CHAPTER 8 #2
As I wheeled my suitcase through arrivals, my stomach fluttered, not from nerves exactly, more like that strange weightlessness you get when you’re standing somewhere that used to mean everything.
Then I saw Mrs. Wilson and her husband standing beside her.
“Olivia Smythe,” Mrs. Wilson said, opening her arms as I approached. “You made it.”
I smiled, maybe too big, trying to push away the fact that my throat was already tightening. “Thank you for having me, Mrs. Wilson.”
“Nonsense. We’re lucky to have you back. Come on, let’s get you settled,” she said, giving my arm a light squeeze before nodding to one of the staff to grab my bag.
Mr. Cadiz gave me a warm nod and an easy grin. “Welcome back, Olivia.”
“Thank you, Mr. Cadiz,” I said politely, still a bit in awe.
He chuckled. “No need to be so formal, just Miguel is fine.”
I smiled, the nerves in my chest easing a little.
Mr. and Mrs. Wilson-Cadiz, along with their team manager, ushered me toward the car waiting just outside.
It was all smooth and professional, but not stiff.
They asked about the flight, if I’d eaten, and how I was feeling.
I told them I slept through most of it, and they laughed, saying that was the best way to fly.
Mrs. Wilson smiled. “Let’s get you settled then. You’ve had a long flight, and I imagine the last thing you want is jet lag.”
She was right. I just wanted stillness. A soft bed. Maybe, finally, some peace.
As we pulled into the long, tree-lined drive, I sat forward slightly in my seat, blinking against the soft glow of the lights illuminating the property.
The Wilson-Cadiz residence was... massive.
Sleek lines, tall windows, and soft, architectural lighting that made the place look more like a boutique hotel than a family home.
The kind of house you’d expect to see in glossy lifestyle magazines, not actually pull into.
It was modern, yes, but it didn’t feel cold. The exterior was softened by well-kept hedges, climbing vines along one side, and a few lanterns flickering near the entrance. Even in the dark, it looked alive and warm.
“Here we are,” Mrs. Wilson said as we stepped into the foyer. “Feel free to make yourself at home, Olivia. I imagine all those hours in the air must’ve taken a toll. We’ll have someone bring your things over to the guest house so you can get settled.”
“Thank you again, Mrs. Wilson, this is...” I began, still trying to wrap my head around how kind they were being.
She waved me off gently. “Please, no need for the formalities. Call me Amelia. I’d really appreciate it. The same goes for Miguel.”
Miguel, who was already halfway to the kitchen, called over his shoulder with a grin, “We only pull out the surnames when someone’s in trouble.”
I smiled, the tightness in my chest easing a little. “Alright. Thank you, Amelia. Really. This means a lot.”
“Of course it does, love. You’re one of us now.”
When we stepped into the living room, the first thing I noticed was the quiet, like the house itself was holding its breath.
Then my eyes caught the shape on the L-shaped couch.
A tangle of limbs, an oversized hoodie, mismatched socks poking out at odd angles.
Alex sprawled across the cushions as if the day had wrung her out and left her there, one arm flung dramatically over her eyes, fast asleep, undone in a way I’d rarely seen her.
Amelia sighed with a mix of affection and mild embarrassment. “I’m sorry you have to see her like this. She’s got an unhealthy attachment to that couch and apparently couldn’t be bothered to make it to her room.”
I laughed, already feeling a strange comfort in the domestic chaos. “It’s alright. I’ve passed out on a sofa more times than I’d like to admit, usually after a long training day.”
Miguel glanced at Alex and shook his head with a grin. “She’ll insist she was just resting her eyes.”
“She’ll insist on a lot of things,” Amelia muttered before turning back to me. “Come on then, let’s get you to the guest house before you join her and fall asleep right here.”
I smiled, trailing after them.
The guest room was impossibly cozy. I’d unpacked just the essentials, tucked my shoes away near the wardrobe, and freshened up quickly before changing into something more presentable for dinner.
When I stepped into the dining room, the housekeepers were still arranging the last of the cutlery, the scent of roasted garlic and herbs drifting in from the kitchen. Amelia was there too, sleeves rolled up, helping them place serving dishes as if she’d been part of the staff her whole life.
I paused at the archway, my gaze sliding toward the living room. Earlier, Alex had been sprawled out on the couch, dead to the world, but now the cushions were empty, a throw blanket tossed carelessly over one armrest.
Instead of heading straight to the table, I lingered for a moment, my eyes tracing the far wall.
A neat arrangement of framed photographs climbed from the console to the ceiling.
Archer mid-swing on a clay court, and Alex powering through a forehand, face set with focus.
In another, she was crossing the finish line of what I think is a triathlon, and she’s grinning despite the sweat and exhaustion.
The energy in each photo was almost tangible, and I found myself stepping closer without realizing it.
Miguel appeared beside me, following my gaze with a faint smile. “That wall has seen more miles than most people’s passports,” he said warmly.
I glanced at him, nodding toward the polished shelves lining the wide living room. “These are all yours?” I asked, pointing at the rows of gleaming trophies.
Miguel chuckled, the sound warm. “Oh no, those belong to the twins. Archer’s are from his junior tour days, and Alex’s... well, hers are split between tennis and triathlon. We like to keep them all together, it reminds us how far they’ve come.”
He stepped closer to the display, his fingers brushing over a silver cup topped with a miniature swimmer in mid-stroke. “Some of these have been here since they were barely teenagers.”
I tilted my head toward a cluster of gold and crystal trophies in the center. “And these?”
They caught the light just so, like they’d been polished that morning, not a single smudge or dust mote in sight.
“Archer’s. He went on a bit of a streak in his last year of juniors, every final, every title, right before he turned pro. I think he was more exhausted than he let on, but he never admitted it. Too stubborn.”
My gaze drifted to a neat row of trophies and medals with bright, unfaded ribbons. “And Alex?”
The trophies caught the light, polished so well they could’ve been won yesterday. I found myself wondering how many early mornings, blistered hands, and rain-soaked training days were hidden behind each one.
Miguel’s expression softened. “She’s been doing triathlons since she was eight. Just decided one day she wanted to race, and for years it was her whole world. Then, when she was thirteen, she suddenly picked up a tennis racquet and began trying to juggle both sports at that young age.”
I hesitated, then asked, “Does she still do triathlons?”
He paused, trying to find the right words. “She decided tennis would be her full-time sport. She’s never really explained it, and I’ve learned not to press her on those kinds of decisions.”
Of course, she hadn’t explained it. Make a huge decision, commit to it as if her life depended on it, and leave everyone else guessing. Somehow, I found that... oddly endearing.
From the dining room, Amelia’s warm voice carried over. “Dinner’s ready, you two! Come eat before it gets cold.”
Miguel smiled, giving the photo wall one last fond look before nodding toward the table. “Shall we?”
When I stepped into the dining room, the table was already set.
“Alex’s not joining us?” I asked, trying to sound casual.
Amelia let out a small chuckle, not unkind. “Alex is still recovering from whatever late-night rabbit hole she got lost in. We tried waking her, but she just mumbled something about needing more sleep, dragged herself to her room, and insisted she’d eat later. On her own terms, as usual.”
Miguel rolled his eyes fondly. “We’ve long stopped trying to argue with her on things like that.”
“And Archer won’t be arriving until the day after the graduation,” Amelia added. “He’s stuck in London finishing a press thing.”
I nodded, sliding into the seat they offered. A quiet part of me felt... relieved. No tension humming across the table like an invisible net. Just a calm dinner.
Dinner was easy, almost comforting. Amelia kept the conversation light, asking about how I’d been settling in, while Miguel chimed in with dry humor that made me smile more than once. The food was incredible, homemade and warm, and for a little while, it felt like I could breathe.
Now, hours later, I was lying in bed in the quiet of the guesthouse, staring up at the ceiling. Sleep wouldn’t come, no matter how tired I was. My body ached with exhaustion, but my mind refused to shut down. Some habits never changed; I couldn’t sleep without a warm glass of milk.
It was 11:38 p.m. when I gave up pretending I could sleep. The guesthouse was quiet, and though the bed was comfortable and the sheets smelled like lavender fabric softener, my thoughts kept spiraling.
I wandered through the softly lit corridor, careful not to make noise. The main house loomed quietly, still but not entirely asleep. As I reached the connecting foyer, I heard something, soft clinks and low thuds, like... balls clanking together?
I followed the sound down another hallway and peered through an open doorway. Hoping it might be someone who wouldn’t mind a late-night request, I stepped closer.
It was Alex.
She stood at the billiards table, barefoot, wearing a faded tee and joggers, cue stick in hand. She had just made a shot when she spotted me in the doorway.