her eyes are locked on Damien.

Damien doesn’t even look at her. He just eats, methodically, precisely. Not a word, not a flicker of emotion.

Still, she hovers longer by his side. Reaches for his glass even though it’s full. Offers a folded napkin with an unnecessary little smile.

I blink. Is she serious? I look around. No one else seems to be noticing except Jaxon.

He catches me watching. Then her. Then Damien. His lips twitch into something that isn’t quite a smile. It’s more like... entertainment. Like he’s watching a show only he understands.

I shoot him a glare. He raises his brows innocently, like What?

I grit my teeth and stab another slice of melon.

“Darling,” my mother says suddenly, her voice snapping me out of it, “you’ll be starting college at Crescent Hills tomorrow. We’ve arranged everything.”

I choke on my food. “Tomorrow?” I cough, grabbing my water. “Are you—are you serious?”

She blinks. “Yes.”

“So you drag me across the country after my father dies, toss me into a mansion full of murder and matching leather jackets, and now you want me in class by Monday? Jesus.”

“It’s Thursday.”

“That’s not the point.” I openly oppose.

“You’ll be safer there.”

I slam my fork down this time, highly annoyed. “Safer than where? What kind of people chop fingers off in the guest lounge?”

Her jaw tightens. So does her husband’s. A pulse twitches in his temple, but he says nothing.

“I know this is hard for you,” she says calmly, “but this is what’s best.”

“You don’t get to decide what’s best. You forfeited that right ten years ago.”

Jaxon whistles low. “Yikes.”

I shoot him a glare too. That’s when the maid *Miss Flirty Sway Queen* returns again. Still trailing like a perfume ad, still pretending not to ogle Damien. She places a dish in front of him with a little unnecessary bow and what she must think is a sexy smile.

That's it! I've had enough of the rubbish. I straighten up slowly and wipe the corners of my mouth gently with the napkin before glancing at her

"What's your name?" I ask her casually.

Her face instantly lit up, as if she's just been handed a golden ticket.

"Indi," she replied while tilting her head.

I give her a curt nod. "Nice."

"Thank y-" she beams and is about to thank me when I cut her off.

"Tell me, Miss Indi... are you serving food, " I pause and give her a condescending look, "or are you serving your boobs?"

The room felt silent momentarily before someone choked on their drink and started coughing.

Jaxon sputtered whatever in his mouth and stared at me wide-eyed as if I had grown four heads.

Even Celeste couldn't help but blink rapidly at me.

Damien, on the other hand, freezes midway through his chew as if my words had put a pause on his movements.

Indi turns red. Not blush red, fire alarm red. Her mouth opens but no words come out.

Jaxon leans back, grinning. “Damn. Savage.”

Celeste clears her throat. “Aurora.”

“What?” I shrug. “Isn't she practically serving. I’m just trying to understand the service hierarchy here.”

“I’m so sorry,” Indi mutters, bowing her head before rushing out of the room, her face aflame.

Jaxon gives me a slow clap. Damien picks up his glass again like nothing happened. As if he didn’t just become the unwilling center of a food-fueled war.

“You’re welcome,” I mutter to him. He doesn’t say a word. Of course he doesn’t. After breakfast, I go back to my room. I don’t talk to anyone. I don’t try to make sense of anything.

But I feel better a little maybe. I stare out the window, my heart still pounding a bit too fast. This place, it’s a box of secrets. I don’t know where I fit. I don’t even know who I am anymore.

But I know one thing: If this is war, I’m not going down quietly.