Chapter 10 Under The Same Roof
Sloane
The house at the very end of the private road, tucked away in the most exclusive corner of the Heights. It was built of dark, jagged stone that seemed to absorb the light from the setting sun. The iron gates of the townhouse groaned with a heavy, mechanical sound as they slid open.
He was waiting in the foyer when I walked in. The air inside was chilled, the central AC filled the room with perfect temperature. He didn't offer to help with my bags, and I didn't ask. I gripped the handles of my two oversized suitcases, the wheels clicking loudly against the polished marble floor.
“The guest wing is through the kitchen and up the rear stairs,” he said, checking his watch. He didn't look at me; he looked at the time, as if my arrival was just an appointment. “I’ve cleared it out for you. It has its own bathroom and a walk-in closet..”
“I'll find it,” I said, hauling my luggage toward the back of the house.
As I passed the entrance to the library, I slowed down. The walls were lined with built-in shelves, but they weren't filled with the kind of clutter that makes a house feel like a home. There were no stray magazines, no colorful ceramic bowls, no signs of a life lived for pleasure.
I stopped in front of a section of photos. My heart did a slow, painful roll in my chest.
In one frame, Cade was standing with Lily. It looked like it had been taken a few months before she died. They were at a park, the sun catching the gold in her hair. He was looking at Lily with an expression of such protective devotion. He looked younger there; burdened, but still capable of softness.
Beside it were rows of professional shots. Cade shaking hands with the Mayor. Cade at a ribbon-cutting ceremony for a new firm. Cade standing with a group of grim-faced business partners in suits.
I scanned the entire length of the shelf, then the next one. There was nothing else. No photos of him at a party. No shots of him with a girlfriend, or even a close friend. There were no personal relationships on display. For five years, he hadn't just been building a company, he had also been building a vacuum.
A heavy realization settled over me, colder than the air in the hallway. I had spent five years being angry at him for leaving, imagining him moving on to some grand, effortless life while I struggled to pick up the pieces of my heart. But looking at these shelves, I saw the truth.
He had been just as alone as I was.
He hadn't left me for someone else. He had left me for this—a house of stone, a gallery of dead memories, and a life where the only people he stood next to were people who wanted something from him. He was a man who had surrounded himself with success to keep from having to face the silence.
I gripped the handle of my suitcase. I wanted to feel sorry for him, but I couldn't. This was the life he had chosen.
I got to the guest suite. It was larger than my entire old living room. It smelled like expensive linen and something woody, like cedar or sandalwood. I spent the next hour unpacking.
Halfway through the second suitcase, I realized I’d left my laptop charger in the car. I huffed, wiped a stray hair from my forehead, and walked back toward the main living area.
The house was cavernous. As I walked through the hallway that connected the guest wing to the main salon, I stopped. On a sleek, floating shelf near the entrance to his study, there was a small glass dome. Underneath it sat a vintage brass compass. The same one I had given him on our one-year anniversary. It was scratched in the same spot I remembered, right near the hinge.
Cade was just a few feet away, leaning against a pillar, watching me.
“I thought you threw that out,” I said, my voice echoing in the hallway. I didn't look at him. I kept my eyes on the compass.
“It’s a functional tool,” he said, his voice level. “It would be a waste to throw away something that still works.”
“It’s a memento, Cade. Not a tool. You haven't used a physical compass in ten years.” I finally looked at him. He looked unbothered, but his eyes were fixed on me with an intensity that made my skin prickle.
“If it bothers you, I can move it,” he offered.
“Don't bother. It’s your house. Keep whatever trash you want.”
I found my charger in the foyer and retreated back to my room, my heart hammering against my ribs. Seeing that compass felt like a slap. He was keeping a piece of us on display like a trophy, or maybe a reminder of what he’d destroyed.
By 10:00 PM, I was exhausted. My throat was dry from the dust of the packing boxes. I waited until I thought he might be asleep, then I crept out to the kitchen to get a glass of water. I walked in my socks to keep from making a sound.
But Cade was there, standing by the floor-to-ceiling window, staring out at the city. He had changed into a plain black t-shirt and grey sweatpants. Without his suit, he looked surprisingly human.
I ignored him and went straight to the massive, stainless-steel refrigerator.
“Hungry?” he asked without turning around. “There's milk and some fruit in the fridge,” he said as he saw me. “Help yourself to whatever's in the pantry.”
“I'm just getting water,” I said, with a neutral tone.
When I pulled the fridge door open, the light spilled out, illuminating rows of perfectly organized groceries.
I froze. On the middle shelf sat three cartons of unsweetened vanilla almond milk. Next to them was a bowl of Honeycrisp apples, the only fruit I ever eat for breakfast.
I closed the fridge door with a heavy thud and turned to him. “Did you do this?”
Cade didn't turn around. “Do what?”
“The almond milk. The apples. It’s been five years, Cade. Are you really trying to pretend you’re the perfect host by stocking my specific groceries?”
He finally turned, leaning his back against the glass. “I told my assistant we’d have a guest, so I had her stock the fridge with standard high-end groceries..”
“No one standardly stocks that much almond milk and Honeycrisp apples unless they're trying to make a point.,” I snapped. “You put them there.”
Cade went silent. “I put them there because I didn't want you complaining that I’m a bad roommate,” he said, his voice dropping an octave. He took a step toward the kitchen island. “We have to live here for three months. It’s easier if the fridge isn't a battlefield.”
“Everything in this house is a battlefield,” I replied.
I walked to the cabinets, trying to keep my hands from shaking. “Where are the glasses?”
“Left of the sink,” he said. He watched me as I poured the water. “Have you told them yet? Your aunt and uncle?”
“No, not yet” I said, as I lifted the glass to drink before setting it down empty. “They’re not my parents. I’ll let them know when I’m ready.”
“They may end up finding out one way or another,” Cade said. “If they hear it one way other than you it can look suspicious.”
“I’ll handle my family, Cade. You just handle the security and the audit.” I set the glass in the sink. “Goodnight.”
I went to my room and locked the door. I fell onto the bed, staring at the ceiling. I hated being here. I hated that I had to rely on him. But as I rolled onto my side and pulled the blanket up, I felt a strange, frustrating sense of relief. I wasn't alone in that dark house. Even if the man down the hall was the one who had broken me, he was there.
My life was divided into "before" and "after" this moment. I was trapped in a house with a man I couldn't trust, investigating a family I no longer knew. What if the truth destroyed me, too?