Everyone filtered out of the room to do their own thing, while I stayed behind and leaned further back into the couch. Naturally, my head tilted upward, and my eyes widened in surprise. Above me, the ceiling was adorned with beautiful Greek art—a vibrant display of blues and greens that contrasted elegantly with the room's aesthetic. I stared, entranced, until my neck began to ache.
In the past few days, I'd almost forgotten just how wealthy these people were. For some reason, I felt compelled to check their net worths on my phone. As I scrolled through the results, focusing particularly on Alex and Christian, I couldn't help but be stunned. Whatever my definition of "rich" was, it clearly didn't align with the world of "old money" that they belonged to.
Christian, at just 23, had a staggering net worth of $35 billion. Alex? Even higher, at $47 billion. It was jaw-dropping. Sure, my family came from old money, but I couldn't even begin to guess how much of the family fortune had been calculated into those numbers.
Then there was Charlotte, whose $14 billion fortune made perfect sense. She ran a world-renowned fashion brand, famous for its influence on global runways and frequently worn by celebrities, prime ministers, presidents, and even royals. She must have met, or even dressed, every famous person imaginable.
I continued scrolling, curious to see Ace and Enzo's numbers. True to his word, Ace really was a baseball superstar. He'd signed multiple contracts, the most recent one being just seven months ago for an unbelievable $655 million. His annual salary? An estimated $65–67 million. And Enzo? His numbers were just as impressive. He owned one of the most successful law firms in the country, with a global reputation. The firm was famous not only for its divisions—covering everything from divorce law to criminal defense—but also for holding the world record for the widest variety of specialized lawyers under one roof.
Unlike most CEOs, Enzo was heavily involved in his cases and even represented a few himself from time to time, almost always securing a win. Thankfully, the rest of the family members were "just" millionaires—probably because they were still studying and working their way up.
Honestly, I hadn't realized just how wealthy they all were. They didn't act like it, either. They were mostly pretty laid-back, aside from the occasional bout of boredom. Feeling a bit restless myself, I decided to head outside and explore the grounds. But as I opened the back door, I froze. Men with guns were standing along the wall, evenly spaced, watching over the property.
My heart raced, and I slammed the door shut, panic setting in. Were we about to be attacked? I thought, my mind spinning as I bolted up the stairs, yelling. Christian intercepted me halfway up, casually pulling me aside with one arm.
"What are you yelling about, Sophia?" he asked, his voice calm but with a hint of exasperation.
"Th-there are men outside with guns!" I stammered, struggling to catch my breath. "We have to hide or... or do something!"
Christian chuckled, clearly amused. I tugged at his arm, desperate for him to take me seriously. "Why are you laughing? Come on, let's go!"
He gave me a reassuring smile, softening his tone. "Soph, those are just security guards. I'd imagine Mom had them posted this morning and had forgotten to mention it during the briefing—just part of the usual routine."
"Oh..." I mumbled, still a bit overwhelmed but feeling silly now. "But why are they holding machine guns?"
"Actually," he said, carefully choosing his words, "those are L400 KS-1 assault rifles, not machine guns. There's a big difference. And it's necessary. It's unsafe for us to be anywhere without discreet security measures in place."
I nodded, slowly piecing it together. "But... I've never seen them around before, not even at the house."
He gave a sympathetic smile. "That's intentional. You and Atlas were still getting used to this lifestyle, so certain measures were kept in the background to help you adjust without feeling alarmed. When we're out, they're usually undercover. That way, you've had time to adapt and feel at ease."
"Oh..." I drawl, not really sure what else to say.
"Yeah," Christian says, amused.
"Okay, diva," I reply sarcastically, rolling my eyes. He squints at me, then gives a mock-serious sigh.
"I'm going to work now," he says, sounding like he's trying to dismiss me.
I nod, but my curiosity gets the better of me. "How much do you actually work?"
"A lot," he replies, already heading down the stairs.
I follow him, still full of questions. "Why do you work so much? I mean, I saw your net worth—you could retire and be more than okay."
He glances over his shoulder, smirking. "But where's the fun in that?" he says with a wink before strolling into the kitchen, presumably to grab his laptop.
I remember something from earlier this morning and call after him.
"Hey, I heard you had some kind of 'briefing' today. Is that, like, a daily thing?"
Christian stops, turns around, and gives me a curious look. "Pretty much, yeah. There's always something going on. Between family investments, business updates, and all the other moving parts... it's a lot to keep track of."
I raise an eyebrow, still not totally getting it. "And you actually enjoy all that?"
He shrugs, his expression turning thoughtful. "I mean, it's not always fun, but it's interesting. I like being involved—it keeps me sharp. Anyway, it's just part of how things are around here. You get used to it."
"Used to it?" I scoff, shaking my head. "I'd get tired just thinking about all that responsibility."
He chuckles, setting his laptop on the counter and flipping it open. "Maybe, but it's different when it's your life. You find your rhythm. Besides, I'd go crazy if I just sat around all day and retired like you said."
I watch as he begins typing, his attention already shifting to whatever work he has in front of him. Despite myself, I'm intrigued. "So... all of this—the meetings, the investments, the briefings—is it something you actually want to do? Or do you feel like you have to?"
Christian looks up, considering my question for a moment before answering. "A bit of both, maybe. There's pressure, sure, but it's also something I can't imagine not doing." He says with a shrug I wouldn't doubt it if he hadn't ben asked this problem before.
I nod, letting his words sink in. I'd never really thought about responsibility and legacy as something people could feel fulfilled by. It made me wonder if, in some way, all the wealth and security actually came with its own weight.
He glances back up at me, his usual smirk softening. "Don't look so serious. It's not all corporate meetings and security briefings. There's a lot of fun, too. You'll see."
I smile a little, unsure of what he means but suddenly curious to find out.
Christian picks up his laptop and starts to walk out of the kitchen, but at the last minute, he stops and turns back to face me.
"What was England like?" he asks.
My whole body freezes at the question. Instinctively, I slide my hands under the table to hide them, feeling them shake so badly that I probably couldn't hold anything steady right now. I swallow hard, trying to keep my voice calm.
"It... it was fine," I manage, my voice slightly hoarse.
He studies me for a moment, not saying anything, just giving a quiet hum before turning and walking out the door.
As soon as he's gone, I slide onto the kitchen island stool and bury my face in my trembling hands. Everything was spiraling too quickly. First, there was Grey seeing... whatever he saw last night, and now Christian asking about England—something no one here had ever really asked about or wanted to bring up.
My mind flashes back to the previous night, recalling the way Grey looked at me, his expression worried and almost upset. Maybe he had mentioned something to someone. Maybe that's why Christian suddenly asked. The question about England had come out of nowhere, as if it wasn't a casual question but one that had been on his mind.
A sick feeling twists in my stomach as I realize there's a chance Grey saw more than he should have... and maybe he's told someone.
Fuck, I think, standing up quickly and ignoring the way my hands are still shaking. I walk briskly toward Grey's room, silently praying that he's kept his mouth shut. When I get to his door, I don't even bother to knock—I just walk right in.
He's on his bed, wearing track pants, shirtless, and scrolling through his phone. His eyebrows furrow as he looks up, surprised to see me barge in.
I don't waste any time. I go straight over to him and ask, "Did you tell anyone?"
He presses his lips together, his expression guarded. "No. I didn't."
"Are you sure?" I push, needing to be absolutely certain.
He sits up straighter, looking a little defensive now. "I'm pretty sure I'd remember if I'd told anyone, Sophia."
"Okay," I mumble, relaxing a fraction. "I was just asking because... Christian just randomly asked me what England was like."
He nods slowly, processing this, and then leans forward, his gaze softening. "You're not going to tell me anything, are you?" His eyes drop, glancing briefly toward my stomach as if he's considering the weight of everything he doesn't know.
I shake my head, offering a sad smile. "No, I won't."
He looks at me with a hint of understanding, then speaks softly. "You know, you can trust me, Soph. Believe it or not, I can keep my mouth shut." His voice is calm, almost reassuring, and for a moment, I almost believe him.
I wanted to tell him—my subconscious mind was practically screaming at me—that I should just go for it. I knew you can't keep your head above water forever. But I couldn't bring myself to fully trust Grey, or anyone else for that matter. So, instead, I just hum in response, keeping my thoughts to myself. Grey starts talking aimlessly about his latest game or something, his words blending into the background as I let my eyes wander around his room.
The walls were white but barely visible, almost every inch covered by posters that had no real color scheme but somehow worked together, creating a space that felt alive and personal. Like the rest of us, he had a TV set up, and a gaming console on the stand nearby. I think Atlas has the same one—or maybe I do. I've definitely seen it around, but I haven't bothered to try it myself.
When Grey finally finishes his monologue, I turn my attention back to him. He inhales loudly, as if he's out of breath, and then pats the bed beside him, inviting me to join. "Play the game with me," he says.
"Sure," I reply, plopping down beside him. Grey shuffles back until he's leaning comfortably against his pillows, handing me a controller as he grins
"What are we playing?" I ask, eyeing the game console.
"COD," Grey replies with a smirk.
"Oh, fuck" I mutter, shaking my head.
He raises an eyebrow. "What, can't handle it?"
I grumble, "It's the only game I'm terrible at."
Grey laughs and pulls open his bedside drawer, grabbing two headsets. I chuckle, nodding at the second headset. "So, you have guests over often, then?"
He grins, shrugging. "What can I say? I'm a sociable guy."
I roll my eyes, but I take the headset, putting it on as he does the same. Once we're both set up, he clicks a few buttons, and the game launches. We lean back into the pillows, settling in as the loading screen flashes. Moments later, we're dropped right into the action, controllers in hand, ready to see just how well—or horribly—I'll lose against him.
Time rolls past, and I lose track of how long we've been playing. When I finally glance out the window, I notice it's starting to get dark. There's still some light left, but it's enough to tell me that Grey and I have been cooped up in his room for an unhealthy amount of time. I nudge Grey's arm, pointing out the window.
"Oh, crap," he drawls out slowly. "We're so fucked."
"Why?" I ask, half-laughing.
"Do you really think Mom and Dad wouldn't care that we spent pretty much the entire day in my room?" Grey smiles.
"I didn't think they would mind" I mumble.
He shakes his head, laughing. "Yeah, right. They'll just pretend they don't mind so they don't hurt your feelings."
He reaches over, ruffling my hair playfully before stretching his arms and legs out of bed. "Anyway, if we're caught, we can just use their favoritism to get us out of trouble."
I groan. "Do I really have to go along with this?"
"Yes, missy. Otherwise, say goodbye to your phone for two weeks."
I gasp dramatically. "Really?"
"Yup. That's one of their classic, super-annoying punishments," he says, shrugging.
I sigh, weighing my options. "Fine. I'll do it."
"Atta girl!" He cheers, hopping off the bed as we head toward the stairs. "I knew you'd go along with it."
"What exactly am I supposed to say?" I whisper as we creep closer to the dining room, where we can already hear the rest of the family gathered.
"Just say we were making up for lost time and, well, totally lost track of the clock," he whispers back.
I stifle a giggle and give him a playful elbow to the stomach. He doubles over, groaning softly. "Ow!" Grey groans "That's mean!" I say smiling. He straightens up, catching his breath. "So, is losing our phones"
I roll my eyes. "Fairs."
He stands to his full, annoyingly tall height and grins down at me. "Ready?"
"You know it," I reply, smirking back.
We push open the door to the dining room, and my jaw nearly drops. Somehow, while we were holed up in Grey's room, the staff must have started early, because the room is packed with people bustling around. Servers carry out platters of food, pour drinks, and do a ton of other little tasks that anyone could easily handle themselves. But, of course, this is just "rich people stuff," I think, stifling a laugh as we slip in.
As usual, Rome glares at me the moment I enter the room. I barely have time to sit down before he says, dripping with sarcasm, "Nice of you to finally join the party. Get bored of us so quick?"
I look down at my hands, unsure how to respond, especially after yesterday when I'd seen Alex looking so worn out. I decide to say nothing, hoping he'll move on. Sensing my silence, Rome snorts, "So you've finally learned to shut the hell up? Only took you a few weeks."
His words cut, but I still stay silent. This time, though, it's not because I want to ignore him but because I genuinely don't know how to reply. How do you even respond when your own brother tells you he hates the sound of your voice and that he's glad you've finally "learned your place"? The way he says it makes me feel like I'm some beggar, an outsider, like I don't belong here at all.
I bite my lip nervously, feeling a sting at the back of my throat. Charlotte steps in, reprimanding him in Italian, her voice sharp and controlled. Rome doesn't even flinch; his eyes stay locked on me, intense and unyielding. He does that thing again, the one where he tries to dig into me with his gaze, as if searching for secrets hidden deep inside my soul.
I hate it. My eyes always give me away, too open, too honest. It feels like he can see right through me, and that only makes me shrink further into myself, wishing I could just disappear.
And just like that, everything that had made today feel special disappeared.
I look up, hoping Rome's stare has finally shifted, but when I meet his gaze, something snaps inside me. I feel the scream leave my lips before I even realize it, sharp and raw, echoing through the room. All eyes turn toward me as my hands begin to shake uncontrollably. I try to lower them beneath the table, but I can't. I'm frozen, my mind whirling.
Rome's eyes—they're identical to Amy's. The way he's looking at me now is the same way she looked at me right before she stabbed me, over and over. My vision blurs, a ringing filling my ears until I can't hear the voices around me. I can't look away from Rome; if I do, I'm terrified that when I look back, I'll see her, standing there with that knife in her hand.
From the corner of my eye, I notice Atlas following my gaze, a look of realization dawning on his face as he understands what's happening. My attention flickers back to Rome. Someone is shaking me, their touch faint at first, but the shaking grows more urgent. A single tear slips down my cheek, and then the shaking stops, replaced by the feeling of strong arms lifting me from my seat.
I still can't look away from Rome, petrified that if I do, somehow Amy will appear before me. Whoever is holding me now gently presses my head into their shoulder, pulling me close. The warmth of their skin and the steadiness of their breath anchor me, grounding me in the present. I close my eyes, letting myself sink into their embrace, trying to escape the terrifying memory that had clawed its way back to the surface.
I feel something prick my neck, a tiny, sharp sensation that sends a wave of drowsiness washing over me almost instantly. My eyelids grow heavy, and I struggle to keep them open, panic flaring as my last conscious thought surfaces.
"Please... don't let her take me," I whisper, barely audible.
But before anyone can answer, darkness sweeps over me, and everything goes black.
Leaving me alone.