9. Fae
FAE
“Shall we talk about it?” Felix mutters as he puts the car into reverse.
“Nothing to talk about, Felix.”
“Fae.” he sighs, dragging a hand down his face, but I make no move to fill him in on what happened between Roman and me last night.
Felix is not just my twin, but also my protector, which doesn’t leave much room for anything soft between us.
Don’t get me wrong, we are probably closer than most people are, but you try talking to your brother, who murders for a living, about almost having sex with someone and see how that pans out for you.
Nothing else is really off-limits when it comes to us, but sex.
I am putting that firmly in a red zone. Plus, I don’t want to hear about my brother’s extracurricular activities either.
I know he sleeps around; he knows I sleep around.
That is about as much as either of us need to know.
“Listen, if he does anything to hurt you, I’m not against killing him.”
Point proven.
“I know, thank you. Can we stop talking about Roman now? It’s making me antsy and I already have to see Father in an hour.”
“Okay Disney, deal.”
My breath catches as I look at him. He hasn’t called me Disney in years.
I try to swallow the emotion, but it lodges in my throat anyway.
Memories of Mum and me trying to convince Felix and Father to watch Cinderella for the thousandth time slam into me.
After about the twelfth watch, Felix started calling me Disney because it was all I ever talked about.
I didn’t realise then how closely my life would end up mirroring it.
After Mum died, Felix would crawl into my bed and put the films on until I fell asleep.
Felix called me Disney for years, right up until friends at his school caught wind of it. I was ridiculed for months and eventually he just stopped, going back to Fae as if it had never mattered. Always the mediator. Always trying to protect me, even when it cost him something.
It wasn’t until university, when Robyn pointed out that Fae meant fairy, that the new nicknames stuck.
I pretend to be annoyed every time they say it, but the truth is, I love it.
I love that I am something to them. That I am seen.
The irony isn’t lost on me. Once upon a time, I was Cinderella, trapped in a cruel house under Father’s rule, and now I am my own fairy godmother. And I will stop at nothing to be free.
My bedroom is still destroyed and Felix gives it a once over with a clinical eye.
Waving off his judgement, I practically push him out of the door.
Once he’s gone, I make my way into my shower room and lean against the counter.
The space is all pale neutrals, clean and deliberate.
A freestanding bath sits beneath the window, matt black fixtures cutting through the white like sharp lines.
The light that filters through is soft, muted, almost calm.
In the summer, it is my favourite place in the flat.
Opposite the bath is the shower. It is sectioned off with glass and black taps are set against the marble wall.
Everything is clean and sharp in a way that should feel calm, but it doesn’t for me.
It’s what Robyn wanted though and she sacrificed a bigger home, so I gave her the lavish bathroom.
The boys think we chose the smaller place because there are only two of us.
Truth is, I couldn’t live in the kind of luxury they do.
I know what hides behind polished surfaces and perfect rooms, I know what people are capable of when no one is watching and that sort of darkness has no place in my home.
I turn on the waterfall shower and step beneath it, letting the heat hit my skin. For once, I don’t scrub myself raw, don’t try to claw the feeling off or disappear out of my own mind. That alone feels… strange, because for me it has never felt like this before.
Was that the first time I’ve actually had a choice? Does it even work like that?
I always thought it was simple, that it looked like being held down, like screaming and crying and begging someone to stop, but my reality has never been that clean. It has been knowing what is expected of me, understanding what happens if I don’t comply, and giving it before it can be taken.
So what does that make everything else, if this is the first time I haven’t felt dirty… but alive?
God, I cannot even think like that. If I do, it will swallow me whole and I am barely holding on as it is.
I sigh as I get out of the shower and before long, I’m dressed and ready to go.
Deciding I don’t want to be alone with Roman, I get in my car, drop him a text, and make the five-minute journey to Father’s estate.
It still gives me chills. If we didn’t need to report to the heads of the Company here, I would never return.
Driving up to the black iron gates, I roll my window down and wave to the guards.
A new one makes his way over to my car before Jeremy grabs the cuff of his shirt and pulls him back.
“That is Miss Ackworth. She is to be let in at all times,” Jeremy hisses. The other guard goes bright red with embarrassment.
“Sorry Miss Ackworth,” he stutters.
“No bother,” I wave it off. It’s not like he’s ever met me before. I’m fairly certain Father doesn’t keep pictures of me to show his new recruits.
The gates creak as they open and I slowly make my way down the gravel path.
Over a mile of grass, trees, bushes, and flowers stretches out in front of me, all perfectly manicured and preserved.
I used to spend every moment I could with my mum, tending to her gardens.
The light in her eyes when a gardener successfully bred a new flower never got old.
I would sit and listen, hanging on every word, as she explained why roses were the most precious flower in the world and all the different varieties she could create.
A sharp pang hits my chest as I think of her and I rub my hand over my heart. A bad habit I picked up when I was younger, any time I think of loss.
Pulling up on the circular drive, the mansion looms ahead like a bad omen, a stark contrast to the peaceful scenery.
Its pale stone and sharp angles look too solid to ever be moved.
The architecture is old and expensive in a way that does not soften with age.
Thick limestone walls, tall chimneys clustered like sentinels, and a square tower rise just enough to remind you it once needed to be defended.
It still does, just not from external threats anymore.
Even in daylight, it carries the weight of every shadow that has passed. The windows are long and narrow, and the glass reflects the land without ever revealing much of what sits behind them.
I step out of the car, take a deep breath, and make my way up the path.
I have walked this route more times than I can count.
Each step is a reminder that this place owns more than land.
It owns history, reputation, silence, the kind that seeps into you whether you want it to or not.
Everything about it reeks of old money, of inherited power dressed up as legacy, of appearances so carefully maintained they almost look effortless, while underneath it all the rot is left to fester where no one has to acknowledge it.
The fields behind it are lush and green, almost beautiful, but the house feels separate from them, carved out and imposed.
I know every line of its facade, every angle of its gabled roof, yet I still feel the same tightness in my chest when I look at it.
It is not a home to me. It is a structure built to endure, to outlast, to remember everything I would rather forget.
Taking a deep breath, I open the door and the hall stretches out in front of me.
It is long and symmetrical as it was built to impress before it was ever built to welcome.
Marble columns line either side, their surfaces veined and worn as they rise to an ornate ceiling heavy with carved plasterwork.
Scrolls, rosettes, and layered mouldings press into the pale stone, all of it carefully preserved.
God forbid Father has anything out of place beneath his feet.
The floor is laid in a black-and-white chequered pattern, permanently polished, reflecting the bright light without softening it.
My heels clack with every step I take, echoing through the empty space.
Instead of standard lights, lanterns hang from the centre of the ceiling, evenly spaced.
They run on electricity now, but the feature dates back generations, long before Father took control.
The scale of the inside matches the outside, designed to remind anyone who passes through that this is a place built for permanence, not comfort.
I take a right just before the brown wooden door.
It looks like it belongs in a church, one of the few places in this mansion that isn’t perfect.
Splinters and cracks eat into the wood as if whatever is beneath it is trying to claw its way out.
I draw in a breath and press against the heavy door, forcing it open.
The sound of it echoes too loudly, bouncing off the walls along with my footsteps as I make my way down the grey concrete steps. It opens into the crypt.
Into a nightmare once upon a time, I didn’t even realise I was living in.
The room opens into a forest of stone columns and low arches.
The ceiling presses close despite its width, each ribbed curve catching the light unevenly.
The walls are rough with damp and age, the air cool enough to bite, and a shiver racks through my body.
It’s not just the temperature that feels cold down here.
It’s the architecture, the history, the secrets buried into it.
The only light comes from candles, but it doesn’t reach every corner, leaving the far edges swallowed in shadow.