Call Me Nothing

Chapter Four: Sharp Rules, Sharper Edges

A small pause.

Then—

“As for Rhys... yes. He’s staying here. For certain reasons.”

That’s all she says.

Like that’s all she owes me.

Like the sharp-edged boy living down the hall—who knows too much about me and says even more—doesn’t warrant a proper explanation.

I don’t ask. But I file it away.

Because from what I’ve summed up so far, Elaine doesn’t waste words, and she doesn’t share unless she has to.

Soon, it’s 7pm and from what I remember, it’s dinner time.

The dining room looks like it belongs in a film about haunted mansions—grand, echoing, and entirely too polished for human emotion. The table stretches out longer than necessary, like it’s daring us to feel small.

I take my seat at one end.

Elaine enters a few moments later, all grace and calculation, and sits across from me without ceremony.

She starts talking immediately.

School. Schedules. Expectations.

I nod occasionally. Just enough to pretend I’m listening.

I’m not.

And then the air shifts.

I hear him before I see him—his footsteps smooth, lazy. Confident.

Rhys.

He walks in like he’s late on purpose. His hair is still damp from a shower, and his shirt’s undone at the collar like the buttons offended him.

He gives Elaine a nod, like this is some mafia gathering. He doesn’t glance at me and slides into the seat directly across from me.

I stare at my plate.

Elaine doesn’t acknowledge the tension.

Just keeps talking.                                                                                                                             Her voice is a monotone hum about fencing and extracurriculars and the importance of dignity.

“I’m not a puppet.” I mutter under my breath, more to myself than anyone,

But Rhys hears it. Of course, he does.

“Oh, you’ll get used to it,” he says casually, not even looking up. “Eventually the strings stop feeling so tight.”

My jaw tenses. “Is that why you’re still here? Because you’re too scared to cut yours?”

He finally meets my eyes, gaze narrowed and dangerous.

“Oh, I bite. I just know better than to attack the hand that feeds me—at least for now.”

The room goes still. My stomach twists, hot and furious.

Elaine sets down her wine glass with a quiet click.

“Enough.”

She’s right. I’ve had enough. I’m already boiling. Already trembling.

I push my chair back hard.

“You brought me here for this? So, I could be insulted at your table by your stray?”

Elaine doesn’t flinch, her expression doesn’t even change.

“I brought you here because you have no other options.”

And Rhys? He doesn’t smirk now. Doesn’t speak.

He watches me. Silent. Focused. Gray eyes monitoring my every movement.

Like I’m about to prove something he’s been waiting to see.

I meet his eyes. Then Elaine’s.

“I’m. Not. Your. Puppet.”

And I leave.

This time, I don’t look back.

The room is too still when I get back. The walls too quiet. My skin itches with things I haven’t said. Things I can’t say.

I sit on the edge of the bed and pull the folder from under the pillow like a secret too loud to ignore.

The clasp snaps open.

Photos spill out like memories I didn’t ask to relive.

Me and Dad at the beach, wind-tangled and sun-drunk.

Elaine, stiff and shadowed, her hand resting on my tiny shoulder like an afterthought.

A woman—who looks so much like me—smiling like someone who hasn’t yet been broken by life. Young. Beautiful. Free.

It hits me. This is woman…was my mother.

The breath in my lungs whooshes out of me.

This photo? It’s the only image of my mother I’ve ever seen.

I trace her likeness with my finger. Like I’m touching her, embracing her, asking her questions about herself, about me.

Begging her to unravel the truth—those cobwebs I keep feeling but can’t quite see.

I move on to the next photograph. The picture is a polaroid of a boy beside a very young me in a sunlit garden. He seems my age. Maybe a little older. Sharp-eyed. Serious.

Familiar in a way that makes my skin crawl.

I flip it over.

Nothing. No name. Just that feeling in my gut—the kind that says this picture, this boy matters.

At the very bottom of the folder, something wrapped in velvet.

My dad’s watch. Old. Heavy. Still ticking.

Like it never got the memo he’s gone.

And then—the letters, one of them being the one I had started reading but never finished because of distractions.

It’s thicker than I remember.

His handwriting on the front: Honey, I don’t know where to begin.

But I stop myself from reading anymore.

Something else is inside the folder. Something so small I hadn’t noticed. A plain white card.

On the back: a number.

And one word.

WREN

It echoes in my head, recognizable, but not quite.

I stare at the card for a long time.

Long enough for everything to tilt sideways.

Long enough to know—

Whatever I thought this was?

It’s only just beginning.

***

Author's Note:

Did someone turn up the heat?

Long chapter, right? We aim to please.