24. Keira
KEIRA
N ina insists we take breakfast in the dining room, even though it’s only the two of us and we could have just as easily eaten in the kitchen.
Even with the soft clink of porcelain and the delicate scrape of a butter knife against toast, the silence wraps around me like gauze—light, but suffocating all the same.
I sit across from Nina at the long mahogany table, trying not to let the size of the room swallow me whole.
The chandelier overhead sparkles in the morning sun, throwing fractured light across the wood.
Everything here is elegant. Grand. Intimidating in its refinement.
What some would consider old, what others would call vintage.
I take a small sip of tea, letting the warmth soothe the hollow spot in my chest, the place where fear and confusion keep nesting.
Nina spreads raspberry jam over her toast with the same precision I imagine she used to run this house. Everything about her is composed. Regal. All that’s missing is a crown, although I dare say she wears an invisible one.
“I hope you slept well,” she says, her voice soft yet sharp .
I nod politely, wondering if she too heard my screams last night. “I did, thank you.”
Liar. The bed was too soft, the silence too loud, and my nightmares too vivid.
Before I can ask her about the layout of the house—because, yes, I’m still getting lost every time I try to find my way around—my phone buzzes against the table. The vibration is abrupt in the quiet and makes my fingers twitch.
I glance down at the screen.
Unknown Number: You can run, but you can’t hide. You think I won’t find you, Keira? Think again.
The breath catches in my throat.
A cold sweat breaks out along my spine.
I try to school my features, but it’s too late.
“Bad news?” Nina asks, her tone casual, but her eyes are anything but.
They’re too sharp, too curious.
I force a swallow and set the phone face-down beside my plate. “Nothing important.”
Not technically a lie. Just... a redirection.
She hums, unconvinced, and returns to her tea, but her gaze lingers for a second longer than necessary. I feel it like a spotlight, trying to peel away the mask I’m wearing this morning.
I pick up my fork and stab at the eggs on my plate, trying to pretend the message hasn’t shaken me. That the rising panic isn’t making my throat too tight to swallow. I focus on Nina’s voice as she talks about the weather, about some herb garden she’s having replanted, anything mundane and safe.
But my head’s not in the room anymore.
That message…is it possible he can find me here? I haven’t told anyone where I am. I didn’t have the chance. And it’s not li ke I’ve been out and about. This house is so big I haven’t even seen all of it, let alone had the opportunity to sneak out.
Still, I force myself to smile, to nod, to chime in with a soft “mm” or “sounds lovely” whenever appropriate.
I’m not a great actress. I never have been. And by the time we finish eating, I’m exhausted from holding myself together.
“I should get ready,” I murmur, pushing back my chair. “I have a lecture at ten.”
Nina dabs the corner of her mouth with a linen napkin. “Of course. The chauffeur will take you.”
I blink. “There’s a... chauffeur?”
She lifts one brow, amused. “Darling, of course there is. Our employees are unseen and unheard—but make no mistake, they are ever present.”
Right. Ever present . The kind of statement that’s somehow both comforting and chilling. I’m not sure if she’s warning me or reassuring me.
I nod again, even though my pulse is still skittering from the message.
As I leave the room, I keep my steps light, controlled, careful.
The further I walk, the more the house looms around me—arched ceilings, endless hallways, windows tall enough to let in the sky. I could live here for a year and still get lost. It’s the kind of place that has secrets behind its walls. The kind of place where whispers don’t echo—they linger.
And yet…
Jayson and Nina—strange, distant, dangerous as they might be—haven’t done anything to hurt me physically. I’m no longer locked in a basement. I’m not being screamed at or dragged around. I’m not... bruised.
Things could be worse. They could be so much worse. But that doesn’t mean I’m safe. It just means I’ve been placed in a prettier cage than the last one I was in. And someone out there is rattling the bars.
I dress like a girl who has her life together.
Blouse ironed. Jeans clean. Hair pulled back with precision, as if neatness can cover the wreckage inside me.
I even spritz perfume—something light, citrusy—because I read somewhere that people who smell good are less likely to be asked uncomfortable questions.
Not that anyone at this house ever asks me anything.
I’m a guest who’s treated well, if nothing else, although I don’t know how long that will last.
I sling my bag over my shoulder, descending the wide staircase of the estate with the kind of cautious grace that doesn’t quite fit my age. I feel like a fraud in my own skin—like this polished version of myself is a placeholder for the person I used to be.
Nina’s not around, which I’m grateful for. Her eyes see too much. Her tongue never moves fast, but when it does, it’s like it slices through lies like a razor.
Outside, a sleek black car is already idling in the circular driveway. A tall man in a sharp black suit opens the door for me. He’s got to be in his mid-fifties, salt-and-pepper hair cropped close, and a mouth that doesn’t look like it’s smiled in decades.
“You must be Lionel,” I say, offering him a small nod.
He dips his head. “Miss Bishop.”
Formal. Polished. Deadpan. Perfect.
I slide into the back seat and buckle in. The doors click shut like I’m locking myself into a vault.
As the car glides away from the estate, silence fills the space between us. The ride is smooth, the interior luxurious. But my insides are a goddamn mess .
I don’t belong at that estate.
And I don’t belong at that university either.
I stare out the window, watching as the scenery bleeds from secluded wealth into the beginnings of suburbia. I keep my face expressionless, a skill I’ve perfected over the last few weeks. But my mind? My mind is screaming.
I don’t know why I’m hiding it—not from Jayson, not from Nina, not from anyone—but I’ve made up my mind.
I’m not going back to university. I’m done.
The idea of stepping foot on that campus again makes my skin crawl. It’s not just the stares, or the way whispers wrap around your throat like a noose. It’s deeper than that. More insidious. More violating.
They’d call it a bad experience. An incident , if someone had the balls to file a report. But for me? It was the spark that lit the whole damn powder keg. The reason I packed my bags and ran back home in the first place.
Some people probably think I had it coming.
And I get it—after everything that went down, after all the rumors and the headlines, I can see why I’d be an easy target.
But what I don’t get—what I’ll never understand—is why I had to bleed for my father’s sins.
Why I became the scapegoat for the chaos he created.
He’s not the Mayor anymore. That’s something, I guess. The accusations finally caught up to him—like shadows with jagged edges—and he had no choice but to step down.
Public disgrace. Private denial. Classic Bishop.
But even stripped of his title, his legacy still clings to me like smoke in my lungs. And no amount of time or distance will ever make me forget what that campus took from me.
The moment the ‘incident’ happened, I packed a bag and caught the next train back home.
I didn’t know then that coming home would mean watching my father bleed out in his own bed.
I didn’t know it would end with me being kidnapped by the man who took his life.
Now here I am—pretending everything’s fine, that I’m just a sweet girl on her way to class, while a storm brews under my skin.
Lionel pulls up to the university gates, neat and pristine like a glossy brochure. The kind of place that promises a future. I thank him quietly, clutching my bag like a lifeline.
“I’ll be back here at three to collect you,” he says.
I nod, smile. “Thank you, Lionel.”
I walk through the university gates, then wait until his car disappears around the bend, tail lights blinking like the last remnants of my lie.
Then I spin on my heel and head back for the street, raising my hand for a passing taxi.
The driver doesn’t blink when I give him the address to the Bishop mansion—what used to be my home, and now feels like a haunted museum I can’t stop revisiting.
The ride is quiet, and for the first time in days, I let myself feel. The taxi smells like stale coffee and cheap air freshener, and it grounds me more than anything has since Jayson’s cold hands closed around my wrist that night.
I could do this all day, every day. Leave the comfort and relative safety of the estate, as though going to university, then circle back and hang out in my childhood home. What’s to stop me? No one would have to know.
I was never planning to go back.
That’s the part no one knows.
Not Jayson. Not Nina. Not anyone.
I hadn’t been home since I left for college.
They think I’m playing house, trying to make the best of a terrible situation. But the truth? I came home to confront my father.
The incident on campus had jarred something loose— memories I’d buried. Ones that didn’t make sense until I let them breathe. The friend who went missing. The looks. The parties my father threw when I was just young enough to be invisible.
The puzzle pieces don’t fit yet. But they’re sharp. Jagged. Bloody. And now I’ll never get answers. Never get the truth from his lips. Because the man who could’ve confirmed it all is dead—by Jayson’s hand.
I close my eyes and lean my head against the cold window.
I’m not here to mourn him. I’m here to pack my history away. To leave this version of my life behind. For good.