Under His Roof, Her Game

ELARA They say the worst moments don’t come with warning signs.They arrive like whispers—soft, gentle, disguised as normal. A familiar hallway. A father’s steady voice. The warm press of a hand between your shoulder blades, guiding you forward like he always has.Until you realize you’re not walking toward safety.You’re being led off a cliff.That morning started like any other. A pale sun filtered in through the windows, casting thin shadows on the floors. The air smelled faintly of lavender, but it was sharp, almost like it was hiding something rotten underneath. I noticed it the moment I stepped into the hallway—something was off.Too quiet.No humming from the kitchen. No sound of heels clicking from my stepmother’s endless pacing. Just silence, and the ghost of her perfume clinging to the curtains.Then I saw my father.He stood by the window in the foyer, dressed in a pressed grey suit and shiny leather shoes, looking out like he was watching the end of the world and pretendi

ELARAThe music from the ballroom spilled out into the garden like laughter you weren’t invited to join. I sat alone on the cold stone bench, the hem of my little blue dress brushing against my ankles, my fingers twisting the ribbon tied at my waist. My shoes pinched, my feet hurt, and my chest felt tight from holding back tears.I was ten, but I felt invisible.The adults inside didn’t notice I’d slipped away. My parents were too busy smiling for cameras, shaking hands with people whose names I couldn’t remember. They had warned me to “behave,” which really meant: stay out of the way.I buried my face in my hands and tried to quiet the sob that threatened to escape.“Are you lost?”The voice was deep, older, and made me freeze. I looked up and saw a boy—though he was probably more of a young man—standing at the edge of the garden path. He looked maybe nineteen or twenty, tall and broad-shouldered in a fitted black suit. His hair was black and swept back from his forehead, his jaw sha

ELARAIt’s been four days since Lucy died, and somehow, the house feels even colder now than it did the night she stopped breathing.The air is heavy, like it carries weight I can’t see. The staff avoid my eyes. The corridors echo with silence. Even the flowers in the vases look like they’re wilting faster. Grief doesn’t make time slow—it makes it unbearable.But it’s not just grief that suffocates me.It’s Mateo.It’s always Mateo.I lie in bed long after morning has crept in through the sheer curtains, the sunlight weak and pale on the floorboards. I don’t move. I can’t. My hands are folded tightly over my stomach like I’m bracing for something. I stare at the ceiling until the lines between the panels blur.Then I hear it.Laughter.A woman’s.Light. Effortless. Obnoxiously loud.It travels up from the lower level like smoke from a burning room—impossible to ignore, impossible to breathe through.My throat goes dry. My mouth feels like sandpaper. I try to swallow, but even that hur

ELARAI was nine years old the night my world tilted and never went back to being steady.The Moretti mansion had always felt too big for me—like a giant mouth that swallowed me whole. Its marble halls were polished so bright they looked like mirrors, its chandeliers sparkled like frozen icicles, and the endless rooms whispered with secrets. But that night, the mansion was quiet. Too quiet.Normally, the corridors hummed with life—maids moving about, the clatter of dishes from the kitchen, or my father’s voice echoing sharply down the phone lines as he conducted business. But tonight there was only silence. A silence so thick it seemed alive. The only sound was the faint tick of the grandfather clock in the hallway, each second like a drumbeat in my ears.I should have been asleep. Giulia always insisted on early bedtimes. “A girl who lingers awake at night will grow up with shadows under her eyes,” she would say, pressing her cold lips against my forehead. But sleep had refused to co

ELARAThe Navarro mansion is too big.That’s the first thing I realized after Mateo brought me here — no, not brought… dragged — as his wife. I remember standing inside the grand foyer with my small suitcase and feeling like the house might swallow me whole.Even now, I still feel that way.Every hallway is long. Every wall echoes. Every door is too heavy, like it was built to keep secrets inside. And I walk around quietly, the way I used to when I was a child in the Moretti mansion, pretending that if I moved softly enough, the monsters wouldn’t notice me.I don’t explore.I just… drift.Like a ghost.I walk because sitting still makes me feel trapped, and the rooms are too silent, and Mateo’s presence—whether he’s here or not—sits on my skin like cold fingers.So I walk.But walking means seeing, and seeing means remembering, even if I don’t want to. I can’t help it. My eyes pick up small things. Patterns. People. Sounds.Not because I’m trying to.Because I’m scared.And when you’r