Chapter 2 2

Angela showed her how to stay out of the way while still being helpful. Cleaning. Cutting. Fetching. Claire didn't complain. It felt good to have something to do.

But her peace shattered when Adrian walked in, casually grabbing a bottle of water. The room tensed, even the chef quieted.

He glanced at Claire, then looked away without a word.

This time, it didn't sting. It burned.

That night, as she journaled, Claire wrote one line over and over:

*I don't care what he thinks.*

But even she didn't fully believe it.

The morning air was crisp, with a faint citrus scent drifting in from the manicured orange trees near the east garden. Claire wrapped her sweater tighter as she stepped into the courtyard. The Devereux Mansion woke early, but quietly-like it had nothing to prove.

She kept to the edges, her steps soundless on the cobblestone path. Her mother had left early to prepare for breakfast service, and Claire didn't want to stay cooped up in her room. Not when her mind was already cluttered with the echo of Adrian's voice.

*Just don't get comfortable.*

She hadn't replied when he said it. She probably never would. But the tone lingered-like a challenge, like a warning.

Claire sat beneath a trimmed arbor, pulling her sketchpad onto her lap again. She'd promised herself she wouldn't draw him. Not him. And yet, her hand kept drifting toward the same hard lines: sharp eyes, stubborn jaw, disinterested stare.

She turned the page.

A bird landed on the fence, twitching its head at her before flitting away. She smiled to herself. Even the animals here looked like they belonged to another world.

"Sketching again?"

The voice startled her. It wasn't Adrian.

It was a girl.

Claire looked up to see a brunette around her age, dressed in smart casual wear-jeans, a blazer, and the confidence of someone born into silk sheets.

"Oh. Uh, yeah," Claire replied, closing the sketchpad a little too quickly.

"I'm Lila. Family friend," the girl said, plopping down beside her uninvited. "You're new."

"I'm Claire. Angela's daughter."

"Oh, one of the maids." Lila said it without malice, just... matter-of-factly. "You're prettier than I expected."

Claire wasn't sure how to respond to that.

Lila smirked. "Don't worry. I'm not offended. It's just... most of the staff's kids don't really come up front."

"I'm not really up front," Claire said. "I'm just here for the break. Till school resumes."

"University?"

Claire nodded.

Lila cocked her head. "Adrian shouldn't be much older, I think. Though he doesn't talk to anyone much. Has he said anything rude yet?"

Claire blinked. "Kinda."

Lila laughed. "Don't take it personal. Adrian's got walls thicker than the mansion. Just ignore him."

Easy for her to say.

Before Claire could reply, a door opened across the courtyard. Adrian stepped out, earbuds in, jogging again-black shirt, steady pace, eyes forward like nothing around him existed.

Lila waved playfully. "Morning!"

He didn't respond.

Lila sighed. "Told you."

Claire lowered her gaze. She wasn't trying to be noticed.

Later that day, her mother returned to the maid's quarters with a sigh. "I heard you met Lila."

"Briefly," Claire said. "She's... loud."

Angela chuckled. "She's been chasing after Adrian for years."

That made Claire pause. "He doesn't seem the type."

"He isn't."

Claire didn't ask further. But something tugged at her-curiosity, maybe. Or just the unsettling feeling that no matter how quiet she stayed, something about this place was already pulling her deeper.

Even if she wasn't ready.

Later that evening, Claire helped her mother prepare the dinner trays meant for the upper floor. She didn't carry them herself-only senior staff did-but she watched carefully. How to fold napkins perfectly. Where the silverware faced. The unspoken rules that kept this household running like clockwork.

Angela whispered to her, "When you're in a house like this, respect is silent. You earn it by not stepping where you shouldn't."

Claire nodded, but the silence here felt heavy-not respectful. Like suffocation.

Downstairs, the staff gathered for their own meal. Claire sat between her mother and Mrs Maren, the head cook. Laughter passed between the others, but it all hushed when Adrian strode past the entrance toward the private library, phone in hand, not sparing a glance.

"Always brooding," one staff muttered after he passed.

Claire chewed slowly, staying quiet. But she noticed how no one dared speak until Adrian was completely out of sight. He had that effect.

After dinner, Claire returned to her quarters alone. Her mother stayed behind to help with the night cleanup. As she climbed the back stairs, she accidentally took the wrong turn-straight toward the east wing. The lights here were softer, golden, and the paintings more grand.

Before she could turn back, a door opened.

Mrs. Devereux stepped out, wrapped in silk, her perfume drifting like expensive secrets. Claire froze.

But the woman barely spared her a glance-until Adrian's voice carried through the hall behind her.

"I'm not him, Mother. Stop comparing us."

Claire's breath hitched. She didn't mean to eavesdrop.

"You're both my sons," Mrs. Devereux replied coldly. "But Nathan never needed to be reminded what was expected of him."

Claire stepped back, heart thudding, the conversation still echoing as she rushed down the servant staircase.

That night, in bed, she stared at the ceiling.

Adrian wasn't just cold. He was under pressure. And maybe-just maybe-that hardness wasn't natural. It was built. Layered. Like armor.

But that wasn't her business.

Still, she couldn't stop wondering what it was like... being the second son in a family that only ever bragged about the first.

The Devereux mansion always smelled like perfection-too clean, too polished, like even the air had been trained not to offend.

Claire adjusted her blouse in the hallway mirror. She wasn't meant to be in the main house without reason, but Angela had asked her to return a tray of fresh linens upstairs. "Just to the door," her mother said. "Don't speak to anyone. Don't linger."

She'd obeyed-until the sound of a crash stopped her halfway up the second floor.

It came from the music room. She wasn't supposed to know where it was, but curiosity had already betrayed her. That room, with its grand piano and glass walls, had become a symbol of untouchable elegance. No one went in unless invited.

Claire crept closer.