Chapter 4: A House With No Corners

Charlie let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He pressed his forehead lightly against the glass, eyes stinging.

“She’ll be moved tonight,” Dexter said without looking up. “You’ll be allowed to visit once she’s stable.”

“Thank you,” Charlie whispered.

“Don’t thank me,” Dexter said. “You’re fulfilling your end of the agreement.”

The car turned through wrought iron gates and onto a long, curved drive. The house emerged slowly, revealed by lights that cut through the darkness with surgical precision.

No columns. No sweeping balconies. Just clean lines, dark stone, glass panels set back like watchful eyes. Modern. Controlled. A structure built to impress without inviting.

A house designed not to be lived in, Charlie thought but managed.

They stopped. The doors unlocked automatically.

“Welcome home,” Dexter said.

The word felt wrong.

Inside, the air was cool and faintly scented cedar and something metallic beneath it. The floors were polished concrete, seamless and reflective.

Charlie’s footsteps echoed too loudly in the open space, each one a reminder that he did not belong here.

A woman waited near the entrance, tablet in hand.

“Emily Bell,” she said briskly, eyes flicking over Charlie with professional curiosity rather than warmth. “I’ll be handling your public schedule and media training.”

She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

“Jonah will oversee your security,” Dexter added. “House staff already know the rules.”

Rules.

Charlie’s shoulders tightened.

They showed him the house in fragments rather than a whole living room, dining area, gym he would never use, office he was not to enter without permission. Every space was open, minimalist, devoid of clutter or softness. Even the furniture seemed wary of being touched.

“This is your room,” Emily said at last.

It was large. Too large. A glass wall overlooked a private garden illuminated by ground lights. The bed was immaculate, sheets tucked with military precision. A desk sat by the window, bare except for a lamp and a single notepad.

Charlie hovered at the threshold.

“If you need anything,” Emily continued, already turning away, “submit it through the internal system. Dexter’s schedule takes priority.”

She left without waiting for acknowledgment.

Dexter lingered.

“This is temporary,” he said, as if sensing something in Charlie’s stillness. “You’ll adjust.”

Charlie nodded, though his chest felt tight. The room had no corners. Everything was rounded, smooth, intentional. There was nowhere to retreat, nowhere to hide.

“Dinner will be at eight,” Dexter added. “Public appearance tomorrow afternoon. Iris will brief you in the morning.”

He paused.

“And Charlie?”

“Yes?” Charlie looked up quickly.

Dexter’s expression was unreadable. “Sleep. You look… worn.”

Then he left.

The door closed with a soft click that sounded far too final.

Charlie stood alone in the center of the room, surrounded by luxury that felt like a museum exhibit. He set his bag everything he owned now beside the bed and sank down slowly, carefully, as if the mattress might reject him.

His hands were still shaking.

He pulled his knees to his chest and stared at the glass wall. The garden beyond was manicured to perfection, every plant placed with intention. Even nature, here, was controlled.

He didn’t cry.

He couldn’t.

Crying felt like something that required privacy, and he wasn’t sure this house had any.

Dinner was silent.

Dexter sat at the head of the table, tablet propped beside his plate. Charlie sat to his right, posture stiff, hands folded exactly as Iris had instructed. Jonah stood near the doorway.

The food was exquisite. Charlie barely tasted it.

“You’ll be photographed together tomorrow,” Emily said, scrolling through her own tablet. “Casual. Coffee shop. Approachability is key.”

She glanced at Charlie. “Smile, but not too much. Think… relief.”

Charlie nodded. “Okay.”

“Don’t speak unless spoken to,” Dexter added without looking up. “And don’t contradict me in public. Ever.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Don’t call me that,” he said quietly.

Charlie flushed. “I’m sorry.”

“Dexter,” he corrected. “In private. In public, you’ll use my name when prompted.”

Charlie nodded again, shame burning his cheeks.

After dinner, Dexter disappeared into his office. Emily left shortly after. Charlie retreated back to his room in silence. Left alone again, Charlie paced.

He tried the bed. Too soft. He tried the desk. Too bare. He opened the wardrobe to find it already stocked with clothes in his size neutral colors, clean lines, nothing that felt like him.

They had planned this.

The thought made his stomach twist.

He showered quickly, flinching at his own reflection in the mirror pale, hollow eyed, hair falling into his face. He changed into one of the provided sleep shirts and crawled into bed. The lights dimmed automatically, Darkness pressed in.

He lay there, staring at the ceiling, counting breaths, counting seconds. His body buzzed with exhaustion, but sleep wouldn’t come. Every sound felt amplified the distant hum of systems, the soft footsteps of security making rounds, the faint murmur of Dexter’s voice through the walls as he took late night calls.

He wondered if his mother was awake.

He wondered if she would forgive him for this choice.

Sometime after midnight, his door opened.

Charlie jolted upright, heart racing.

Dexter stood in the doorway, phone pressed to his ear, expression sharp with irritation. He glanced at Charlie, then back into the hall.

“Cancel the meeting,” he snapped. “I don’t care how inconvenient it is.”

He ended the call and noticed Charlie fully for the first time wide eyed, breathing too fast, hands clenched in the sheets.

“You’re still awake,” Dexter said.

“I’m sorry,” Charlie replied automatically.

Dexter sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. Up close, he looked… tired. The sharpness dulled by something heavier.

“You don’t need to apologize for existing,” Dexter said, then frowned slightly, as if surprised by his own words.

He stepped into the room, stopping a careful distance from the bed.

“This arrangement only works if you’re functional,” he continued. “Lack of sleep compromises judgment.”

Charlie nodded, though his chest felt tight.

“I can’t…” He swallowed. “I’m trying.”

Dexter studied him in silence. Then, unexpectedly, he reached out and adjusted the lamp, dimming it further.

“Close your eyes,” he said. “Count backward from a hundred. Slow.”

It wasn’t a suggestion.

Charlie obeyed.

“Good,” Dexter murmured. “Breathe.”

The voice was low, controlled but not unkind.

Charlie’s eyelids fluttered. His thoughts scattered. For a moment, just a moment, the house felt less like a cage and more like shelter.

Then Dexter stepped back.

“This doesn’t change anything,” he said, as if correcting a mistake. “Rest.”

He left.

The door closed.

Charlie lay there, heart pounding, confusion swirling with something dangerously close to comfort.

In the quiet that followed, he finally drifted into sleep unaware that the house, like the man who owned it, was already reshaping him.

And that the cost of survival had only just begun to reveal itself.