Chapter 16
Summer Rain
Alexa
It only takes a day for Lorraine and Mrs. Gertrude to move out. They leave the Dawson family home and return to the Oswald house on the outskirts of the village. To avoid unnecessary drama, the guards escort them the entire way, like shadows making sure nothing spills over.
And just like that… they’re gone. There’s a flicker of pity in me.
Back then, when they treated me like I was nothing, I hated them with everything I had. That hatred used to burn hot and sharp, something I could hold onto. Now it feels distant. Muted. Like a fire that has already consumed everything it could and left behind nothing but ash.
“Ugh, make up your mind already,” Mythril mutters, clearly unimpressed.
“I can’t help it. They look miserable. They said Mrs. Gertrude hasn’t stopped crying,” I admit, my gaze drifting toward the tip of the Dawson mansion’s roof outside my bedroom window in Gabriel’s house.
“They should be grateful they’re still breathing,” Mythril snaps.
Maybe she’s right. But something in me no longer finds satisfaction in their fall. Funny how things turn out when revenge finally comes. At least there’s some relief knowing I can take control of what’s left of the Dawson estate, and I’m no longer a servant in my own home.
The next day, Mr. Pascoe and Harlow come to pick me up. I walk downstairs in an emerald-green dress, carrying a small bag of clothes. Gabriel is already waiting for me, standing there like a man who hasn’t decided where he belongs anymore.
“Ready?” Harlow asks.
“Yes,” I answer with a small nod.
“Guess this is goodbye,” Gabriel says quietly as he pulls me into a hug.
“Goodbye? Come on. We can still see each other. Just… as friends,” I reply, letting out a light laugh.
I lean closer, my lips near his ear as I close my eyes. The familiar scent of bergamot and fern lingers, but it doesn’t pull at me anymore. It’s faint now. Just a memory that used to mean something.
“Where are Alpha Romero and Alpha Alastair?” I ask as I pull away.
“Romero went back to his pack to prepare Harlow’s welcome celebration,” Mr. Pascoe answers. “Alastair’s taking a walk in our territory, with supervision from our guards, of course.”
“I see.” I nod.
“Shall we?” Harlow gestures toward the door, a quiet smile on his face.
As we leave Gabriel behind, Harlow doesn’t let the servants carry my bag. He takes it himself, like he’s forgotten he’s about to be crowned Alpha any minute now. We ride in Mr. Pascoe’s car for about five minutes before arriving at the Dawson family estate.
My home. It stands before me.
I step out and just stand there for a while. I take a long look at it. And for a moment… I don’t recognize it at all.
The yard is overgrown, wild grass swallowing the pathways that used to be carefully trimmed. The paint on the fences peels like old scars. The windows are dim, coated in dust and webbing, as if the house has been slowly closing its eyes. This place used to breathe.
Now it feels like it’s been holding that breath for years… waiting for something that never came back.
Me.
The silence presses in as I walk. Each step feels heavier than it should. Once we reach the door, it opens.
Brenda stands there, smaller than I remember, her shoulders slightly bent under time and effort. She gives me a gentle smile, but there’s something fragile in it. Like she’s been holding this place together alone for far too long.
“All the belongings have been cleared,” Mr. Pascoe says as we step inside.
Cleared. Like a life erased.
He places a small iron key into my hand. “This is yours now, Alexa. You’re the rightful owner of this house.”
The metal is cool against my palm, still polished. The old leather keychain hangs from it, my father’s name faintly visible. The strap is worn, the color long faded. I run my thumb over it.
My father used to carry this. Sometimes he came home late, setting the key down with a quiet clink on the table. That sound used to mean home. Mrs. Gertrude didn’t even bother to take care of something this small.
“Thank you, Mr. Pascoe,” I say.
“From now on, everything here is your responsibility. The house, the land, and the livestock. You’ll need to manage it all and make it prosper like it used to. Brenda can help you find the farm caretakers.”
I nod, though the weight of responsibility settles slowly.
“I doubt anything out there is still properly managed,” Mythril mutters.
“As for the savings…” Mr. Pascoe exhales, lowering his gaze. “I’m ashamed. I should have done more. I don’t know how I’ll ever face your father.”
“It’s not your fault,” I say, shaking my head. “You followed the law. She’s the one who ruined it.”
He looks relieved, just a little. “Thank you.” He sighs. “Well, I should go. I need to go to hospital for… the test result,” he says, glancing at Harlow.
“Of course,” we both reply. Once he leaves, silence settles into the house again.
I stand in the middle of the living room and let my eyes take everything in.
The leather sofas are cracked and faded, like they’ve aged ten years in half the time.
The white curtains have yellowed, hanging lifeless against the windows.
Dust clings to every surface. Cobwebs stretch like forgotten threads in the corners.
Back then, everything was clean. Back then, before Mrs. Gertrude and Lorraine came into this house as the new wife and daughter… I belonged here. Now they’re gone, and yet… there’s an emptiness in my chest.
Did my father do it on purpose? If he filled this house with conflict to distract us from grief. To replace the pain of losing my mother with something louder. Anger. Resentment. Anything but silence.
Brenda slowly wipes a vase on the coffee table, her movements careful but tired. In a place this large, she’s been doing everything alone. No wonder it’s too much for her.
“All that grandeur… gone,” I murmur, letting out a quiet breath.
Harlow sets my bag down and studies the room. He glances at me, then rolls his sleeves up to his elbows. “It’s okay,” he says. “We’ll fix it. Piece by piece. You’ve got me and Brenda. That’s more than enough.”
His brow lifts, a hint of teasing in his tone. Like he knows Brenda tried her best, even if her hands tremble sometimes. I let out a small laugh and nudge his arm. Brenda looks over at us, confused after hearing her name.
“You make it sound easy.”
He grins a little. “It won’t be. But we’ll do it anyway.”
I nod. “Yeah. There’s a lot to do. And I need to check on the farm too. The caretakers must be getting old by now. Mrs. Gertrude probably never hired anyone new.”
“So,” he says, glancing around like he’s sizing up a battlefield, “where do we start?”
I point upstairs toward the bedroom. No hesitation. Harlow and I carry my bag up together. I change out of my dress into a bright-yellow shirt and a pair of denim shorts, something lighter, something that lets me breathe while we get to work.
We clean every corner of the house, starting with the master bedroom that will be mine now.
When Mr. Pascoe said they cleared the house, he meant it.
Nothing traces back to Mrs. Gertrude’s belongings in that room.
Only a king-size bed without sheets, a large empty dresser, and a dry bathroom without any shampoo or soap.
From there, we move into the smaller room where I used to stay.
That space feels different. It had once been mine, yet it feels like I’m stepping into someone else’s memory.
The scratch on the wooden desk from when I was eight is still there, but my height marks on the wall are already covered with cream paint.
We continue down the second-floor hallway, working in steady silence, dust rising and settling like old ghosts finally disturbed. By the time we make it down to the ground floor, lunchtime creeps in.
Brenda has already prepared a meal, simple meat soup, but good enough to satisfy our hunger after long work. Harlow, Brenda, and I sit together at the dining table. I insist she eats with us, something that Mrs. Gertrude never allowed.
After lunch, we keep going. By late afternoon, we step outside and finally face the front yard.
It’s worse than I expected. The grass is wild, the bushes overgrown, everything left to claim its own shape without care.
I grip the hedge clippers and cut through the mess while Harlow works beside me with a garden fork.
“Seriously, what exactly did Mrs. Gertrude do in this house while I was gone?” I mutter, wiping sweat from my forehead.
We crouch side by side, dirt under our gloves, breath uneven. Sweat slides down Harlow’s temple, tracing along his jaw. He doesn’t complain. Not once.
“She didn’t care,” he says between breaths. “Simple as that. This place was never hers, so she never treated it like it mattered.”
“Or she just didn’t want to spend money hiring help,” I add, trimming back a cluster of overgrown daisies. “And she wasn’t about to do it herself.”
A cold drop lands on my head. I look up to the sky that has shifted. Dark clouds swallow the last of the orange light. Then the rain comes, only seconds before I jump up, like the sky has been holding it back all day.
“Come on!” Harlow grabs my hand and pulls me up. “Inside!”
We dash back, and by the time we reach the porch, we’re already soaked through. The tools are abandoned at the side, forgotten in the rush. Rain pours down around us, heavy enough to blur everything beyond a few steps.
My shirt clings to my skin. I glance down, suddenly aware that my curves are visibly outlined, and instinctively cross my arms.
“Hey,” Harlow says, a teasing edge slipping into his voice. “What’s with that? You shy now?”
“I made you work all day, and now you’re drenched,” I mutter, heat rising to my face that has nothing to do with the rain or the embarrassment.
His shirt isn’t any better. It sticks to him, outlining every line of his body. His gaze flickers, not subtle, not careful.