EIGHT

Hazel didn’t sleep.

She lay stiff on the oversized bed, staring at the golden chandelier above her. The sheets were silk, the kind of thing she’d once seen only in magazines. But all she could think about was the sound of Marie’s scream, the sight of Daniel fighting, the rough way Jackson’s hands had held his son back to stop him from getting hurt.

The house was too silent.

At the Jackson bungalow, the night was never this quiet. There were always noises, Daniel’s soft snores, the creak of the old ceiling fan, the distant sound of neighbors’ radios. The bungalow felt alive, even in the dark.

But here? Nothing. No breathing walls, no creaking wood. Just silence thick enough to choke her.

Hazel hugged her knees to her chest and whispered Charles’s name under her breath. Please don’t leave me. Please don’t forget me.

When dawn came, it wasn’t the sun that woke her, it was the knock on her door. Sharp. Precise.

She jumped.

The door opened before she could answer. A maid stepped in, her uniform crisp and spotless, her face expressionless. She carried a tray with toast, eggs, and tea. Hazel blinked at the sight. She had never woken up to food waiting for her.

“Good morning, Miss Hazel,” the maid said flatly, placing the tray on the bedside table.

Hazel swallowed. “Who are you?”

“I’m assigned to you. You will have everything you need here.”

The way she said it made Hazel’s stomach twist. Everything she needed, except her family. Except Charles.

The maid turned to leave, then paused. “Mr. Edwin will see you soon. Be ready.”

And then she was gone.

Hazel barely touched the food. Her stomach was too tight. She wandered around the room, her fingers brushing against the vanity full of perfumes, the wardrobe stuffed with clothes that weren’t hers, the tall mirror that reflected a girl who looked lost.

She hated it.

She hated that someone had already chosen clothes for her. She hated that the bed was too big, too soft. She hated the way this place already tried to erase the girl she had been.

Her mind ran back to Marie’s kitchen, the wooden cupboard with chipped corners, the single pot they used for almost everything, the small cracked plate she always used because Daniel liked the bigger one.

That was hers.

This wasn’t.

A second knock came, quieter this time. The maid returned. “Mr. Edwin is waiting. Come.”

Hazel’s heart stuttered.

The maid led Hazel down the wide staircase. Hazel trailed her hand along the polished railing, the wood smooth like water. Her feet sank into the red carpet, muffling her steps.

They entered a sitting room larger than the Jackson bungalow itself. A fire crackled in the marble fireplace, though it wasn’t even cold. Expensive paintings lined the walls, each face staring down at her as if they knew her secrets.

And then she saw him.

Edwin.

He sat in a leather armchair, a newspaper in his hands. His presence filled the room like smoke, heavy, suffocating. Hazel had seen men like him only in passing, the kind people crossed the street to avoid.

He lowered the paper slowly, his sharp eyes landing on her. Hazel’s breath caught.

So this was the man who thought he owned her.

“Hazel,” Edwin said, his voice deep, steady. “Come here.”

Hazel didn’t move at first. Her knees locked. The maid nudged her forward, and she stumbled a step before forcing herself to walk. Each step felt like walking into a storm.

When she stood before him, Edwin studied her openly, as though measuring her worth. His gaze was cold, assessing, with not a trace of warmth in it.

“You look like her,” he muttered, almost to himself. “But weaker.”

Hazel frowned. “Who?”

His eyes snapped to hers, sharp enough to cut. “Your mother.”

Hazel stiffened. Marie’s face came to mind, but she knew Edwin didn’t mean Marie. He meant someone else. Someone Hazel didn’t know.

Edwin leaned back, steepling his fingers. “From today, you are no longer Hazel Jackson. You will forget those people. They are nothing. You are my daughter, and you will live as such.”

“No.” Hazel’s voice shook, but she forced the word out. “They are my family.”

Edwin’s jaw tightened. The air in the room thickened. The maid flinched in the corner, but Edwin didn’t raise his voice.

Instead, he leaned forward, his eyes boring into hers. “Family? A mechanic and his wife? A sickly boy who will never amount to anything? They were caretakers, Hazel. Don’t insult me by calling them your family.”

Hazel’s nails dug into her palms. “They are my family,” she repeated, louder this time, even though her chest was shaking.

Edwin’s hand slammed against the armrest, the sound echoing like a gunshot. Hazel jumped. His glare pinned her in place.

“You will forget them,” he growled. “From this day forward, your life is mine. You will learn how to act, how to speak, how to be worthy of my name. If you resist, you will suffer. Do you understand?”

Hazel’s throat closed. She wanted to scream, to throw the words back at him, to run. But she remembered the men dragging her from her home. She remembered Marie’s screams. Daniel’s helpless tears.

If she fought now, they would pay for it.

So she bit her tongue until it bled and nodded.

Edwin dismissed her with a flick of his hand. The maid led Hazel back through the mansion, showing her the dining hall, the library, and the gardens. Every step felt like a mockery.

Hazel thought of the Jackson house again.

Their dining table was scratched and uneven. Sometimes they ate together, sometimes Daniel ate first and Hazel had to wait until there was enough food. But every meal was filled with laughter, stories, and scolding.

Here, the dining table stretched so long that Hazel couldn’t see the other end. The chairs were polished, the plates already set in neat rows, but there was no laughter, no warmth. Just emptiness.

The library was floor-to-ceiling books, more than Hazel had ever seen in her life. But instead of excitement, she felt a hollowness. Because what good were books when you couldn’t share them with Daniel, when you couldn’t sit cross-legged on the floor and read out loud while Marie smiled from the kitchen?

The garden stretched wide, with roses trimmed into perfect shapes, fountains trickling softly. But Hazel missed the tiny patch of earth behind the bungalow where Marie grew mint and parsley, where Daniel once tried to plant an avocado seed in a tin can, hoping it would grow into a tree taller than the house.

Everything here was bigger, brighter, richer.

And emptier.

That night, Hazel sat on the edge of her bed again, staring at her reflection in the tall mirror. The girl who looked back at her seemed like a stranger already. She was wearing silk instead of cotton. She was in a mansion instead of a bungalow.

But Hazel whispered to her reflection: Don’t forget. Don’t let them erase you.

She clutched Marie’s necklace and closed her eyes.

She remembered Daniel’s laugh. Marie’s cooking. Jackson’s scolding. Charles’s promise under the streetlight.

They could take her from her family. They could lock her in this mansion. But Hazel swore, right then, she would not forget who she was.

Even if it killed her.