Chapter 8 Chapter 8: What He Asked For
I stood there for a moment after Simon disappeared down the corridor, my heart still pounding, and his order ringing in my ears. ‘Leave it.’
I looked at the cart, at the covered tray, and then at the closed doors of the master suite. Sir Senior Veyra had asked for his breakfast not Mr. Simon. The thought settled in me quietly but firmly, the way decisions always did when I knew I would regret ignoring them more than defying someone. I straightened the napkin one last time, drew in a careful breath, and raised my hand again. This time, I knocked.
“Come in,” Sir Veyra’s voice called, calm and steady, as if no storm had just passed through his room.
I pushed the double doors open and rolled the service cart inside, guiding it slowly over the thick rug. The room was washed in soft morning light spilling through tall French windows that stood open just enough to let the air move.
Outside, the garden stretched wide and green, quiet and orderly, nothing like the tension knotted inside this house. Sir Senior Veyra sat near the windows in his wheelchair, his back straight despite his age, and his hands resting lightly on the armrests. He was dressed simply, a cardigan draped neatly over his shoulders, his gaze fixed on the view beyond the glass as if it offered answers the room could not.
He turned when he heard the cart, his sharp eyes softening when they landed on me. “You came anyway,” he said,
“Yes, sir,” I replied, stopping beside the small table and setting the brakes on the cart. “You asked for your breakfast.” My voice sounded steadier than I felt. I avoided mentioning Simon. Avoided the echo of raised voices still clinging to the walls.
Sir Senior Veyra watched me as I uncovered the tray, “My son forgets,” he said quietly, more to the room than to me, “that there are still things in this house that belong to me.” He gestured toward the table. “Bring it closer, child.” I did as told, placing everything carefully within his reach—the oatmeal, the tea, the neatly lined pills. His gaze flicked briefly to the door, then back to me. “You heard more than you should have,” he added gently, not as a question.
My fingers stilled, heat creeping up my neck. “I’m sorry, sir,” I said. “I didn’t mean to.”
He waved it away with a small motion. “Houses like this don’t keep secrets well,” he said, turning back toward the light. “They only choose who carries them.” I stood there beside him, the morning sun outlining his profile, aware that by choosing to knock—to enter—I’d crossed another invisible line.
Sir Veyra lifted his teacup with careful hands, taking a slow sip as if tasting more than just the drink. The silence stretched, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. He studied the garden for a long moment before speaking again.
“You know,” he said quietly, “people think age makes you weak. That time dulls your sight.” He glanced at me then, eyes still sharp, still seeing. “But it teaches you where to look.” His gaze drifted back outside, toward the hedges trimmed into perfect lines. “And where not to.”
I busied myself needlessly, straightening what was already straight, my thoughts tangled with everything I’d heard in the hallway. Auren’s name echoed again in my head, paired with words like leverage and kneeling. Sir Senior Veyra reached for the pills, pausing only when I gently nudged the blue one closer, remembering Lorenzo’s instructions. He noticed and a faint smile touched his lips. “You pay attention,” he said. “That is rarer than loyalty in this house.”
“Yes, sir,” I murmured, unsure what else to say. The weight of his words pressed on me more than Simon’s anger ever had.
“Simon believes control is the same as strength,” Sir Senior Veyra continued, his voice steady but edged with disappointment. “He forgets that pressure creates cracks. Always has.” He swallowed the pill, then looked at me again, more directly this time. “Tell me, Sera—do you think a man forced into a corner becomes obedient?” The question caught me off guard. My instinct screamed to stay silent, to keep my thoughts locked safely away, but something in his expression invited honesty.
“No, sir,” I said softly. “I think he becomes dangerous.”
Sir Senior Veyra nodded, as if that answer confirmed something he already knew. “Exactly,” he said. He set the cup down and rested his hands together. “Auren Draven is not a man who bends easily. Nor is Elara a woman who accepts resistance well that collision will not end quietly.” He looked out the window again, sunlight tracing the lines of his face. “And you, child, should be very careful where you stand when it happens.”
A chill ran through me. I’d never been given warnings in this house—only orders. I inclined my head, absorbing his words like a secret I hadn’t asked for but was now expected to keep. I nodded quietly, keeping my expression neutral as I stepped a little to the side, letting him reach for the oatmeal and sip the tea. I waited patiently, knowing better than to speak while he ate. My fingers flexed nervously at my sides, the weight of the morning’s overheard conversation still heavy in my chest.
He took his time with the breakfast, eyes occasionally drifting toward the sunlight spilling in, but otherwise focused on the simple routine he preferred. I watched him handle the pills and tea with precise motions, and it was easy to see why he insisted on having his breakfast in his own room because of peace, and a space untouched by the chaos of the rest of the house. When he finally set down the spoon and leaned back slightly in his wheelchair, the last of the tea drained from the cup, he turned his gaze toward me with quiet authority.
“Very well,” he said, his voice calm, almost kind now. “You may go. But before you do…” He paused, eyes narrowing just slightly, “send Mr. Wesely to my room.”
I blinked, catching the name quickly. Mr. Wesely, the personal assistant of Sir Senior Veyra. He coordinated everything Sir Senior Veyra needed in the mornings, who knew the household better than most staff, who was precise and relentless in his efficiency. “Yes, sir,” I said,
“Make it quick,” he added, nodding slightly, “and tell him to bring the documents I requested yesterday. No mistakes.” There was that familiar edge, the same one I had learned to read when delivering orders to Elara—but calmer, more deliberate. Every word carried weight, and I knew better than to delay.
I inclined my head again and stepped back, gently guiding the cart a few inches to make room. “I’ll send him immediately, sir,” I said. Sir Senior Veyra simply nodded, his attention drifting back toward the garden as if the conversation had already concluded.
I left the tray where it belonged, and moved toward the door.