Semua Bab When Roads Collide: Bab 1 - Bab 5

It was a spring morning, not too cold, nor too hot. The sun was mild in the sky, its usual hotness dulled by a looming sense of change. The Wyatts were still asleep in their opulent mansion. The workers were milling around, cleaning here, dusting there. They had to wake up early and satisfy Rosalie Wyatt's OCD by bleaching, sweeping, dusting and mopping the whole compound. Short, plump and with a sharp tongue, Rosalie was feared by all her workers.The Wyatts were a family figure worth emulating. They held galas, helped the poor, donated a lot of money to charity. Mr. Wyatt even had a statue erected, at the centre of the town, in his honor. Rosalie's sharp tongue was always hidden whenever they were in public. Beyond the pearly gates of their mansion, she was always smiling-her white and neatly arranged teeth out for everyone to see. She was always dotting on her husband and son.Today was no exception for the workers. As soon as the alarms started ringing, mops, lawmowers and bleache

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 pick

The servant quarters were a world away from the main house, even though they were just a short walk across the manicured lawn. For me, they were a refuge, a place where the air felt lighter and the shadows of Zane's cruelty couldn't quite reach. Mr. Patrick, the gardener was a kind man, his smile always warm, his eyes crinkling at the corners when he laughed. He never asked about my days at school, never questioned why I spent my afternoons reading dusty books by the mango tree instead of playing with Zane.It was a quiet afternoon, the sun shining lazily in the sky. I was engrossed in a worn-out copy of Treasure Island, the adventures of Jim Hawkins, a welcome escape from monotony. A rustle in the bushes pulled me from my book. My heart pounded. Had Zane followed me? Was he about to launch another one of his "pranks"?Instead, a small, familiar figure emerged, her bright eyes wide with a mixture of curiosity and defiance. It was Zye. Almost 13, she was a wisp of a girl with a fierce