When The Puppet Falls For The Puppeteer

Beneath the Surface

Myra

I was setting up his clothes in the closet — perfectly folded shirts on one side, freshly ironed pants on the other. Small, mindless tasks. I've gotten used to them. They keep my hands busy when my mind starts to fray.

When you're home all day without a phone, without the internet, without the sound of anyone calling your name, the silence becomes heavy — like fog pressing in, muffling every thought. I tell myself it's better this way. Safer. At least finals are coming up. At least there's purpose in memorizing formulas and essays. Marcus brings me notes from school every evening, neatly arranged, color-coded. As if order could fix the chaos he plants in me.

I smoothed the bedsheet across his mattress, tugging it tight at the corners. My fingers brushed against the space where I had laid my head last night — in the hollow of his chest, his arm curled around me like a lock.

The memory slipped back like a tide: warmth and cold in the same wave.

How can the same man who fills my lungs with fear... also make me feel like I can breathe again?

His embrace had been still. Heavy. Not possessive, not bruising. Just—there. For the first time in days, I hadn't dreamt of drowning. I dreamt of silence. The quiet kind. The kind that felt like floating.

Is this love? This sharp confusion, this ache wrapped in safety, this cage that feels like shelter until you try the door and find it bolted shut?

I fluffed the pillows and stepped back. His room looked perfect again.

Maybe if everything stays perfect... he won't lose his temper.

I turned off the light and walked out.

Downstairs, the kitchen was already warm from the late afternoon sun slanting through the windows. I rolled up my sleeves and started prepping vegetables, letting the rhythm of chopping and boiling distract me.

"What special are you making today, kid?" came a familiar, crackling voice behind me.

I turned and smiled. "Mrs. Irene!"

She was leaning against the doorframe, wrapped in her old shawl.

"How are you feeling now?" I asked, taking a pot from the shelf.

"Much better," she said. "Young master brought the medicines himself. Fever's down."

"You should be resting," I said, walking over to take the tray from her trembling hands.

"Oh, you work too much, child," she sighed. "It's not your place. At your age you should be out partying with friends like Dan not up and running around the house chores all the time"

"It's okay," I said softly. "I'm living here rent free. He already pays for everything. I can help around a bit."

She looked at me for a moment, long and quiet. I couldn't tell what she was thinking. But then she nodded, muttered something about making tea, and slowly left the room.

I went back to chopping onions, blinking faster than usual.

Sometimes kindness hurts worse than cruelty. Because it reminds you of what you don't deserve anymore.

Dinner was almost ready by the time the sun dipped low over Riverbridge. The table was set, I cooked stir fried veggies in black bean sauce and fried rice, the salad chilled. Dan had just come down, flipping through a book while waiting, and Mrs. Irene had finally let herself rest on the armchair by the window.

The house felt warm, quiet. For a fleeting moment, it almost felt like a home.

Then I heard the slow, deliberate footsteps from the staircase — and that moment shattered.

Marcus entered the room like he owned every inch of it.

Which he did.

He was in a crisp navy blue shirt, sleeves rolled, collar slightly undone like he'd just returned from something important. His eyes skimmed the room once, landing on each person — pausing on me last.

"Smells good," he said with a charming smile, directing it at Mrs. Irene. "Glad to see you up and about."

"Thanks to you, Sir," she smiled back, the old warmth in her voice.

"Dan," Marcus nodded, his tone cordial, easy. "Still reading those dusty things?"

Dan didn't even glance up. "Better than listening to you talk."

Marcus smirked, amused. "Fair enough."

And then his gaze slid to me.

I lowered mine instinctively.

"Dinner ready?" he asked.

"Yes," I murmured, already reaching for his plate.

I served him first — of course. A generous portion, just the way he liked it. I felt his eyes on me the entire time. Not possessive. Not angry. Just... assessing.

"Thank you, Red," he said quietly, voice smooth, polite — but beneath it was something only I could hear. A warning wrapped in silk.

I nodded and took my seat.

The others started eating. Dan cracked a joke about Mrs. Irene's spice tolerance. Laughter trickled through the room. It all felt normal, on the surface.

But Marcus didn't laugh.

He kept eating slowly, fork clinking against the plate, always just a beat behind everyone else. Like he was watching a play from backstage, waiting for the cue to take over.

And I could feel it building.

Later, after the dishes were done and everyone had retreated to their rooms, I went upstairs to find fresh towels. I was halfway down the hallway when I heard his door click open behind me.

"Red"

I turned. He stood in the doorway, lit from behind, expression unreadable.

"Come here."

I walked over slowly, heart already racing.

He stepped aside to let me in, then closed the door gently behind me. The lock clicked. Always that soft click.

"You're settling in so well," he said, voice low and casual as he walked over to his desk, pouring himself a glass of water. "Cooking. Cleaning. Studying. Smiling at Mrs. Irene like you've always lived here."

I stood still, arms folded tightly.

He took a sip. Turned to face me.

"Almost like you belong here."

There was a pause — then a shift in his tone, barely a drop in pitch, but it cut sharper than anything else.

"Don't forget who made that possible."

I flinched before I could stop myself.

He walked over, too close now, lifting a hand to tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear.

"You're doing so well, Myra," he said, softly. "Let's not ruin that, okay?"

He leaned down and kissed my temple.

The gesture looked tender. It felt like a collar being tightened.