Chapter 13
The night air was cold, but Carl didn't feel it.
He walked out of the house with clenched fists, his jaw tight, the sting of his father's slap still burning on his cheek. His chest ached—not just from the hit, but from everything. The silence. The pressure. The emptiness of being in a house that only pretended to be a home.
He moved through the courtyard, eyes blurry with anger and shame. Then—
"Carl?"
Grozel's voice was soft, barely more than a whisper, but it cut through the fog in his mind. She stood just outside the servant quarters, wrapped in a shawl, a warm light from her small window flickering behind her.
He froze.
She stepped closer, seeing the mark on his face, her expression shifting from surprise to heartbreak.
"Come," she said gently, taking his arm. "You shouldn't be alone tonight."
He didn't argue.
Grozel led him to her quarters. The space was small, but it was warm and smelled faintly of herbs and soap—a place where things made sense. She guided him to sit on the small bed and crouched in front of him, tilting his face toward the light.
"Oh, my boy," she whispered, brushing a thumb gently over the swelling. "You didn't deserve this."
Carl didn't speak. His eyes brimmed, but he blinked the tears away.
Grozel rose and retrieved a cloth, dampened it with cool water, and began dabbing his cheek with the softest care.
She murmured. "Your father... he forgets sometimes. That love isn't something you show through power."
Carl let out a bitter laugh, more of an exhale. "He only remembers when people are watching."
Grozel paused, then sat beside him. She wrapped an arm around his shoulder, letting him lean into her warmth.
"You're a good boy, Carl. You've always been. Don't let his anger make you forget that."
He didn't answer—but he didn't pull away either.
The room was quiet, filled only by the steady tick of her old clock and the rise and fall of Carl's breathing. Slowly, the tension in his body began to melt.
Grozel reached down, pulling a blanket over him as he lay back on her bed.
"Rest here tonight," she said softly. "I'll keep the lights low."
Carl closed his eyes, exhaustion finally overtaking him.
---
The sun streamed in through the curtainless window, spilling light across Carl's face. He blinked awake, momentarily disoriented by the scent of lavender and the unfamiliar quilt beneath him.
Then he remembered—Grozel.
He looked around her small room, warm and still, and for the first time in a while, he smiled.
Sliding his hand into his pocket, he pulled out his phone. It was nearly noon.
"Thank God it's Saturday," he muttered.
Carefully, Carl stood, straightened his clothes, and made his way back to the main house. The hallways were quiet. He slipped into his room, closing the door behind him with a soft click. He sat on the edge of his bed and exhaled.
Then, the door creaked open.
Yvonne stepped in, dressed in soft beige silk, her hair pinned elegantly as always. She hesitated, then walked closer.
"Are you alright?" she asked, her voice gentle but restrained.
Carl looked up at her. He didn't nod. Didn't shake his head. Just stared.
"Grozel told me you stayed in her quarters," Yvonne continued. "You should have come back up... that bed must've been uncomfortable."
She didn't ask what happened.
"Get some more sleep if you need it," she said softly, placing a hand on the door. "We won't bother you."
And just like that, she was gone.
Carl sighed, falling back onto his mattress, phone in hand. He scrolled through his messages:
Valerie:
"We're going to the park today! Don't even think about saying no 😤💅"
Gina:
"Bring that rich boy charm and your wallet. I want churros."
He stared at the screen, thumb hovering, then put the phone down.
He wasn't sure what he needed today—but it wasn't noise or laughter.
Just a little more time to be still.
His body was heavy with exhaustion, but his mind drifted elsewhere.
To a time when everything made sense.
He remembered the way his grandfather's laugh used to echo through their old summer cabin, deep and hearty, like thunder rolling through the mountains. That sound alone could make him feel safe—like nothing in the world could touch him. Carl used to sit on the porch steps with him, sipping sweet tea and pointing at clouds, turning their shapes into dragons and ships.
And his grandmother, she was always in the kitchen. Her apron forever dusted with flour, humming softly as she kneaded dough or brewed ginger tea for his scraped knees and bruised pride.
"You're too gentle for this world, my boy," she would tell him, patting his cheek.
"But that's your strength. Not your weakness."
She'd call him "darling" like it was a prayer. Hold his face between her soft hands and kiss his forehead like he was made of gold. She always smelled like lavender and old books.
After dinner, they'd all sit together in front of the fireplace. His grandfather would read the paper aloud in a ridiculous voice, making Carl laugh so hard he'd choke on his cocoa. His grandmother would knit something or offer him a slice of warm honey cake even if he'd already had two.
"You can always have more, sweetheart. Especially if it makes you smile."
He hadn't smiled much.
Not since they passed.
Carl pressed the heel of his palm against his eyes, trying to blink the memory away—but it clung to him. Warm and aching. A part of him he wasn't ready to let go of.
They were the only ones who ever made him feel like he was enough—as he was. Before the lies. Before the pressure. Before the weight of a family name he never asked to carry.
And now…
Now there was silence. Money. Expectations. And a house full of cold.
But for a brief moment—wrapped in that memory—he was just a boy again. Sitting at the feet of love that asked for nothing in return.