Chapter 7 – Enya
The first rays of sunlight slip through the blinds and spill across the hardwood floor like liquid gold. I wake slowly, blinking at the soft amber glow that paints the walls of our Brooklyn apartment.
The bed is warm, but empty.
Kai is already gone.
I stretch one arm out toward the other side, fingertips brushing cold sheets. No surprise there. He’s been leaving earlier and earlier lately.
“Meetings,” he always says. “Deadlines. Deals.”
There’s a note on the nightstand in his neat, slanted handwriting:
You looked beautiful even in your sleep. — K
It should make me smile, but I’m just pissed. It used to when it didn’t happen so frequently, but now, I’m getting tired. It just feels like punctuation to an absence I’m not sure how to name.
I wrap the robe tighter around my waist and pad into the kitchen. The coffee pot gurgles. The machine huffs like it’s annoyed to be working this early. I pour myself a cup and take a sip. It’s too bitter. Too strong.
The whole apartment feels different. Distant. I haven’t had a full conversation with Kai in more than three days. I didn’t even get a chance to tell him I’d be attending the Carfano gala today. He probably wouldn’t have cared. Or he would’ve pretended not to care until it came up in some pointed, passive-aggressive way two weeks from now.
God, he’s always been my safe space. What’s happening to us?
I glance at the counter. No breakfast leftovers. No note beyond the one beside my pillow.
My fingers brush the heart-shaped locket I always wear. It’s an old thing. Silver, slightly tarnished, worn smooth from years of fiddling with it when I’m anxious. It’s hard to remember when I started doing that. Just that it always helps when the walls feel like they’re shifting.
“What are you doing, Enya?” I whisper to myself.
But there’s no answer. Just the clink of my mug against the counter as I set it down and reach for my coat.
The train rattles uptown, a blur of graffiti-tagged walls and dark tunnel stone flashing past the window. I sit with my tote in my lap, earbuds in, but nothing playing. I scroll through the photos on my phone to keep my mind busy.
Ren’s drawings. One of us reading together, his curls half hiding his eyes as he leans on my shoulder. Another of him smiling up at the camera with crayon on his cheek. My heart squeezes.
Then, I scroll further.
A photo of Kai and me at a charity function last year. He’s in a tailored navy suit, hand on my waist. I’m smiling, but it doesn’t reach my eyes. We had a fight that day.
I stare at it longer than I should.
I have a boyfriend. A good one. Right?
My thumb hovers over the screen. I return to a different picture—one I haven’t seen before—and mean to save it.
Cyril.
A blurry photo, taken by accident when I’d been adjusting my camera. He’s in the background, looking toward Ren, not at me. Usually, it’s hard to read him, but here he’s candid, and a small smile is on his lips.
I remember his voice the day of the fall:
“Do you enjoy being interrogated?”
“Only by the interesting ones.”
“Then we’re even.”
God. My face warms.
Why the hell did I say that?
I tuck my phone away like it’s burning me.
The subway doors screech open at the next stop, and I’m yanked back into the present by the rush of people pouring in and out. I shove my way through the crowd, muttering apologies, trying not to elbow anyone in the ribs.
A man in a tattered coat bumps into me hard, muttering words I don’t catch, and then louder, “Watch it, bitch.”
Great. Just what a girl needs.
“Sorry,” I say automatically, my cheeks still warm.
He stumbles off down the platform, cursing to himself. I grip the strap of my tote bag tighter and glance down at my phone.
Shit. I’m late.
The subway station’s a solid twenty-minute walk from the Carfano estate. Maybe fifteen if I sprint like I’m being chased.
I take the stairs two at a time and hit the street, the unrelenting wind slapping me across the face. But I’m already sweating. My coat sticks to the back of my neck. My boots are too warm, and my nerves are on edge.
By the time I reach the estate gates, my breath is coming fast, and I have to stop to wipe my forehead with my sleeve.
But nobody notices me.
They’re all too busy. The staff weaves in and out like ants, their arms full of flowers and table linens. Someone’s barking orders in French. Laughter echoes from the far side of the courtyard. For the first time, the estate reflects the chaos of New York.
The estate has transformed. It doesn’t look like a home anymore. It looks like a palace. I glance around in awe as I make my way through it. How much does an event like this even cost?
I go straight to Ren’s bedroom, but here’s not there. I know if he isn’t in the bedroom, there’s only one other place he can be. The library. I find Ren in there, curled up under a makeshift blanket fort constructed with two chairs, a quilt, and a very determined stack of hardcover encyclopedias.
He peeks out when he hears my footsteps. “Miss Hart!”
I crouch next to him, lifting the blanket flap. “Is this your fortress?”
He nods. “You’re allowed in. But you have to say the password.”
I grin. “Let me guess. Chocolate milk?”
He laughs. “Close. It’s ‘Super Dragon Fire Master.’”
“Duh, obviously.”
We crawl inside. He hands me a book, and we read. Quietly. The kind of quiet that’s full of comfort and rustling pages.
But after a few minutes, I notice that Ren keeps glancing at the window.
Not once or even casually. After every few minutes, his eyes squint as he looks outside.
I close the book. “Hey. Everything okay?”
He scrunches up his tiny nose and nods. I can tell he’s not being totally honest.
I whisper, “I promise not to tell anyone.”
His fingers twitch on the corner of the blanket. “There was a man across the street yesterday,” he whispers. “Just standing there.”
I sit up straighter. “A man?”
He nods. “He wasn’t doing anything. Just…looking. At the house.”
My pulse jumps. “What did he look like?”
“I don’t know. He had a coat. And a hat. I couldn’t see his face.”
“Did you tell anyone?”
He shrinks into the blanket. “I didn’t want to get anyone in trouble.”
I soften my voice. “Ren. You wouldn’t. And it’s really important you tell me if anything like that happens again, okay?”
He nods, but he’s unsettled now. I can see it in the way his hands fidget with the edge of the quilt.
“It’s probably nothing,” I say gently, smoothing his curls. “Maybe just someone walking by. You have a big imagination, remember?”
He bites his lip. “Yeah.”
But the way he curls closer to me says he doesn’t believe it.
And if I’m being honest with myself?
I believe him. I really do.
I make a mental note to mention it to Alvise if I see him. Or maybe even Cyril. I’ll just bring it up casually without sounding like I’m spiraling.
By late afternoon, the Carfano estate is a living thing. It breathes with movement and noise, the energy pulsing through the walls like the heartbeat of a being too big to control. I can’t sit still. Not in the library, not in the staff kitchen, and not even on the balcony overlooking the garden where the servers are now rehearsing tray positions like they’re part of a military operation.
There’s no corner left untouched. No space where someone isn’t hanging lights or double-checking menus or shouting in Italian about seating placements. Every polished surface reflects movement. Every hallway buzzes with restlessness. It’s beautiful. Overwhelming.
Ren is asleep, curled up in the reading nook, worn out from a lunch filled with too much sugar and storytelling. I kiss his curls and step out quietly.
I wander, not with purpose, just to get away. And that’s when I notice the west wing.
Normally, it’s sealed. The heavy oak doors locked shut with a polished brass handle that doesn’t budge. I tried it once out of curiosity, but nothing happened.
Today, the door is cracked open.
I pause and glance over my shoulder.
No one’s looking.
That slightly open door is like an invitation, and without thinking twice, I slip inside.
This part of the estate feels different—quieter and untouched. The hallway smells faintly of dust and old flowers. I step carefully, my eyes tracing the crown molding and antique sconces lining the walls.
At the end of the hall is a room I’ve never seen before.
A small sunroom.
Wow. How many sunrooms are here in this house?
It’s not like the rest of the house. This is softer. Warmer. Dust motes drift in golden beams through tall, curved windows. The ceiling is made entirely of glass, streaked faintly from last night’s rain. There’s a chaise lounge covered in velvet, a small table with a half-finished puzzle, and shelves upon shelves of books.
And photographs.
Dozens of them—some framed, others in delicate silver stands.
It’s a time capsule. Frozen. Carefully preserved.
I move slowly, my eyes flicking from face to face.
A black-and-white portrait of a man with stern eyes. A little girl with dimples and braids. A wedding photo. Cyril, a decade younger, dressed in a tux beside a beautiful woman in crimson. Her smile is full of life. Her hand is wrapped around someone’s wrist, fingers entangled. But the image cuts off there. Cropped. Or maybe torn.
Sora.
She’s stunning. Radiant. The kind of woman you can’t just look at and forget about.
My fingers hover near the frame, but I stop myself from touching it.
I shift my gaze. Another photo. Ren. He’s just a baby wrapped in a blanket, eyes barely open.
And beside him is Cyril.
His face is softer in this photo, shaved but tired. But he’s happy in a way I’ve never seen before. He’s smiling. Actually smiling.
It’s heartbreakingly human how he’s holding his son.
God, I shouldn’t be here.
This place is private, sacred. It’s not part of my job; it wasn’t even part of the hallway tour I received when I first started. I turn to leave, my heart pounding.
I stop right away.
Because he’s there.
Cyril.
Leaning in the doorway, silent and sharp. Even in the dark, I can sense the anger radiating from him.
I straighten instantly. “I…sorry. The door was open. I didn’t mean….”
His eyes stay still, piercing through me. “This wing is off-limits for a reason.”
“I wasn’t trying to snoop, I just…. Ren was sleeping, and I was looking for somewhere quiet. I didn’t touch anything.”
He steps inside, like a predator, slow and unsatiated.
When he looks down at the photo of Sora, his face hardens. His entire body seems to change.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he says, voice low.
“I know.”
“Then why are you?”
I open my mouth. Close it. Swallow.
“It was a mistake.”
He looks at me then, his pale eyes giving no emotion away.
“You think this house is a game? A gallery you can wander through like it’s on display?”
I flinch. “No.”
“This room is mine,” he snaps. “And you don’t belong here, Miss Hart.”
I feel the words like a slap. He’s not shouting. That would be easier. But his voice is venomous. Measured. Precise.
I look away. “I didn’t mean to disrespect—”
“You already did,” he interrupts.
I nod, swallowing back whatever apology I wanted to say. It wouldn’t matter.
He exhales sharply, eyes raking over me. “Just be ready for the gala.”
“I will be.”
At least, I thought I would.
I brought a change of clothes with me, just in case. A soft blue cotton dress with little ruffles at the sleeves and hem. It’s simple and understated. The kind of thing you wear to a school recital or a brunch, not a mafia gala surrounded by crystal chandeliers and hand-stitched tuxedos.
I hadn’t expected this—the grandeur or the scrutiny.
I’m going to stick out like a sore thumb.
And the worst part is, I knew it the minute I packed that dress. I just didn’t want to admit it to myself.
Now, I’m not so sure I’ll even be able to walk into that ballroom without everyone seeing how out of place I really am.
It’s like he reads my mind, “In clothes that blend in.”
I blink. “Excuse me?”
He gestures, almost dismissively. “You’re going to stand out in those pants. Try not to embarrass the house. You’ll find something appropriate in the guest bedroom. You can change there.”
That one stings more than I want it to.
My face flushes. I nod again, mute.
“Go,” he says, turning his back on me.
I walk out fast, before he can see my hands shaking. My eyes burn as I step into the hallway, and I blink fast, furious with myself when the first tear escapes. I swipe it away quickly, glancing around to make sure no one sees.
I don’t even know why I’m crying. I have no reason to. It’s not like I didn’t deserve it, like I wasn’t somewhere I shouldn’t have been. So, why does it hurt so much?
I shouldn’t be crying.
As I start walking, somewhere between the sunroom and the guest bedroom, I remind myself that I’ve been getting too comfortable.
Cyril Carfano may be a father.He may be charming, quiet, and composed.
But he’s still a man made of cruelty.
And sometimes, he doesn’t even need to raise his voice to break you apart.