The first three days in England felt like living inside a photograph that belonged to someone else.
The house was too big. Too clean. Too quiet in a way that made me feel like I was trespassing even though Richard kept insisting this was my home now. My room was twice the size of the one I'd left behind, with a bathroom attached and a window that looked out over gardens that seemed to stretch forever. The bed was soft enough to sink into, sheets that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe, and I hated that I couldn't sleep in it.
Jet lag, I told myself. That was all. Not the fact that everything smelled wrong, sounded wrong, felt wrong. Not the fact that every time I closed my eyes, I saw his face on the stairs and couldn't figure out why that bothered me more than everything else.
My mother was busy.
That was the thing I noticed most. She was always with Richard now—walking through the gardens with him, sitting in his study while he worked, laughing at something he said over breakfast while I pushed eggs around my plate. She looked at him the way I'd never seen her look at anyone, like he was the answer to a question she'd been asking her whole life.
I should have been happy for her. I was happy for her. But there was something else underneath it, something I didn't want to name.
On the second morning, I came downstairs to find her in the kitchen with Richard, his hand on the small of her back while she poured coffee. They were talking softly, heads bent together, and they didn't notice me standing in the doorway.
I watched them for a moment. The way she leaned into him. The way he smiled at her like she'd hung the moon.
She used to smile at me like that. When I brought home good grades. When I made her laugh after a long shift. When it was just the two of us against everything else.
Now there was someone else in that space.
I backed out of the doorway before they saw me. Found the library instead.
It was at the end of a long hallway, past rooms I hadn't explored yet. The doors were heavy, dark wood, and they creaked when I pushed them open.
Inside was exactly what a library in a house like this should be. Floor-to-ceiling shelves. Leather chairs positioned near windows. A fireplace that looked like it hadn't been used in years. Books everywhere—old ones with cracked spines, new ones that still smelled like print, collections that seemed organized by color as much as by author.
I ran my fingers along the spines as I walked. Pulled one out at random. Poetry. Put it back. Pulled another. Some kind of business text. Put that back too.
There was a ladder on a track, the kind you had to slide along to reach the higher shelves. I climbed it just to see what was up there. Found a section of old novels, pages yellowed, covers faded. Picked one up and opened it.
A name was written inside. Elizabeth Thornton. The handwriting was elegant, old-fashioned.
Asher's mother.
I closed the book carefully and put it back where I found it. Climbed down. Left the library without taking anything.
Later, I found my mother in the hallway near the kitchen. She was carrying fabric samples, her phone pressed between her ear and her shoulder.
"Yes, the ivory, not the cream. There's a difference. No, I understand, but—"
She saw me and held up one finger. Wait.
I waited.
"Perfect. Thank you. Yes, Friday. Okay. Bye." She hung up and smiled at me. "Wedding things. You'd think it would be simple with such a small ceremony, but apparently not."
"Need help?"
"Oh, sweetheart, it's mostly done. Richard's assistant has been handling most of it. I'm just picking colors and showing up at this point." She laughed like this was a funny joke.
I didn't laugh.
"We could do something," I said. "Together. If you're free."
"I would love that, but Richard wants to show me the property today. Apparently there's a cottage near the back of the grounds that needs renovating, and he wants my input on what to do with it." She was already walking as she talked, moving toward the stairs, the fabric samples clutched to her chest. "Tomorrow, maybe? We could go into town."
"Sure."
"I'll make time, I promise." She kissed my forehead as she passed. Quick. Distracted. "Love you."
"Love you too."
She was gone before I finished saying it.
I stood in the hallway alone, the silence pressing in around me.
The painting room was on the second floor of the east wing, down a hallway I hadn't walked before. Richard had mentioned it at dinner, and I'd been too overwhelmed to pay attention, but now I stood in the doorway and understood why he'd thought of me.
North-facing windows. Natural light pouring in soft and even. Empty easels in the corner. A long table meant for supplies, bare and waiting.
I stepped inside. The floorboards creaked under my feet.
For a moment, I let myself imagine filling this space. My canvases against the walls. Paint on my hands. The smell of turpentine and linseed oil. The only place I'd ever felt like myself, like the noise in my head went quiet and something real could come out.
Then I heard a car outside.
I moved to the window. Watched a black Audi pull down the driveway and disappear past the gates. I didn't see the driver, but I didn't need to.
He had a life outside this house. People to see. Places to go.
I wondered if he was relieved to leave. If every hour away from here was an hour he didn't have to think about his father's new family moving into his space.
That night, I couldn't sleep.
I lay there for hours, staring at the ceiling, counting the shadows until I couldn't take it anymore.
I got up. Found my way to the kitchen in the dark.
He was already there.
Sitting at the island, phone in his hand, glass of water in front of him. He didn't look up when I walked in. Didn't acknowledge me at all. Just kept scrolling, the light from his screen casting shadows across his face.
I stood in the doorway longer than I should have, waiting for something. I didn't know what.
He didn't give it to me.
I got my water from the tap. The sound of it filling the glass was too loud in the silence. I turned to leave.
He still didn't look up.
I walked back to my room and told myself I didn't care.