More Than They’re Saying

 Chapter 4

Freya

Walking down the stairs, my heart might burst out of my chest. The closer I get to the living room, the more I hear—low voices and serious tones. As I round the corner, a deep male voice cuts through the air, biting with annoyance. It's not Mr. Coldwell.

Maybe one of his sons?

Something in me says to stop. To wait.

"Dad, this is the last time I'm going to tell you—I'm done playing your games," the voice says, sharp and angry. "What bullshit are you scheming this time? Adopting a Black girl into this family—have you lost your mind?"

Mr. Caldwell's reply is low, and controlled, but there's steel in his tone. "Mason, if you want to continue acting like a child, we'll treat you like one."

Mason fires back with a light laugh. What are you going to do this time? Take my car, freeze my bank accounts but he can continue. Ms. Catherine's voice cuts in before he can. Calm but firm.

"She's a lovely girl. You have to get to know her."

Another male voice joins in, heavier with frustration. "Why do we always have to be involved in your charades? We all know why you're doing the—"I didn't even hear Lilith come up behind me. Her hand gently touches the small of my back, and she leans in close, whispering, "Everything is going to be okay."

And then—before I can react—she pushes me forward.

SHE JUST PUSHED ME

I stumble forward, catching myself just before I fall flat on my face. The room goes silent. Every set of eyes turns toward me. Mason, the one with the sharp voice, looks like he's just been slapped—his jaw tightens, eyes narrowing as he takes me in. The same boy who just said those things now stands there, frozen in disbelief that I heard them. Mr. Coldwell straightens, composed but unreadable, his hand resting on the back of an armchair like it's the only thing keeping him from showing his true colors. Ms. Catherine's face shifts from tension to something softer—remorse, maybe, or guilt. The third man—the one who sounded tired of all the "charades"—folds his arms and leans against the wall, avoiding my eyes completely.

No one says anything.

I stood there, wishing I could shrink onto the floor, wishing I had waited a little longer at the top of the stairs. My throat is tight. I don't know where to look, who to address if I'm even supposed to say anything. Then Lilith's voice, calm and unshaken, breaks the silence.

"Well, now that that's out of the way... Freya, everyone. Everyone, this is Freya."

Her voice is light, but there's weight behind it. A warning. A reminder.

I swallow hard, forcing myself to nod, to pretend I didn't just hear someone question my right to be here.

"...Hi," I say, quietly.

Mason scoffs under his breath and turns away.

"Freya," Mr. Coldwell says, stepping forward, his tone shifting as if nothing just happened, "we were just discussing some...family matters. I'm glad you're up. We have a bit of a morning planned."I nod again, this time tighter. But I can feel it now—beneath the surface. The truth of this house, the fractures in the perfect picture. This isn't going to be as simple as a new home and warm welcomes. Everyone just stood there, the silence pressing down like a weighted blanket. You could hear a pin drop. Then, mercifully, one of the maids stepped into the room. "Breakfast is ready," she announced softly, glancing between us like she'd walked in at the wrong time—which, of course, she had."Thank you, Margaret," Ms. Catherine replied quickly, her voice just a little too bright, too eager to move past the moment. I didn't know what to do. Or say. My hands moved on their own, rubbing nervously at the back of my thigh, a habit I hadn't realized I'd picked up. I stared down at my feet, then forced the words out.

"Good morning... everyone."

My voice was small like I had to test if it would even carry in this house. Mr. Coldwell nodded, the corner of his mouth twitching into something that might've been a smile. Ms. Catherine gave me a more genuine one. Mason didn't look at me at all. The other man let out a quiet sigh and pushed off the wall.

"Well," Mr. Coldwell says, clearing his throat, "shall we?"Without waiting for a reply, he started toward the dining room. The others followed—some more reluctantly than others. I trailed behind, my chest tight, wondering if this was what it felt like to be invited in, but never fully welcomed.

Everyone is seated around the long dining room table. The plates are full, the food steaming, silverware gently clinking—but there's a strange heaviness in the air. So many words seemed to hang between us, but none of them were spoken. I sat near the end of the table, not quite at the corner, not quite in the center. Just... somewhere. Out of place.

Mr. Coldwell clears his throat, the sound sharp in the thick silence. It draws everyone's eyes in.

"Well," he begins, folding his hands on the table. "This morning didn't go exactly as planned, but let's try to reset. Freya, we're happy to have you here. I know this is all new—and maybe a little overwhelming—but you're part of this family now."

A pause. I nod, quietly, unsure if I'm supposed to respond. Next to him, Ms. Catherine smiles warmly, trying to fill the space. "Yes, and we thought a proper breakfast would be a good way to start the day together."Mason stabs a piece of bacon a little too forcefully. The third man—the one who hadn't looked at me yet—finally speaks. "You're a senior, right? In school?"

I glance at him, surprised he's even talking to me. He doesn't sound hostile.... detached.

"Yeah," I say softly. "I'm graduating this year."

He nods once and goes back to his eggs like that was all he needed to know.

Lilith, across from me, gives me a wink over her teacup, as if to say you're doing fine.

The conversation stays surface-level after that. Weather. School. A brief mention of a charity event coming up. There was no denying that Nixon and Mason were twins—the resemblance was striking. Both had sharp jawlines, high cheekbones, and the kind of presence that made people take a step back. Nixon's hair was jet-black, slicked back with precision, while Mason's hair, though, was different—still dark, but messier, like he ran his hands through it a lot or didn't care what anyone thought. But it wasn't just their looks that set them apart—it was the energy they carried. Nixon had a guarded intensity, like someone used to holding the weight of the world on his shoulders. Mason, on the other hand, felt colder—calculated. His eyes didn't just look at you; they measured you like he was deciding whether you were useful... or disposable. 

 The edges of what was said before I walked in.

But I feel it. The quiet war happening behind careful smiles and controlled tones. The words that are still there, waiting to break through the surface. Once again Mr Coldwell clears his throat and says listen everyone.

Just as I start to think the awkward part of breakfast might be over, Mr. Coldwell puts  down his fork and dabs at his mouth with a napkin."Mason, "Nixon his voice formal but final, "I've arranged for the both of you to be on a leave of absence from school until further notice. You'll be spending some time together—getting to know each other. Better ."

My heart skips a beat. My gaze snaps to Mr. Coldwell, then to Mason, whose expression darkens instantly.

"What?" Mason says flatly. Nixon says nothing his demeanor is he's done fighting

I sit up straighter. "No, you don't have to do that," I say quickly, looking between them. "It's okay. I don't want to— I mean, I don't want to force anything."

Mason turns his head slightly, locking eyes with me for the first time. There's a challenge in his look—sharp and unreadable.

"See? Even she doesn't want to," he says, gesturing at me like I just proved his point.

Mr. Coldwell doesn't flinch. "This isn't up for debate. All three of you  will benefit from this arrangement."

Mason scoffs, pushing his chair back. "Unbelievable," he mutters, rising to his feet. Ms. Catherine gives him a warning glance. "Mason. Sit down."

But he's already walking out, jaw clenched, muttering something under his breath. I shrink slightly in my seat, the heat of everyone's eyes on me. "I didn't mean to cause anything," I whisper, more to myself than anyone else. Lilith leans over, resting her hand on mine. "You didn't," she says gently. "This isn't about you—it's about him."

But it's hard to believe that when I feel like the fuse in the middle of someone else's war.

Ms. Catherine tries to smooth things over with polite conversation, but it barely lands. After a few more strained minutes, breakfast ends, and chairs begin scraping back from the table.

Lilith gently touches my shoulder. "Come with me," she says quietly.

I follow her out of the dining room and down a side hall, one I hadn't noticed before—narrow, lined with framed photographs of people who all look vaguely related. She stops in a sunlit nook with a window seat and gestures for me to sit. I do.

She sits beside me, tucking one leg under herself."I know that was... a lot," she says softly. I stare out the window for a moment before responding. "Why does he hate me?"Lilith sighs. "Mason doesn't hate you, Freya. He hates change. And control being taken from him. This family—" she pauses, searching for the right words "—it's built on expectations, some spoken, some not. You being here shifts everything."

"I didn't ask to shift anything," I murmured.

"I know," she says gently. "But that doesn't mean it won't happen. Sometimes your very existence challenges people."I nod, though I'm not sure I fully understand.

She stands and gives me a faint smile. "Go explore. Get a feel for the house. There's no better way to claim space than to take it."

With that, she walks off, leaving me alone with her words echoing in my head.

I rise slowly and begin wandering. The house is massive—too big, too clean. Every hallway feels like it's waiting to be filled with noise that never comes. I pass closed doors, some with nameplates, others just blank. There's a music room with a grand piano I'm too afraid to touch, a library with high ceilings and glass-paneled cabinets, and a sitting room where the fireplace still smells faintly of smoke.

At the end of one hallway, I find a door slightly open. Inside is a bedroom—It's neat but lived-in. Posters on the wall, basketball shoes by the door.

Mason's room.

I shouldn't be here.

And yet, my feet don't move.

I shouldn't be here.

And yet, my feet stay planted just inside the doorway.

There's something about the room that draws me in—not because I want to snoop, but because I want to understand. Mason is a mystery plus an ass, and standing in his space feels like the closest I've come to reading between the lines when it comes to him.

His bed is perfectly made, military-style. A few trophies lined a shelf—basketball, track. There's a framed photo on the desk of him with two younger boys, probably his brothers. They're all smiling in the picture. Genuinely. That surprises me. I didn't think he knew how.  

Beside the photo is a leather-bound notebook, closed, with a pen lying perfectly straight across it. I glance at the door, then back at the notebook, tempted—but I don't touch it.

Instead, I step further inside, drawn to the window. From here, I can see the back garden, a wide stretch of green with a stone path leading into the woods. For a second, it looks peaceful. Free.

Click.

The sound of the door being pushed makes my heart stop. Mason walks in, earbuds still in, scrolling on his phone. Shirtless he looks up—and I freeze. His eyes narrow instantly. "What the hell are you doing in my room?"I take a step back. "I—I didn't mean to. The door was open, and I was just... looking." You were just looking," he repeats mockingly. "At what? My stuff? You trying to figure out how to play the part?"No," I say quickly, holding up my hands. "I swear, I didn't touch anything."Mason closes the short distance between us, pinning me to the wall. His jaw is clenched so tight, I think it might snap. His voice is low and sharp:

"You don't get it, do you?"

"You shouldn't even be in this part of the house," he snaps.

My room is two doors down — but I don't say that out loud. I can feel the heat rising in my chest.  

 I snapped back, frustration sharping in my voice  Mr Coldwell said I'm allowed to go into anywhere in the house —except the west wing I stand my ground. "You're right. I don't get it. You hate me, and you don't even know me."

"I don't need to know you," he bites back. "I already know exactly why you're here—and it has nothing to do with family."

That one stings.

My chest tightens, but I force the words out. "Then why am I here, Mason? Since you seem to have all the answers." Last time I checked I didn't ask to be here

He doesn't answer. Just staring at me, like he's torn between yelling and walking away.

But then, something flickers behind his eyes. Not anger. Not quite guilt. Something else. That's what they all say ...Just stay out of my room," he mutters, turning away. And before I can say anything more, he's gone—back out the door, leaving it wide open behind him. I stand there for a moment, pulse still pounding, Mason's words echoing in my head.

I already know exactly why you're here—and it has nothing to do with family. Who are they? 

I stayed in my room for the rest of the day, drifting in and out of sleep. Lilith and the other maids checked on me from time to time, but I barely responded. After what happened at breakfast—and that heated conversation with Mason—I've completely lost my appetite.

Lilith came by one final time that evening. I heard the soft knock, then her voice.

"Freya? Can we talk?"

I didn't want to. I almost pretended to be asleep again. But something in her tone made me drag myself out of bed and unlock the door.

She stood there holding a small box. A cell phone box.

"This is for you," she said gently. "Mr. Coldwell asked me to bring it to you."

I take the box from her, not sure what to say. A phone? Why now?

Lilith hesitates at the door like she's debating whether to say more. Then she clears her throat.

"Tomorrow," she says carefully, "you'll be going out—with the boys. Mr. Coldwell thinks it might be... good for all of you."

I blink at her. All of us? As in me and Mason? Me and Nixon?

Lilith offers a small, almost apologetic smile, then adds, "It won't be anything intense. Just a drive. Some air. A change of scenery."

Then she's gone, leaving me alone with the phone in my hands, and a new kind of anxiety crawling up my spine.

The next morning, Lilith knocks again—this time with a light breakfast and a reminder: "You're leaving at ten. Dress warm."

I almost ask where we're going, but she's already gone before I can.

By the time I make it downstairs, the boys are waiting by the car. Nixon leans against the hood, sunglasses on, arms crossed like he owns the world. Mason's by the passenger door, tapping his fingers against the glass, visibly annoyed.

When I approach, neither of them says anything. Nixon just opens the back door and gestures with a flick of his hand.

"Let's get this over with," he mutters.

The car ride is quiet at first—stiff, and uncomfortable. The kind of silence that makes your skin crawl 

I was exhausted after staying up all night worrying how this day was going to go and fooling around with my phone 

But after a while, Nixon breaks the ice 

"You always this quiet, or just when you're pissed off?" he asks, glancing at me through the rearview mirror.

"Depends who's talking to me," I shoot back.

He smirks. "Fair."

Even Mason huffs out something close to a laugh. It's not much, but it softens the air between us.

They take me to a little diner about thirty minutes out of town—nothing fancy, just old booths, warm coffee, and a jukebox that probably hasn't worked since the '90s.

And slowly, without meaning to, the heavy atmosphere begins to melt. Nixon tells a dumb story about Mason falling into a river when they were kids. Mason rolls his eyes but doesn't deny it.

Mason doesn't say much, but I catch him watching me once or twice—not the way he did before, like I was a threat. This time it's more... curious.

Back on the road, Nixon fiddles with the radio until he finds a station that crackles out old rock songs. We drive in silence again, but it's a softer silence this timeless tense, more thoughtful.

About ten minutes from home, Nixon pulls into a gas station, mumbling something about needing caffeine. He hops out, leaving me and Mason alone in the car.

For a while, Mason just stares out the window. I don't expect him to say anything. He never does. But then, without looking at me, he speaks.

"Why'd you end up in the system?"

It's not cruel, not sharp—just blunt. Honest. Like he wants to know.

I blink at him. "Seriously? That's your opener?"

His eyes flick toward me. "You don't have to answer."

I pause. Part of me wants to tell him to go to hell. But the other part—the part that's been carrying this weight alone for too long—wants to speak.

"My mom died when I was twelve. From an overdose."

I keep my voice flat, even. "No next of kin, no one to fight for me. That's how I ended up in the system."

He doesn't look away. His expression doesn't change much, but something in his posture shifts—like the armor he's always wearing drops just an inch.

"I'm sorry," he says quietly. And for once, I think he means it.

He doesn't look away. His expression doesn't change much, like the armor he's always wearing drops just an inch.

"I'm sorry," he says quietly. And for once, I think he means it.

There's a long pause. I almost let it fade, but something in me pushes back.

"What about you?" I ask. "What happened to you guys?"

He turns back to the window. For a second, I thought he wouldn't answer.

Then, softly—

There's not much to say"We didn't have much either. Grew up on scraps and secrets."He pauses. "But Mr. Coldwell didn't just find us. Not like he did with you."

I blink. "Wait... you mean—"

"He's our biological father," Mason says.  I stare at him, stunned. But it wasn't a normal childhood. Not even close."

He  just made us useful."

That last word hangs in the air like smoke.

"Useful how?" I ask.

He doesn't answer. His jaw tightened like the question physically hurt to hold in his mouth.

So I pushed what do you mean useful?.

"Because it kind of sounds like you're saying he trained you. Like you're... tools. Not sons."

Mason exhales through his nose, eyes still fixed on something outside the window—anything but me.

"He did train us," he says finally. "Discipline. Surveillance. Strategy. Everything had a purpose. There was no playing, no softness. You didn't grow up in this house thinking you're loved. You grew up learning how to serve."

I flinch at the word serve.

"But why?" I ask. "What does he even do? Why raise his kids like that?"

Mason finally turns to face me. There's something raw in his expression now, like a bruise just under the surface.

"Because Mr. Calvin Coldwell doesn't believe in family. He believes in control. Everything he builds, everyone he lets in—he expects something in return. Me. Nixon. And now... you."

That stops me cold.

"What do you mean, me?" I whisper.

Mason watches me in silence for a long, heavy moment. Then he says, almost reluctantly—

"You think you're just here because he's generous? Because he wants to help you out of pity?"

He shakes his head. "He doesn't do things without a reason, Freya. And if he brought you into this house... then trust me—he wants something."

Before I can ask what that means, the car door opens. Nixon slides back in with two coffees and a bag of chips.

"Miss me?" he says with a smirk, handing Mason a cup and tossing me a drink without asking what I like. "They were out of those sugary things you probably love. Sorry, orphan girl."

I glare at him, but there's no heat behind it.

Mason just takes a long sip and mutters, "Real smooth, Nixon."

Nixon grins. "It's a gift." The rest of the ride is filled with casual insults, dumb music, and Nixon's terrible snack choices. For a few brief moments, it almost feels... normal. Like I'm ment to be here because rainbows don't last forever.