Call Me Nothing

Chapter Four: Sharp Rules, Sharper Edges

Whatever kindness Elaine pretends to have, he doesn’t bother with the mask.

I walk faster, not caring where I’m going. Just away.

From the books, from the silence, from those storm-gray eyes that felt like razors pressed against my skin.

And yet...

His voice follows me. Lingers like smoke clinging to silk.

“So, you’re the dead man’s daughter.”

He said it like a challenge. Like a prophecy.

Like he was daring me to live up to it, or die from it.

Like he already knows exactly how I’ll break.

But he has no idea.

I’ve already been broken.

What’s left of me doesn’t shatter.

It burns.

The knock on my door comes like it’s rehearsed. Two taps. No warmth.

Bernadette doesn’t wait long before pushing the door open. She’s polite, always is, but it’s the kind of politeness that’s learned—not chosen.

“Miss Elaine would like to see you in her office.”

Not “asks.” Not even “wants to speak with you.”

Would like to see you.

Like I’m a package that’s finally arrived—damaged, but still, hers to inspect.

I nod. Say nothing. Tuck the folder beneath my pillow.

I don’t know why. I chalk it up to instinct.

The hallway is all soft light and hard silence. My bare feet make no sound on the rugs that feel so velvety soft I wonder if I’m meant to walk on them. The walls are lined with portraits of people who look like they were born with ice in their veins and crowns on their heads. People I’ll never be.

Bernadette walks me to a heavy door at the end of the hall and knocks once before slipping away, vanishing like she’s allergic to confrontation.

The door swings open on its own. No one greets me.

I step inside.

Elaine’s office is exactly what I expected—sleek, sterile, scrubbed clean of anything that might accidentally suggest emotion. Everything smells like paper and expensive quiet.

She sits behind a massive desk, posture perfect, hair sculpted into something that looks more like armor than style.

She doesn’t gesture for me to sit. But I do.

The chair’s too soft. Like it wants to lull me into submission.

Elaine glances up, hands folded like she’s about to dissect me.

“You’ll be starting school Monday,” she says, like we’re already halfway through the conversation.

“Uniform’s in your closet. It’s a private academy—selective. You’ll keep your head down, do your work, and represent this family with dignity.”

Her eyes don’t waver.

“That means no scandals. No outbursts. No drama.”

My nails dig into the sides of the chair. I don’t say a word. I don’t have a word.

She continues, crisp and unbothered.

“You’ll be assigned a driver. Tutors, extracurriculars—anything useful. Not frivolous. You’ll keep appearances.”