Call Me Nothing

Chapter Four: Sharp Rules, Sharper Edges

“A housemate?”

“A guest,” she clarifies. “He’s been staying here for a while. Miss Elaine didn’t mention?”

No. Miss Elaine didn’t.

Bernadette glances at me, like she’s waiting for a reaction, then just shrugs. “He keeps to himself. Quiet type. Shouldn’t bother you.”

I don’t answer. Just keep walking.

But something about the way she says it like a warning—He keeps to himself—puts a chill in my spine.

She stops in front of a heavy wooden door, pushes it open, and steps aside.

“Your room.”

I walk in.

It’s... nice. Too nice. Big. Clean. Cream-colored sheets on a bed that looks like it’s never been touched. A desk by the window. A closet I don’t want to open.

It smells like lavender and glass cleaner.

Bernadette lingers in the doorway. “I’ll let you get settled. Dinner’s at seven. If you’re hungry earlier, there’s a button right under your desk. It will alert one of the staff that you need attention.”

She closes the door behind her with a soft click.

And I’m alone.

Again.

Except this time, I’m not sure what’s worse—the grief I left behind, or the silence I’ve walked into.

The room is quiet. Too quiet.

I sit on the edge of the bed, the folder still clutched tight, and stare at the walls like they might give me answers. But they’re as silent as everyone else in this house. Every minute here stretches like gum in the sun—slow, sticky, pulling me apart.

Eventually, I can’t take it anymore.

I get up. Walk out. No plan. No direction. Just movement.

The hallways feel like an art gallery. Every rug is the kind you’re not supposed to walk on. Every door looks expensive. Every shadow feels like it’s watching me back.

I open the wrong door.

At least, that’s what I think at first. The room isn’t like the rest of the house—it’s darker, moodier. The light from the tall window spills in soft and golden, pooling over old wood floors and velvet furniture like something out of a painting.

It smells like aged books and something spiced. Clove? Cardamom? Cigarettes?

And then I see him.

Sprawled out on an antique sofa like sin in human form—shirtless, barefoot, and reading a leather-bound book with all the disinterest of a man who already knows how the story ends. The muscles in his chest catch the light, lean and defined, and he doesn’t bother looking up.

Just lifts a chipped mug to his lips and says, casually—

“So, you’re the dead man’s daughter.”

The words hit me square in the gut. Not like a slap—worse. Like a crack through the foundation, I’ve been barely holding up.

I don’t move. Not right away.

Because something about the way he says it—like he’s been waiting to—makes my skin crawl.

My voice comes out low. Controlled. “And you must be the charity case with a God complex.”

He looks up at that.

Slowly.

Eyes cold and gray, like frost on glass. Sharp enough to see right through me.