As "One of Us" by Celine Lions played faintly in the background, a shiver ran down my spine. The lyrics seemed to echo my own unease, the disconnection that had settled over me like a second skin. Dark clouds loomed above the villa, heavy and oppressive, like the weight of secrets waiting to collapse around us. The sun had disappeared, leaving the world bathed in a gray, threatening shadow.
I glanced at Mrs. Broncos. Her eyes glimmered with a sharp, calculating intensity, her smile thin and controlled. I noticed how she subtly covered her hand while speaking with my father—a gesture that didn't escape me. There was something she wasn't telling me, and I knew it. Something dangerous.
Everything about this moment felt too familiar, as though I had stepped into a memory I couldn't place. Every instinct screamed that I was walking into a trap.
As we drove into the villa's driveway, the air seemed to thicken, heavy with tension. The luxurious home, once a sanctuary, now felt like a gilded cage. I stepped out of the car, my feet heavy, every step echoing the absence of Slavvy—his absence, his presence, his shadow lingering everywhere.
The moment we entered, Ashly came down the stairs, her eyes locking onto me with a venomous glare. "Where did you find her?" she demanded, her tone sharp.
Mrs. Broncos intervened smoothly, her voice cool, rehearsed. "We'll discuss that later, Ashly. Tess needs to clean up and rest."
I rolled my eyes, irritation bubbling. Everyone treated me like property, as though my choices didn't matter.
As I trudged upstairs, I collided lightly with Ashly, the door slamming shut behind me. The sound reverberated through the hall like a warning bell.
My bedroom was chaos incarnate. Clothes strewn across the floor, furniture overturned, papers scattered as if a storm had passed through. My Bible lay in tatters on the floor, the words of scripture staring back at me like a judgment.
"For all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God."
I swallowed hard.
I noticed a small envelope pinned under my bed, almost hidden. I picked it up with trembling hands. Scrawled inside, the words were simple but chilling:
The door creaked open. Ashly stepped inside, her eyes gleaming with cruel satisfaction. "Well, well, well," she said, slamming the door behind her. "Finally back home, huh?"
I squared my shoulders. "Why did you mess up my room?"
She shrugged, a sly smirk playing on her lips. "Bored. You were gone for weeks. Had to do something." Her eyes, cold and sharp, pinned me in place.
I took a step closer. "You're mad that Slavvy and I are connected." My voice was steady, though my heart pounded.
Ashly's anger flared like wildfire. "Seems like he's treating you like trash," she spat, her words venomous. "To see what kind of damage you've been through."
I leveled her with a calm, cold stare. "You missed everything, Ashly. He's mine. And no matter what you do, you'll never break that."
Her eyes flashed with rage. "He'll turn on you eventually. You're nothing. Absolutely nothing."
I felt a pang of guilt for hitting so hard
"You may have won the battle, but not the war," she hissed. "I'm going to dismantle everything you've built with him. You'll see… I'll take Slavvy from you before the end of this week, and you will watch it all burn." With that, she stormed out, leaving me shaken but unbroken.
I let out a long breath I hadn't realized I was holding.
The dinner table below felt normal at first glance, but the tension was tangible. Mrs. Broncos dished up the food, my family's movements mechanical, smiles masking unease. Ashly sat glaring at me, while Michael and Mike exchanged subtle, knowing looks.
Suddenly, pain shot through my head like a flare. I stumbled back from the chair, covering my eyes as the world blurred. In the distance, I saw the flicker of documents, like a ledger being ripped apart by unseen hands—an abandoned office, papers fluttering violently.
"Tess! Are you okay?" my father's voice jolted me back. He grabbed my arm gently, his worry etched deep into his features.
The boys glanced at each , Ashly muttered, "Drama queen," before following suit.
Mrs. Broncos knelt to check on my father's hand, which had been singed somehow during the chaos, and I noticed a strange mark near her ear. A detail I couldn't place—but it felt familiar, unsettling.
The tattoo looked exactly like that guy's tattoo from the picture
"I have to go," I whispered, my body tensing. Without waiting for anyone, I bolted upstairs, driven by a mix of fear, instinct, and the need to regain control of my own life.