Chapter 19 Chapter 19:Where the Heir Really Was
The service kitchen swallowed us the moment we stepped back inside, its familiar noise rushing in like a tide—metal clinking against metal, low voices overlapping, the hiss of steam from somewhere near the sinks. It should have felt grounding, returning to a place where rules were simple and movements were rehearsed, but instead it felt tighter than before, as if the walls had crept closer while we were gone.
I set my tray down carefully, aligning it with the others out of habit, and only then realized how shallow my breathing had been. The tension from upstairs clung to me like a second skin. The house had changed after the Dravens arrived—and then failed to arrive properly. Absence had weight. I could feel it pressing down through the floors.
Neille drifted closer, her shoulder brushing mine as she pretended to reorganize glasses that were already perfectly placed.
“You know,” she murmured, eyes fixed on the counter, “I’ve never seen a dinner unsettle this house like that.” She paused, then added, softer, almost conspiratorial, “Auren Draven didn’t come.”
I stilled, my fingers tightening around the cloth in my hand. She turned her head just enough to catch my reaction.
“Did you hear me?” she asked. “He didn’t come at all.” There was something bright in her voice now, excitement laced with relief. “Honestly, Sera, that’s great news—for you, I mean. You don’t have to face him.”
I let out a quiet breath, nodding, forcing a small smile into place. “Yes,” I said carefully. “That’s… good.” And it was. I told myself it was. Not having to meet him meant not having to be seen, measured, dismissed. Still, the relief came tangled with something else—something restless and unwanted that I pushed down before it could take shape.
Neille leaned closer, lowering her voice further.
“Can you imagine?” she went on. “All that buildup. All that anticipation. And he doesn’t even bother to show.”
She scoffed softly. “Smug, arrogant men like that—they never think they owe anyone their presence.” I swallowed, wiping the counter again just to keep my hands busy. Smug. Arrogant. The words echoed too easily in my head, aligning themselves with the half-formed image I’d already constructed.
“You’re lucky,” she continued, nudging my arm gently. “I wouldn’t want to be anywhere near him. Men like that look through people like us.”
I nodded again, a little too quickly. “Yes,” I said. “Lucky.” The word tasted strange in my mouth. I told myself it was fear easing. Nothing more.
Madam Hester’s entrance snapped the moment clean in half and the kitchen seemed to recalibrate itself around her presence. Conversations dropped, backs straightened. Her gaze found us instantly.
“Sera. Neille.” Her voice was cool, precise. “I need you both.” We stepped forward at once. She gestured toward a side table where several boxes rested, which we brought earlier to the carol room. “These are the gifts Madam Carol selected for the Draven family,” she said. “You will take them outside and see that they are placed in their cars. Now.” Neille opened her mouth as if to respond, then thought better of it.
I nodded. “Yes, Madam,” I said, already reaching for one of the boxes.
As we moved toward the door, Neille whispered, “Even the gifts are perfect,” her tone edged with awe. “Imagine giving something like this and not even getting the guest you wanted.” I didn’t answer. My mind had already wandered upstairs—to Elara’s frozen smile,
The night air wrapped around us as soon as we stepped beyond the threshold, cooler and heavier than inside, carrying the faint scent of wet stone and oil-polished metal. The four Rolls-Royces waited along the drive in a flawless line, their black bodies gleaming under the estate lights like creatures that never slept.
Neille adjusted the stack of gift boxes in her arms and exhaled slowly. “Every time I see these cars,” she murmured, half to herself, “I feel like I’m standing too close to something I shouldn’t touch.”
I gave a small, nervous breath of agreement. “They don’t look real,” I said quietly. “Like if you blink, they’ll disappear.” My hands tightened around the box I carried, the ribbon biting slightly into my palm, grounding me in the fact that this was real—too real.
As we approached the nearest car, a security guard stepped forward, his expression neutral but alert.
“Evening,” he said curtly, eyes flicking from our faces to the boxes. Neille straightened at once.
“Good evening,” she replied, calm and respectful. “Madam Hester sent us. These are the gifts Madam Carol prepared for the Draven family. We were instructed to place them in the vehicles.”
The guard studied us for a moment that felt longer than it was, then nodded. “Which car?” he asked.
“All of them,” Neille said. “Distributed as labeled.”
He moved without another word, opening the trunk with quiet precision. I stepped forward carefully and placed the box inside, adjusting it so it sat perfectly straight. The guard watched, impassive, and I felt absurdly like I was being tested.
When the trunk closed, Neille let out a breath she’d clearly been holding. “That’s one,” she said under her breath, glancing at the remaining cars. “Three more to go.” We moved together, repeating the process, our movements synchronized from habit more than planning.
After the last trunk was closed, Neille looked back toward the house, biting her lip thoughtfully.
“There are more gifts inside,” she said. “Smaller ones. Personal.” She shifted the empty boxes in her hands and then met my eyes. “Wait here, alright? I’ll bring them. It’ll be quicker if only one of us goes.”
I hesitated for a heartbeat. Standing alone beside those cars suddenly felt daunting. But I nodded anyway.
“Okay,” I said softly. “I’ll stay.” She gave my arm a quick squeeze—brief, reassuring—then turned and headed back toward the glowing entrance, her footsteps fading into the light.
I clasped my hands in front of me, posture perfect out of instinct, eyes fixed somewhere neutral. The cars reflected my image in fractured pieces—my face stretched along polished doors, my uniform doubled and distorted. I felt small standing there, like an accessory placed temporarily beside something far more important. My mind wandered despite my efforts, circling back to the dinner table, to Elara’s absence, to the name that seemed to echo everywhere tonight. I told myself again that I was glad he hadn’t come. Glad I didn’t have to face him.
I stayed where Neille had left me, hands folded, eyes trained politely ahead, telling myself that waiting was nothing new. The minutes stretched, thinning out into something brittle. Somewhere behind me, gravel shifted, and I caught fragments of low voices—security, close enough now that I couldn’t help but hear. I wasn’t meant to listen. Rule number always: staff overhear, they don’t absorb. But sound has a way of slipping past rules.
“Finn’s not back yet,” one of them said, checking his watch. Another snorted quietly.
“He won’t be. Not tonight.” A third voice chimed in, amused.
“Of course he won’t. Keith called—said Mr. Auren was found drunk at Club Hundred. Properly drunk.”
There was a brief laugh, sharp and knowing. “So Finn took the car and went to fetch him. Again.” My breath caught, just slightly, though I kept my face still. Club Hundred. The name landed with weight, heavy and unmistakable.
I stared at the gravel near my feet, heart beginning to beat faster, each thud suddenly loud in my ears.
“Busy,” I thought bitterly.
That was the word Tamara Draven had used—smooth, elegant, unquestionable. Busy overseas. I replayed it in my mind, her perfect smile, the way Elara’s face had changed in response. My chest tightened as understanding settled in. So it wasn’t business. It wasn’t distance or timing. It was avoidance. Or indulgence. Or both. Auren Draven hadn’t been too occupied to attend dinner—he’d been too drunk to bother.
One of the guards laughed softly, the sound dry. “Keith said he could barely keep him upright,” he muttered. “Would’ve been a mess if the press caught wind.” Another replied, “That’s why Finn went himself. Can’t have the heir making headlines like that.”
One of the guards sighed.
“Keith sounded pissed,” he said. “Said it wasn’t a good look, especially tonight.” Another shrugged. “When is it ever a good look? Mr. Richmond will smooth it over. He always does.”
I swallowed hard. The casual way they spoke about it unsettled me more than the information itself. This wasn’t a scandal to them—it was routine. A known problem handled quietly, efficiently, without consequence. I thought of Elara upstairs, fury barely contained, and felt a strange twist of something I didn’t quite recognize.
I wondered how long Tamara had known. Whether she’d decided to lie the moment she stepped out of the car, or if the story had been prepared well in advance, polished and practiced like everything else about her. I pictured her face again, composed and graceful, delivering the apology with such convincing regret. The performance of it all made my stomach churn. Power didn’t just protect people like the Dravens—it insulated them from truth. Lies slid into place so easily when no one dared challenge them.
My fingers curled slightly against my palm as I stood there, invisible and listening, my mind racing despite myself. Elara had waited for him. That much was obvious. She’d built the night around his presence, sharpened herself for his attention—and he hadn’t even bothered to stay sober enough to show. The unfairness of it pressed down on me, heavy and suffocating. I told myself it wasn’t my concern, that this knowledge was an accident, another thing I wasn’t meant to carry. But once heard, it couldn’t be unheard. Once known, it changed the shape of everything.
I lifted my head just as Neille’s footsteps approached from behind, her arms full again, her expression focused. I straightened instinctively, schooling my face back into neutrality. She smiled faintly at me, unaware of the storm that had just passed through my thoughts. I took the boxes from her without comment, my movements steady, practiced.