•Ⓐ Ⓜⓘⓢⓣⓐⓚⓔ•

•Chapter: 6•

            
                        The First Night

------------------------------------------------------------------
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.

The door clicked shut behind me as I stepped into the house, trying my best to ignore how it felt like stepping into another world. The floors were made of polished marble, and every corner of the room screamed money—crystal chandeliers, expensive artwork, furniture that looked like it was never meant to be used. It made me sick.

My father—or whatever he was supposed to be—entered behind me, his footsteps silent on the marble. He placed his keys on a small table by the door and finally glanced at me. His face was unreadable. "I'll show you to your room," he said, his voice still lacking any warmth.

I just nodded, too tired to muster any sarcastic response. I followed him up a winding staircase and down a long hallway until we reached a room at the end. He opened the door, revealing a space that looked like it belonged to someone important, someone who wasn’t me.

The bed was massive, with dark wooden frames, and the walls were painted a deep, calming blue. There was a desk, a bookshelf filled with books that looked like they'd never been touched, and a massive window that overlooked the perfectly manicured garden below.

"This will be your room," he said, almost mechanically. He stood there for a moment like he wanted to say something else, but in the end, he turned and left without another word. The door clicked shut behind him, and I was finally alone.

I dropped my bag on the floor and sat on the edge of the bed, staring blankly at the room around me. I knew I should feel grateful—most kids at the orphanage would kill for a room like this—but all I could feel was anger and emptiness.

I lay back on the bed, letting out a long sigh. It was too quiet here. I missed the noise of the orphanage, the sound of kids running around, staff calling out instructions, and Eric teasing me about something stupid. The silence here was oppressive, suffocating even.

Minutes passed. Or maybe hours. I wasn’t sure. There was a knock on the door.

I didn’t bother to answer, but the door opened anyway. A woman, probably in her late thirties, entered with a soft smile on her face. She was dressed in professional clothes, her hair tied back neatly. "Hello, Jacob. I’m Sarah, the housekeeper. I’ve made some dinner if you’re hungry," she said gently.

I sat up but didn’t look at her. "I’m not hungry," I muttered, though my stomach growled loudly, betraying me.

"Are you sure?" she asked, her voice kind, but I could tell she wasn’t the type to push.

"Yeah, I’m sure."

"Okay," she said softly. "If you change your mind, the kitchen’s just downstairs. I’ll leave a plate for you."

I nodded, not caring whether she saw it or not, and after a moment of awkward silence, she left.

The door shut again, and once more, I was alone with my thoughts. The anger began to simmer again, but I pushed it down. I had to stay calm. I had to stick to my plan—make things as difficult as possible. Maybe they would send me back to the orphanage by the end of the week, just like everyone else. Maybe even sooner.

The rest of the evening passed in a blur. I stayed in my room, ignoring the occasional knocks on the door from Sarah. Eventually, I heard my father’s voice faintly calling out that it was late, and I should get some rest. I didn’t respond.

I wasn’t going to play his game.

---

The next morning, I woke up to the smell of bacon and eggs. It drifted under my door, tempting me to get up and eat, but I stayed in bed, staring up at the ceiling. I wasn’t going to give in.