Chapter 7
SEVEN
Magnolia’s POV
Aweek passes in a blur of routine, familiarity laced with discomfort.
I wake early each morning, the scent of freshly brewed coffee drifting through the halls as the household stirs to life. It’s always the same brand, the same richness, the same precision with which it’s made, like even the coffee here understands its place in the grand scheme of this house.
It’s a different kind of wake-up call than I’m used to.
There’s no distant shouting, no footsteps echoing down orphanage hallways, no chaos of city life humming below my bedroom window.
Here, there’s only soft morning light leaking through gauzy curtains, the rustle of tailored clothes, and the quiet rhythm of a world that seems to move without ever raising its voice.
It’s too quiet.
Too clean. Too still. It feels like living inside a snow globe. Pretty, polished, and utterly breakable.
At breakfast, my mother and I sit across from each other at a table far too long for two people.
The distance between us isn't just physical. It’s layered with years we lost, things unsaid, choices made before I was old enough to understand.
We speak, but it’s careful. Cautious. Like we’re testing the ice between us, unsure how deep the water is below.
We’ve had some really amazing conversations, forgiveness throughout, but things are still so fresh for us both.
She asks me about my childhood.
About the things I loved.
About the things I missed out on.
Her voice is soft when she speaks, almost unsure. Like she’s afraid to ask too much. There’s regret in her eyes, but she doesn’t force the conversation. She just listens.
And that, more than anything, feels foreign.
To be listened to. To be seen in this gentle, non-demanding way.
Cameron, on the other hand, is a silent storm.
Always nearby, always watching. He hovers just enough that I feel him on the staircase behind me, lingering near the study door, passing me a dish at dinner.
He doesn’t ask about my feelings or press into my memories.
He doesn’t offer apologies for what’s happened, or explanations about what’s to come.
He just watches. Like he’s waiting for something.
Waiting for me to fall in line.
Waiting for me to say I’m home.
Waiting for me to become the Rusco I’m supposed to be.
But I don’t know what that even means. I don’t know who I’m supposed to be.
Right now, I only know how to exist in this in-between. A girl with two names, two families, and no place to actually belong.
I don’t know what’s gotten into him lately. Just last week he was joking, chatting with me about life and complimenting who I’ve become but now… he’s distant.
The only one who has no issue adjusting is Axle.
He charges through the estate’s manicured gardens like he’s on a mission, kicking up dirt with every wild twist and turn. He chases birds off the fountain ledges, splashes through the shallow pond like it’s a game, and rolls in the grass until he’s caked in mud and sunshine.
He naps at my feet when I sit outside, flops dramatically on my bed every night, and follows me with the kind of loyalty that makes it feel like maybe I’m not as alone as I think I am.
He’s my shadow. My anchor. My proof that something real still exists in this gilded lie of a world.
One afternoon, I’m out back with him, barefoot in the grass and throwing a half-chewed tennis ball down the lawn.
Axle sprints after it like he’s been waiting all day for this moment.
I can’t help but laugh as he skids in the grass, snatches the ball, and comes bounding back with his whole body wiggling with pride.
“You’re ridiculous,” I tell him, crouching to scratch behind his ears. He drops the ball at my feet and flops over like he’s earned a medal.
I laugh again, the sound catching me by surprise.
I forgot what it felt like, laughing without it hurting.
“Magnolia,” a voice calls gently from behind me.
I turn to see my mother descending the patio steps. She’s dressed casually today, hair pulled back, her posture relaxed. I rise slowly, brushing grass from my hands.
“He’s a beautiful dog,” she says.
“He’s a menace,” I reply, but I reach down to ruffle his ears fondly. “But he’s mine.”
She smiles at that. “He likes it here. I’ve enjoyed him being here.”
I nod. “He likes anywhere I am.”
A pause stretches between us. “Would you like to throw a party?”
I blink. “A… what?”
“A party,” she repeats. “A small one. A welcome home. I thought maybe some of the family, a few close allies. People want to meet you.”
The idea curls like smoke in my chest.
“I don’t know,” I say, uncertain. “I’m not really in a… party mood.”
She tilts her head. “It wouldn’t have to be anything grand. Just something… soft. Gentle. For you. If you wanted it.”
Her tone is careful. No pressure, but not without hope.
“I’ll think about it,” I say eventually.
She smiles and gives a small nod, then turns and walks back toward the house, her sandals quiet against the stone.
I watch her go.
I want to believe this is real. I want to believe she means it. That she’s not just putting on a performance for me, or for the people around her, or for Cameron.
But I’ve lived my whole life having to guess people’s intentions.
Trust doesn’t come easy.
Later that night, I sit in my room with Axle curled beside me. The sun’s gone down, the window cracked open to let in the warm air. It smells like lavender and woodsmoke and something else. Peace, maybe. But the kind that’s temporary.
The next morning, I go to Alice in Brewland like I always do.
I tie my apron, push my hair back, and step behind the counter.
The hiss of the espresso machine is the only sound I need. The warmth of cinnamon, nutmeg, roasted beans. It wraps around me like a blanket.
“You’re in a good mood today,” Victoria observes, leaning her elbows on the counter.
I glance up from the cappuccino I’m making. “I am?”
“Mm-hmm.” She gives me a sly look. “You didn’t come in broody. Or looking like the ghost of heartbreak past.”
I smile faintly. “I still might be in one.”
“There it is,” she grins. “For a second, I thought we lost the mysterious Magnolia vibe.”
“Don’t worry,” I say dryly, passing her the drink. “Still tragic. Just hiding it better today.”
Maybe that’s why I keep coming back here.
Because for a few hours each day, I get to forget.
Forget that I’m Magnolia Rusco.
Forget that there’s a war brewing on the edge of everything.
Forget that love can burn down a whole world and leave you bleeding in the smoke.
Here, I just get to make coffee.
The sky is turning a lazy shade of lavender when I get home. The walk from Alice & Brewland isn’t far, but my legs ache from standing all day, and my head’s full of the kind of soft exhaustion that doesn’t hit you until you finally stop moving.
As soon as I reach the front steps, the door creaks open before I can reach for the handle. One of the house staff nods politely, steps back to let me in. The estate always smells the same. Cedar and polish, something faintly floral hiding beneath it.
I run my fingers through Axle’s fur as he barrels to my feet, nails clicking softly against the marble as he happily taps. I’m still unwinding my scarf when I hear her voice.
"You're home."
I glance up.
Maria stands at the far end of the hallway, her posture as perfect as ever, hands clasped gently in front of her. She’s wearing soft house clothes - cream slacks, a thin cardigan that falls past her hips - and no jewelry for once. Just her, stripped of all the gold and expectation.
“Yeah,” I say, brushing a strand of hair from my face. “Long day.”
She steps forward slowly, almost cautiously, like she’s afraid of spooking me.
“Did everything go well at the café?” she asks.
There’s something in her tone, a realness that wasn’t there when I first arrived at the estate. Less performative. More... maternal, maybe. Like she’s trying to build a bridge, one question at a time.
I shrug out of my coat. “It was steady. Mornings are usually the rush, but we got a weird lunch crowd today. Probably because of the weather.”
She nods like she’s cataloging every word. “I wish I could go, see you in your element.”
I glance over at her. “It’s not much of an element. Just coffee and croissants.”
“But it’s yours,” she says softly. “And I’d like to know more about the things that are yours. But the treaty…”
I pause, not quite knowing what to say to that.
She gestures toward the sitting room. “Come. Sit. You must be tired.”
I follow her in and sink into one of the tufted velvet chairs while she pours tea from the set already laid out on the table. There’s a tiny plate of butter cookies beside the pot, clearly she’d been waiting for me. Maybe hoping.
Cameron isn’t here. I notice the quiet immediately. No sharp click of his shoes down the hallway, no rustle of his ever-present papers, no lingering shadow of his watchful presence.
“Where’s Cam?” I ask.
“He had to leave for Italy this afternoon. Business.” She passes me a cup, then sits across from me. “He’ll be back in two days. You’ll have to forgive his behavior lately.”
I take a sip of the tea. It’s honeyed and floral and soothing in a way I don’t expect. “I was wondering why he’s acting so weird.”
She turns her eyes to the ceiling, then back to me. “I don’t want to keep you in the dark, there’s just a lot going on right now and Cameron is on high alert.” She watches me carefully. “Did anything... unusual happen today?”
I glance up. Her tone is casual, but her eyes betray something else. Concern? Curiosity? I can’t quite pin it.
“No,” I say honestly. “It was quiet.”
She smiles a little, nods, and rests her hands in her lap. The silence that follows isn’t uncomfortable. Just fragile.
“I used to dream about moments like this,” she says quietly, surprising me. “Coming home from my own errands, finding my daughter in the kitchen or the garden, asking her about her day.”