C5 Chapter 5

A violent, unceremonious jostling yanked me directly out of the fragile sanctuary of my deep unconsciousness—marking the second time in a mere span of twenty-four hours that my rest had been aggressively compromised. My initial, hazy instinct was to blame Beatrice, or perhaps one of the younger pack of siblings who usually lacked any concept of personal boundaries, but a sudden clearing of my fogged senses confirmed that none of my usual relatives were responsible for this current intrusion.

An involuntary, guttural groan escaped the back of my throat as I blindly reached across the vast, sprawling expanse of the king-sized mattress, desperately clawing for a secondary down pillow. Once my fingers clamped around the fabric, I slammed it over my face, pressing the heavy material tightly against my skull in a futile attempt to seal off my ears from the outside world. Yet, the relentless, bone-rattling electronic bass bleeding through the floorboards did not diminish in intensity for even a single fraction of a second.

I let out a low, frustrated snarl, a hot wave of irritation rushing through my veins. Deep down, a small voice whispered that I lacked any legitimate authority to complain given our current temporary living arrangements, but my logic was entirely overridden by the agonizing, sledgehammer rhythm pounding against the inside of my temples.

The truth was, the entirety of the previous night had been a completely sleepless blur, spent tossing in a miserable cocktail of overwhelming sentimentality and paralyzing dread. The painful process of bidding farewell to our mentor had torn a massive rift through my emotional stability, and the lingering weight of that departure had rendered sleep an absolute impossibility.

No matter how many times I rearranged my limbs, flipped the blankets, or shifted from one side of the mattress to the other, comfort remained entirely elusive.

Accepting defeat, I forced my torso upright, extending my arms toward the ceiling to stretch out the stiff, aching muscles lining my back and shoulders. It was a bleak realization, but it was clear that any further attempts at catching sleep today were officially abandoned.

Had it been Marcus in this bed, he would have effortlessly remained dead to the world right through this entire auditory assault. I possessed absolute proof of this fact because I had once intentionally practiced a chaotic percussion routine directly beside his skull, and his breathing hadn’t altered in the slightest. Frankly, the man possessed the uncanny, almost supernatural ability to slumber through an apocalypse. The mechanics behind his heavy sleep patterns were completely beyond my comprehension. While I didn’t consider myself an exceptionally fragile sleeper, I certainly didn’t possess the impenetrable, stone-like dormancy that Marcus enjoyed daily.

Swinging my legs over the edge of the elevated frame, I slid my bare feet into a pair of worn, dark-indigo rubber slides resting on the hardwood. I dragged both hands through the tangled web of my uncombed hair, twisting the long strands upward into a loose, disorganized knot at the crown of my skull, though several rebellious wisps immediately slipped free of the restriction, framing either side of my face in messy layers.

Right on cue, my stomach let out a fierce, demanding growl that echoed in the quiet room, signaling that an immediate trek down to the lower levels of the estate to locate the kitchen was no longer optional.

Stepping into the wide, unfamiliar corridor, I navigated the foreign layout for roughly a minute before arriving outside Beatrice’s designated quarters. I offered a quick, courtesy rap against the wood before pushing the door inward, only to find the room completely vacant, the sheets neatly undisturbed.

Downstairs, the playlist shifted abruptly into a chaotic, syncopated electronic rhythm. The intense vibrations traveled upward through the structural beams, causing the floor beneath my soles to throb violently. In any other context, like operating a high-performance vehicle at lethal speeds down an abandoned desert highway, that specific, adrenaline-inducing tempo would have been incredibly exhilarating.

Forcing myself to shake away that distracting, reckless fantasy, I quickened my pace down the grand staircase, heading straight toward little Timothy’s bedroom. Peeking inside, I discovered him wrapped in a blanket, completely dead to the world, emitting soft, rhythmic snores. It was a genuine shock to realize that even a seven-year-old could maintain such a profound level of sleep amidst a sonic disturbance of this magnitude.

Stepping quietly to the side of his mattress, I leaned down to press a gentle kiss against his brow, gently brushing away a few coarse, unruly curls that had fallen across his skin. He had been a mere toddler of seven when our mother passed away; consequently, while the rest of us possessed a rich tapestry of vivid recollections regarding her life, Timothy was left with almost nothing.

I inhaled a ragged, steadying breath, my eyes drifting toward the framed photograph resting on his nightstand, which captured the entirety of our family unit in happier times. In the image, Mother was radiating pure, unadulterated joy, her smile stretching from ear to ear while the rest of us were hopelessly entangled around her torso, a chaotic mess of overlapping limbs and genuine, unchoreographed laughter directed at the lens. A sharp, stinging sensation flared behind my eyelids, signaling the arrival of tears, but I consciously forced the moisture back down.

I was absolutely resolute in my determination not to weep; I had intentionally locked away my tears from the very moment circumstances forced me to step up and become an unyielding pillar of strength for the remaining members of this family.

Silently pulling the door closed until the latch clicked into place, I turned on my heel and began walking down the opposing wing of the hallway to determine if Marcus required any sustenance. Given the sheer volume of chaotic noise filtering up from the ground level, it was glaringly obvious that a massive, unbridled social gathering was underway below, and the prospect of navigating that sea of strangers without an ally was deeply unappealing.

Without bothering to knock—fully operating under the assumption that he would be completely unconscious and dead to the world—I pushed his bedroom door open, only to let out a sharp, horrified gasp, my palm instantly flying upward to seal my lips shut.

"Oh my god! I'm so sorry." I blurted out, rapidly retreating into the hallway and pulling the door shut with a snap, my entire body cringing in absolute revulsion at the visual I had just inadvertently consumed.

Ew!

A low, internal groaning vibrated in my chest.

Witnessing my own flesh and blood entangled in an intimate encounter with a random, dark-haired woman was precisely the kind of psychological trauma my empty, starved stomach did not need to process. And to be completely objective, she was a remarkably stunning brunette. She possessed the kind of flawless, high-fashion aesthetic that looked as though she had been pulled straight from the glossy pages of an elite style magazine.

"Sorry!" I muttered under my breath, acutely aware that the deafening volume of the house music made it physically impossible for them to catch my apology, before turning to sprint toward the lower level.

It was entirely clear that no one was going to rescue me; I was going to have to summon my own courage, woman up, and handle this expedition entirely on my own.

The sheer mass of humanity occupying the primary living room was utterly overwhelming. Multiple couples were aggressively entangled on the leather sofas, a sight that made me mentally recoil with an intense, unexplainable wave of second-hand embarrassment. The young women wandering through the space were clad in nothing more than minimalist swimwear, and even those sparse garments appeared to be in various stages of being discarded entirely.

I clamped my eyelids shut, drawing in a shaky, uneven breath through my nose. I consciously lectured myself to remain neutral. I wasn’t going to sit in judgment of these people. Absolutely not.

Spurred by discomfort, I broke into a fast jog toward the culinary sector, shoving my way through a pair of heavy, polished timber double doors, only to find myself standing in a shockingly immense, formal dining hall. I knitted my brows together in confusion, scanning the architecture. I distinctly recalled Linda entering this specific sector earlier in the day to retrieve our meals.

That was when my eyes locked onto yet another set of identical timber double doors at the far end of the room.

Good grief! What was this architect's bizarre obsession with double doors?

Were they completely pathological about it?

A small, amused smile broke through my stress. "This is just hilarious." I whispered to myself, quickening my stride toward the threshold.

I threw the panels open and let out another soft gasp. The culinary space before me was breathtakingly magnificent and incredibly, wonderfully IMMENSE. If the option were presented, I could comfortably set up a permanent residence within these four walls.

My salivary glands instantly activated at the sight of an abundant arrangement of unblemished, fresh produce resting on the stone island. I stood frozen for a moment, admiring the pristine collection of high-end stainless steel cookware suspended above. The opaque, custom glass cabinetry and the array of staggeringly expensive culinary appliances felt almost entirely paralyzing to my modest sensibilities.

Almost.

Stepping further into the pristine space, I unlatched the massive, commercial-grade French-door refrigerator. Absolute, unmitigated WOW.

The interior compartments were packed to absolute maximum capacity with luxury provisions.

What exactly was this residence? Some sort of localized, miniature paradise?

I reached inside and began collecting a loaf of artisanal bread, sliced deli ham, sharp cheese, and a handful of crisp vegetables, intending to construct a few substantial sandwiches for myself and Beatrice. Timothy was still down for the count, and Marcus was... thoroughly preoccupied.

Wait a minute...

Where on earth was Beatrice anyway?

I shook my head in irritation at what felt like a severe case of temporary cognitive failure, reaching into my denim pocket to retrieve my mobile device. I realized with a pang of discomfort that I was still trapped in the exact same garments I had put on first thing this morning.

Where the hell are you? I typed rapidly, firing off the text.

The response from her end arrived almost instantaneously: Not in my room ;)

I rolled my eyes, typing back: Do I have to tell Alastair you're missing?

In our family hierarchy, now that our father figures were out of the picture, Marcus was the singular authority figure that every single one of us actually deferred to.

My device vibrated against my palm before I could even drop my hand. Just messing with you! Jeez, chill! You're such a party popper. I'm downstairs. At the pool.

I quickly countered: Get your ass in the kitchen. I'm making us sandwiches.

Her text bubble popped up immediately, dismissing my peace offering: I already ate. And I'm in the pool. I can't text anymore. You want to talk? Come out. Ttyl. Love ya.

My fingers tightened around the perimeter of the phone until my knuckles ached. She was already out by the water? She had managed to cultivate an entirely new social circle in a matter of hours? And she was already immersed in having a fantastic time?

Well, isn’t that just spectacular!

It felt like a blunt reminder that I was nothing more than an inherently socially inept failure—a label that had been gleefully stamped onto me by peers at virtually every single educational institution we had ever cycled through, with the sole exception of our stint in the subtropics of Florida, which had represented our only true window of geographic permanence.

Beatrice was fully aware that I lacked the sheer bravado required to step out into that chaotic crowd of partygoers. For a fleeting second, I was heavily tempted to leverage Marcus’s authority against her behavior, but reality reasserted itself; I knew he was entirely unavailable. Besides, that would just result in him adopting his typical, dismissive attitude. He would indulge in his own vices, and regardless of how morally repellent the cycle seemed, he would eventually cast those desperate girls aside without a backward glance. But if I had to offer him any credit, he was always brutally transparent regarding his lack of commitment from the very first interaction, and every female who approached him entered the arrangement with full awareness of the parameters.

Which, in the grand scheme of things, was an immense administrative relief, considering those girls tended to be fiercely, suffocatingly possessive. In our past schools, they had invariably transferred their burning resentment of his emotional unavailability directly onto me, effectively orchestrating a total social blacklisting that made my academic life a living hell.

I could only offer a silent, desperate prayer to the universe that this current magazine-ready brunette didn’t attend the local institution we were scheduled to enroll in.

Please, let luck be on my side just this once!

Once the assembly of my sandwiches was completed, I hoisted my body up onto the polished stone countertop, perched myself on the edge, and began consuming my meal in absolute silence, washing the dry bread down with a chilled can of ginger ale. My physical form was still radiating a deep, structural soreness, and a profound exhaustion weighed heavily behind my eyes. Recognizing that the physical journey required to scale the stairs and return to my quarters would feel like an alpine expedition, I opted to remain anchored to the stone surface while I finished my initial sandwich. I had deliberately prepared a total of five portions, operating on the off-chance that Timothy or Marcus might eventually wander into the culinary zone in search of sustenance.