1. ONE
ONE
Lenore
The city smells like burned pretzels and piss, but what’s to expect from another Saturday night in the neighborhood I live.
I don’t mind the walk. It’s quiet, the kind of quiet New York only gets after midnight.
My legs are sore and my shoes are damp from the sink leak under the espresso bar, but it’s not like there’s anything better waiting for me at home.
Just a tiny apartment that always smells vaguely like someone else’s cooking and a boyfriend I’ve known for thirty-four days.
Not even a month and a half. That’s all it took for us to live together.
That’s all it took for me to start confusing comfort with something else.
But for me, anything was better than living in a tent under the bridge.
I just told myself I was lucky I had a roof under my head, a job, and pasta on my plate.
I told myself I was happy even if I wasn’t happy.
I used to have everything until I had nothing.
And when you lose everything, you get to appreciate the little things you have.
When I got there, the doorman from apartment 1B was already gone. Only his white plastic chair remained in the old lobby, glowing faintly under the front light like a ghost that hadn’t realized it was time to leave.
I headed toward the elevator on the right. The wall beside it flaked with peeling paint in the corners, like it was shedding its skin. Just before the metal doors, a scrap of lined notebook paper caught my eye—ripped, crooked, and scrawled in thick black letters: OUT OF SERVICE.
I let out a breath, turned around, and made for the stairs at the end of the hallway. Four flights. My steps grew heavier with each level, my thighs burning by the third. At the top, I bent forward, palms on my knees, lungs dragging in the air like it owed me something.
“This is fine, Lenore,” I muttered between breaths. “It’ll make your ass tight.” Another sharp inhale. “Tight and hard,” I added, straightening up and fishing my keys from the bottom of my bag.
The hallway lights flickered as I walked. Of course, they did.
The whole building felt worn out— just like me.
At last, I reached the door. I leaned against the frame for a moment, catching another breath, slid the key into the lock, and turned it open.
There was a sound. A whisper coming from inside. I didn’t pause. Troy was probably asleep. Probably the radio again—he always left it on. Late-night talk shows, or one of those slow, moody documentaries with weird soundscapes and sleepy narrators.
The apartment was tight. The kitchen sat to the right—dark wooden cabinets, a fridge, an oven, two cupboards. A narrow wall tried to divide it from the living room, but space didn’t allow much. Just two chairs. No sofa—we couldn’t swing it. Off to the right, the bedroom led into the bathroom.
Exhausted, I moved to the chair and put my bag on it.
The whisper turned into moans. Short, breathy ones, followed by another moan—a sharp cry, then a low groan.
“Troy?” I called out, stepping toward the bedroom door, already cracked open. I pushed it wider.
My eyes widened.
The radio was off.
But Troy was on.
To be precise—he had his dick buried inside our second-floor neighbor.
Her back arched like a cat in heat, ass raised high as he slammed into her with frantic, greedy thrusts.
His hands gripped her hips, his head thrown back, moaning like it was the best orgasm of his life. They didn’t even notice me.
I should have run. Should’ve turned and walked right out. But this was my apartment, too. I had nowhere else to go.
“What the fuck?” I shouted.
He froze mid-thrust and turned toward me, face draining of color. She flushed red, giggled, and scrambled to cover herself.
“Lenore?” he stammered. “What... Why are you home early?”
He told me he loved me last week. He kissed me this morning.
And that’s what he has to say?
“I can explain, baby,” he started toward me, hand out like I was something breakable. I backed up.
“Explain?” I snapped. “Explain your dick inside her?”
“Please,” he begged, stepping closer. “It’s not what it looks like.”
“It’s exactly what it looks like!“ I threw my arms up, motioning to my hips like I was mimicking his goddamn rhythm. From the corner of my eye, I caught her slipping out of the room and vanishing through the door, not a word spoken.
Troy lunged forward, grabbed my hands, and pulled them against his chest. His chin dropped to my shoulder.
“Baby, it won’t happen again,” he whispered.
But it did happen.
I squirmed in his arms, trying to peel myself away from the smell of her—sweet, cheap floral perfume clinging to his skin. His grip tightened, strong, like I was something to be held down.
I told him I loved him last night.
But now... now I’m not sure I meant it.
Maybe I said it because I was afraid.
Afraid of being alone. Afraid of being unloved.
Did I ever actually love him?
Or was I just scared of the silence?
I knew I didn’t love him.
But when you’ve got nothing, sometimes you start convincing yourself that something is better than nothing at all .
This time, I shoved him hard.
His back hit the wall with a dull thud. And when his eyes locked onto mine, I knew what was coming.
So I shrugged, murmuring, “I’m sorry. So, so sorry.”
“You better be, bitch,” he snarled.
He stormed forward, grabbed me, spun me, and slammed me against the wall. His palm pressed into my throat. Fingers digging into the skin, cutting off breath, my mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. Desperate. Silent. Useless.
Just when I braced for the worst—another long night of bruises and pretending—he let go.
Pushed me away as I disgusted him.
“I’m taking a shower. Make us something to eat.”
And just like that, he was gone.
And I’d apologized? Me?
What the hell was I sorry for?
My hands went to my neck, covering the red-hot ache he left behind, steadying my breath like it could make the shame go away.
I hated myself for it. Every inch.
In the kitchen, I stared at the cabinets. They stared back like they knew. Like they’d seen this all before. One tear slipped free.
Before it hit the floor, I wiped it away.
He wasn’t worth the tear. But I was.
I moved toward the sink, grabbed a pot from the upper cupboard, dropped it in with a hollow clang, and turned on the tap.
Water rushed out, echoing against metal.
I held the pot like it might keep me from falling apart, fingers tightening around it like a lifeline.
And my thoughts—like they always did—drifted to my mother.
She stayed with my father until one day, her heart gave out. Not from love. From fear.
I tilted my head and caught sight of a white envelope near the fridge, half-tucked into the mail basket. On it were bold red letters.
That wasn’t there before.
Troy never touched the mail. That was always my job. I knew what came in, and what went out. And I never placed that letter there.
Something twisted in me.
I walked over, slowly. My hand moved on its own like it already knew. I picked up the envelope.
And I just stood there, holding it. Like it meant something. It might change everything.
Lenore Thorn, Gloomsbury Manor, 66 Widow’s Hollow Road
Ashwick, Massachusetts 01984
Panic started to settle in. My chest raised and fell against my ribs as I gasped for air, my fingers in panic opening the envelope and pulling out the letter. And when my eyes scanned it, reading, my tears blurred in tears.
“Dear Miss Thorn,
It is with sincere regret that I write to inform you of the passing of your father, Ezekiel Thorn, who passed last week.
Your stepmother, Vivienne Thorn, and your stepbrother, Dorian Thorn, were also lost in the same devastating accident that claimed their lives late last week. The circumstances, while still under review, have been described as deeply unfortunate.
As his sole surviving heir, you have inherited Gloomsbury Manor, along with all adjoining lands and holdings. There are a few legal matters that require your attention, and we kindly ask that you contact our office at your earliest convenience to begin the necessary proceedings.
Please accept our deepest condolences during this difficult time.
With respect,
Cameron Ellis
Attorney at Law”
With the envelope came the business card with contents;
Cameron Ellis, Esq.
Ellis & Wren Law Offices
“Discretion. Legacy. Resolution.”
1426 Ashgrove Lane, Salem, MA 01970(617) 555-0172
My eyes closed, and an envelope fell from my hands. My eyes filled with tears, my heart broke apart.
Dorian died? He died.
The tears weren’t for me this time. They fell for him . And I couldn’t stop them. One after another, they slid down my cheeks as I stood there, silent, screaming on the inside.
I didn’t want Troy to hear. And I didn’t want him to know about Gloomsbury Manor.
When we met, he only saw a nineteen-year-old girl with nothing, sleeping in shelters, scraping by. He thought I was an orphan. He didn’t know the truth.
He didn’t know about Dorian .
I was born into old money. My family was one of the oldest and richest in Massachusetts. The Gloomsbury Manor still meant something in certain circles, told like a ghost story. And now, it was mine.
I exhaled, trying to steady myself, but the quiet sobs kept coming. Troy was still in the shower—I could hear the water pounding the tiles. Could hear the splash of water spilling over the pot I’d left running. But I couldn’t move.
I closed my eyes. The black behind my lids lit up with flickers of memory, snapshots I hadn’t seen in years. Dorian’s face. My father. My stepmother. The heavy corridors of the manor. And just like that, like someone snapped their fingers, I was there again.
July, 2014.
Massachusetts in July sweats through your skin. Mornings bright and blinding, afternoons a thunderstorm waiting to happen. That day was hot like hell, but the sky stayed gray, like even the sun couldn’t bear to look.
My eighteenth birthday.
I sat curled in the corner of my bedroom, dragging a fingernail into the peeling green wallpaper beside my closet—scratching another tally into the wall, marking time like I was serving a sentence. All I wanted was to disappear. To never see any of them again.
I wore an oversized black shirt, its edge brushing my knees. My hair was tied in a loose bun, dark and messy. My cheeks were sticky with tears. My skin, was still raw, still feeling the strokes from the Father’s belt.
The door creaked open. Then shut. I didn’t look up. I didn’t need to.
It was him .
Dorian.
My stepbrother for four years. He was a brat, a rebel, a wild thing in a house that punished anything out of line. But he never let them break him.
“Hey, Trouble,” he said with a soft chuckle. “Loving the makeup.”
“I like yours better,” I mumbled, eyes flicking up to the purple bruise blooming beneath his eye.
His black hair clung to his forehead, damp, and messy in a way that felt intentional without trying.
His eyes, so dark they looked black in the shadows, watched me as he crouched down.
His jaw was sharp and clean-shaven. Beautiful, in a way that felt misplaced in this house full of cold and ugly people.
But don’t get me wrong, he was dangerous. I knew that. He wore his bad like a scent, a warning.
That stupid black button-up, always with two buttons undone, revealing his silver cross. A middle finger to the whole idea of faith. Tight black jeans. Black All-Stars I wasn’t allowed to wear.
Sneakers are for boys, my stepmother would say. Girls wear heels and dresses.
I never got what I wanted.
Dorian reached for my hand. From behind his back, he pulled out a chocolate muffin with a single pink candle sticking out.
He placed it gently in my palm.
“Happy birthday, Trouble.”
I couldn’t help the smile. “You remembered.”
He lit the candle. His smirk replaced the smile, cocky and soft all at once.
“Make a wish.”
“What’s the point?” I whispered. “I never get my wish.”
“Maybe this time you will,” he said, raising a brow, hand sliding up to scratch the back of his head.
Those hands. Veined and strong, covered in tattoos like messy, beautiful stories.
They were too much. He was too much. My body always betrayed me when he was near.
It was wrong. So fucking wrong. He wasn’t blood, but we shared the same last name—and worse, he held pieces of my heart that no one else even knew existed.
And the heart… the heart doesn’t give a damn about rules. He knew that. Loved it. He liked to tease, to make me beg for things I wasn’t supposed to want.
And tonight, tonight he’d haunt me forever. Because after midnight, he knew there would be no more lines to cross. Nothing holding him back.
I closed my eyes, blew out the candle, and swallowed the breath that trembled in my chest.
He leaned in—too close. His voice brushed across my lips.“What did you wish for, Trouble?”
I didn’t answer. I didn’t need to. He saw it in my face.
“For me to leave,” I muttered.
He didn’t believe me. Of course, he didn’t. He chuckled, low and wicked. “Nah, Trouble. You wished for that kiss you never got.”
“No.” My eyes snapped open, hands pushing against his chest.
But my heart didn’t listen. It sounded like it wanted to leap into his.
He came closer anyway. Fingers skimmed my jaw and lifted my chin.
“Who would’ve thought my sister would be the one to make my dick so fucking hard,“ he murmured.
“Ew. Gross.” I shoved him again. “ Step -sister. Not sister. Huge difference.”
“I’m just teasing.” He leaned in again, eyes dropping to my lips. “But you just confirmed what I already knew.”
I stiffened. “And what’s that?”
He hissed softly, a grin spreading slowly like he had all the time in the world.
“You’re in love.”
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. My thoughts fractured, like past and present bleeding together. And just like a snap something brought me back to the present.
Tears slipped down my cheeks again, uninvited.
God, I wished I could go back. Back to that night. Back to before everything shattered.
But I wasn’t there anymore.
I was here. Two years later.
In a cramped apartment with a man I didn’t love, holding a letter I didn’t expect, and a heart I wasn’t sure ever fully belonged to me.
I opened my eyes, now swollen and red.
The water in the sink had stopped. I moved the pot to the stove and turned on the heat. From the bedroom, I heard the radio click on—Troy’s post-shower routine.
Back to reality.
I bent down and picked up the letter from the floor. Folded it carefully and slid it into my pocket.
Then my phone rang.
A sharp sound, snapping me upright like an alarm clock. I walked to the living room and pulled the phone from my bag.
The screen glowed.
Familiar numbers.
Capital letters above: HOME.
I gasped. My fingers loosened, and the phone slipped.
How?
Who was calling me? From there ?