Chapter 3
The first thing I understand—before the size of the place, before the men in suits, before the way the air itself seems quieter here—is that I do not belong.
Not in the dramatic, self-pitying way people say it when they want attention, but in the bone-deep way you know when your shoes are too cheap for the floor beneath them, when your breath sounds too loud in a space designed for silence, when your entire life feels like it was built on a different scale than the one you’ve just stepped into.
The doors close behind us with a soft, final sound.
Inside, everything is light and height and space. The ceilings stretch upward like they’re showing off. The walls are lined with art I don’t recognize but instinctively know costs more than my parents’ house. Somewhere in the distance, water trickles—another fountain, maybe, or something decorative meant to soothe people who never worry about rent.
A woman in black approaches us, her posture perfect, her expression calm in a way that feels rehearsed.
“Mr. Cross,” she says. “Your mother is asking for you.”
Devin nods, his jaw tight.
Then he looks at me.
“I’m glad you came,” he says softly, like it’s something he needs me to know before everything else breaks open.
I swallow, my fingers curling into the sleeves of my hoodie.
“So am I,” I lie.
We walk through corridors that feel endless, past rooms I don’t get to fully see—glimpses of marble, glass, a staircase that curves like it belongs in a palace instead of a house. No one questions my presence. No one asks who I am.
That, somehow, makes it worse.
The bedroom is quieter than the rest of the mansion, dimmer, the curtains drawn just enough to let moonlight spill across a large bed where a woman lies propped against pillows, her hair silvered and her face pale but sharp with intelligence.
She looks up as we enter.
And she smiles.
“There you are,” she says, her voice weak but warm. “And you brought her.”
I freeze.
Her.
Devin steps forward. “Mom, this is Lucy.”
Her eyes move to me with focus that makes my skin prickle, like she’s not just seeing my face but measuring something deeper, something internal.
“I know who you are,” she says.
My heart drops.
“You… do?” I ask.
She nods. “I’ve been waiting to meet you.”
I look at Devin, panic blooming in my chest.
“You told her about me?” I whisper.
“No,” he says quickly. “I swear. I didn’t.”
His mother chuckles softly, then coughs, pressing a hand to her chest until the sound settles.
“He didn’t need to,” she says. “I know my son. And I know the kind of girl he’d bring here.”
She reaches out a thin hand.
“Come closer, Lucy.”
I obey, because something in her tone makes refusal feel impossible.
When she takes my hand, her grip is surprisingly firm.
“You’re not afraid of him,” she says. “That’s rare.”
“I am,” I admit. “Just… not in the way people expect.”
Her smile deepens.
“Good,” she says. “Fear keeps you honest.”
Hours pass in a strange, suspended way.
I sit beside her bed while Devin steps out to speak to doctors and lawyers and people who move like this world belongs to them. She asks me about my life—my school, my music, my plans—and actually listens, not with polite interest but with something closer to hunger, like she’s searching for proof of something she’s already decided.
At one point, she asks me to read to her.
I choose a book from the bedside table, my voice shaking at first, then steadier as the words take over. She closes her eyes, breathing slow and even, like the sound of someone finally resting.
When Devin comes back, he watches us from the doorway, his expression unreadable.
Later, when his mother falls asleep, he leads me out onto a balcony overlooking the grounds.
The night air is cool, the sky impossibly wide.
“I should have told you,” he says, finally. “About all of this.”
“Yes,” I say. “You should have.”
“I didn’t know how,” he admits. “Everyone changes when they find out.”
I turn to him. “Tell me now.”
He hesitates only a second.
“My family owns half of what you see,” he says. “The rest is investments. Tech. Real estate. Defense contracts. I stopped counting the money years ago.”
The words land heavy and unreal.
“You’re… rich,” I say.
He gives a short, humorless laugh.
“That’s one word for it.”
“Billionaire,” I whisper.
He nods.
The truth settles between us like a third presence.
“I didn’t want you to look at me differently,” he says. “I didn’t want to be a headline in your head.”
“I don’t know how to look at you at all right now,” I say honestly.
He steps closer. “Look at me like you did last night.”
My chest tightens.
“That was before,” I say.
“Nothing’s changed,” he insists.
But it has. Everything has.
When he walks me back to the car, the mansion no longer feels magical. It feels dangerous. Like something that could swallow me whole if I’m not careful.
At the gate, I glance back once more, the lights glowing behind us like a secret too big to carry alone.
As the car pulls away, my phone buzzes.
A message.
Not from Devin.
From an unknown number.
You should be careful, it reads. That world destroys girls like you.
I stare at the screen, my pulse racing.
Before I can reply, another message appears.
He doesn’t get to choose who he loves.
And then—
We do.
I look up at the mansion disappearing into the dark and realize, with a sick twist of certainty—
Devin didn’t just keep his wealth a secret from me.
He kept his enemies hidden too.
