Not a Wyatt( Cole's POV)

The air in the servants’ quarters was thick with the scent of disinfectant and the nervous flutter of my own little heart. Tomorrow was the day. The day I would officially become a Wyatt. Or, at least, a version of one. Morison had told me, his eyes soft with a mixture of pity and hope. “A big party, Cole. For you. To welcome you.” The words felt hollow, like promises whispered in a dream.

That night, sleep escaped me. I tossed and turned, willing sleep to find me but it couldn't. My mind couldn't stop replaying the conversation I had stumbled upon. Mrs. Cecilia had sent me to the mansion to take the grocery list to Mrs. Wyatt for approval. She was not in the lounge room so I decided to look in the patio. I was nearing the back door when I heard Mrs. Wyatt's voice.

“It’s total madness. Alistair! LUDICROUS!” Her thin and brittle, sliced through the silence. “To give him the Wyatt name? My family’s name? Our ancestors’ name? He’s not a Wyatt. He’s nothing. He’s… a street urchin you picked up!”

I heard Mr. Wyatt’s calmer, yet equally firm, reply. “Rosalie, we’ve been over this. For appearances. For the sake of the election. We have waited ten years to adopt him officially. Now is the time. Think of all the votes it will garner us."

My breath hitched. My entire body tensed, straining to hear.

He continued, “He will not carry the Wyatt name, not officially, not in any meaningful sense. He will be Cole Junior-Wyatt on paper. It differentiates him, clearly. It protects our lineage. The public will see us as generous. The other election did not go as planned but we've worked on this over the years. Do not let it fail or I will never forgive you.”

A wave of cold washed over me. Cole Junior Wyatt. Not just Cole Wyatt. The Junior was a brand, a permanent reminder of my otherness, a mark that would separate me even in the act of being ‘welcomed.’ Rosalie’s voice, now slightly mollified, continued. “And the will? You’ve adjusted it, haven’t you? No claims on the true estate?” Rosalie asked.

“Of course, my dear,” Mr. Wyatt soothed. “Everything is handled. He’s adopted, yes, but legally, his entitlements are… limited. Zane and Zye remain the sole heirs. This is all for show, Rosalie. All for show.”

The words struck me like physical blows. My stomach churned. All for show. My entire existence in this house, my very adoption, was a performance. I wasn't being welcomed; I was being put on display. I was a prop, a living testament to their supposed kindness and generosity. The weight of their contempt, spoken so openly, settled heavily on my young shoulders. I curled into a ball, clutching my blanket, the whispers of my identity becoming a chilling reality.

The next day was bright and cheery despite my emotions. The mansion, usually hushed, buzzed with activity. Workers bustled, florists arrived with extravagant arrangements, and caterers set up vast tables laden with food. I was dressed in a suit that felt stiff and foreign, chosen by Mrs. Cecilia. She patted my shoulder, her eyes holding that familiar sadness. "Hold your head high, Cole. Be a good boy."

The party was a blur of flashing lights and polite smiles. The sheriff was there, his uniform crisp. Other town leaders, their faces creased with what looked like genuine admiration for the Wyatts, shook Mr. Wyatt’s hand. He was in his element, a charming host, his arm resting casually on my shoulder, presenting me to everyone.

"This is Cole," he'd beam, his voice hearty. "Our newest family member. We have officially adopted him."

I would smile, a practiced, empty gesture, and nod, murmuring a polite "thank you, sir." Each word felt like a lie. Each compliment directed at the Wyatts felt like a betrayal of the small, shivering boy who had listened to their cruel arguments the night before.

Mrs. Wyatt, radiant in a silk gown, played her part perfectly. She would occasionally touch my arm, a fleeting, almost imperceptible gesture, and offer a thin, public smile. "He’s a good boy, really. A little shy, perhaps, but he’ll come out of his shell." Her eyes, when they met mine, held no warmth, only a cold, distant acknowledgment.

Zane watched from the periphery, his face a mask of thinly veiled resentment. He barely hid his hate for me. Zye, bless her innocent heart, was excited. She danced around me, tugging at my suit jacket. "Now you’re officially my brother, Cole! We can play all the time now, can’t we?" Her optimism was a painful contrast to the darkness that clouded my world. I could only offer her a weak smile, knowing the truth of her father's rules.

Life after the adoption party settled into a familiar, yet more formalized, pattern of misery. The "Junior" now officially appended to my name served as a constant, subtle reminder of my secondary status. It was a brand, etched not on my skin, but into the fabric of my existence within those walls.

Mrs. Wyatt, released from the pressure of public scrutiny, let her true feelings for me flourish. Every minor infraction, real or imagined, became an opportunity for punishment. A dropped spoon, a scuff on the polished floor, a misplaced book – all met with sharp words, sometimes even a stinging slap across the back of my hand. Her eyes, filled with undisguised contempt, would bore into me.

“You’re clumsy, just like… like you came from nothing,” she’d sneer, her voice low enough that only I could hear, yet loud enough to echo in the halls. “You do not belong here, Cole. Don’t ever forget that.”

Her hatred was visible behind closed doors. She made no secret of it, except when a visitor’s car was spotted rumbling up the driveway. Then, suddenly, she transformed into the gracious, benevolent Mrs. Wyatt, her smile unsettlingly sweet, her words falsely kind. It was a charade I learned to dread, knowing the cold aftermath that would surely follow.

I remember one afternoon when Zye was 11, and had fallen while running in the garden, scraping her knee. She was crying. My heart ached for her. Without thinking and considering the invisible boundaries, I scooped her up into my arms. She was light, a small bundle of tears and sniffles, and I held her close, trying to soothe her.

Just then, Mrs. Wyatt emerged from the conservatory, a vase of orchids in her hand. Her eyes, usually dismissive, snapped to us. The smile that had been on her face, likely for herself, vanished. Her lips thinned into a hard line.

“Put her down, Cole!” Her voice was sharp, a whip cracking through the serene afternoon.

I flinched, instinctively lowering Zye. Zye, sensing the sudden shift in atmosphere, quieted her sobs, looking up at her mother with wide, tear-filled eyes.

Mrs. Wyatt strode towards us, her movements stiff with indignation. She snatched Zye from my arms, cradling her protectively, as if I had been about to harm her. "How dare you touch her? How dare you carry her?” Her voice was low, furious, meant only for my ears. “She is a Wyatt. You are not to lay hands on her. Do you understand?”

I stood frozen, the warmth of Zye’s small body still lingering on my arms, replaced by a cold shame. “I… I was just trying to help, Mrs. Wyatt. She fell.”

“Your ‘help’ is not needed here,” she spat, her eyes blazing with an intensity that terrified me. “Go to the servants' quarters. And do not come out until I say so. And if I ever see you touching her again, I will strangle you with my bare hands.”

Zye, nestled in her mother’s arms, looked back at me, her small face confused, a flicker of concern in her tear-filled eyes. I saw her try to reach out, a hand stretching towards me, but Mrs. Wyatt held her tighter, turning away.

Mr. Wyatt, throughout all of this, was a phantom presence. He was not overtly cruel like his wife, but his indifference was its own form of neglect. He saw, he heard, but rarely intervened. He would walk past a simmering argument between me and Rosalie, his gaze fixed straight ahead, as if the air itself wasn't charged with tension. He would offer a dismissive wave of his hand if I tried to talk to him about anything personal, always redirecting me to Morison or Mrs. Cecilia. His silence was a complicity, a quiet endorsement of Rosalie’s cruelty. 

I learned to live with the paradox. The boy who was 'blessed' to live with the Wyatts, yet cursed by their true nature. I was always going to be an outsider.