CHAPTER 6: The Heiress in Her Domain

Rae's POV

The house is quiet again.

Not the sterile, uncomfortable quiet you find in hospital wings or between arguments, but the kind of hush that settles in places ruled by someone dangerous. Regal. Controlled. This silence doesn't ask for attention—it demands it.

I walk barefoot across the black marble floor, silk robe whispering against my legs, the hem trailing like it owns the ground beneath it. I never let the maids clean my study. They're allowed to touch everything else, but not this room. This one's mine. Untouched, perfect, and tailored to my every instinct. Floor-to-ceiling windows shadowed with dark velvet curtains. Velvet furniture in obsidian, oxblood, and charcoal. The scent of faint sandalwood and leather lingers like a secret. Gold-trimmed bookshelves tower over the room, but not for aesthetics—they're filled with first editions, encrypted archives, and notebooks no one's ever seen but me.

This is my sanctuary.

I could've lived in my parents' mansion. Correction: their palace, as my mother calls it. Gaudy, glittering, and filled with the kind of hollowness that money can't mask. But I left when I was fifteen and never looked back. They tried to rein me in, raise me like I was some product of their success. I laughed in their faces.

My mother, in her endless vanity, still thinks she can rule over me with her shrill advice and dead-eyed pearls. But she was never the ruler—I was. I am. And my father? He was always more calculated than cruel. At least I got something worthwhile from him—his mind. Sharp, relentless, and impossible to manipulate. That's all I needed from them.

The rest of who I am, I built on my own.

I make my way toward the corner of the room where my workstation hums softly, bathed in blue light. A setup only someone with vision could create: silent cooling towers, triple-screen displays, encrypted drives, virtual private tunnels—everything custom-built. I sit down, cross one leg over the other, and begin the hunt.

Kaz.

There's a flicker in my stomach at the thought of him. Not butterflies. I don't do butterflies. More like the thrill of a predator picking up a fresh scent.

Something about him unsettles me. Not in the dangerous way—he's not that original—but in the way where I haven't cracked him yet. People like him usually fall into one of two categories: spoiled and stupid, or rebellious and pitiful. He's neither.

So I started digging.

First: his school record. Polished. Top grades in philosophy, literature, and some disgustingly noble after-school activities. A resume curated by a PR team. Nothing real.

Next: family. Old money. European descent. Stock portfolios that scream "legacy." His family tree is a socialite's wet dream.

Then, there's Misha Mikhail Waters.

The best friend.

He's one of those men who probably had modeling agencies foaming at the mouth by age sixteen. I scroll through his social feeds—shirtless photos, cheesy captions, and that dazzling grin of his splattered everywhere like it means something. I roll my eyes. Of course he's the charming one. Built like a Greek sculpture. All biceps and dimples and golden-boy energy.

I open a locked archive and bypass the security layers with ease. I want to know what bonds them together. Kaz and Misha. The golden retriever and the storm cloud.

Their childhood is—how do I say this?—weirdly adorable.

I click open an old video log from a camp they attended at ten. Misha's flailing in a canoe while Kaz sits with his arms crossed, motionless, clearly planning Misha's murder. They tip over—naturally—and Misha pops out of the water screaming, "SAVE THE FRUIT SNACKS!" Kaz? Kaz just swims to shore. No expression. As if he didn't just witness a drowning gremlin.

Then, photos. Kaz in tailored coats and bitter expressions. Misha always draped over him like a Labrador on sedatives. Birthday party footage where Kaz looks like he wants to flee, but Misha keeps pulling him back into games and chaos. There's one grainy image of them at fifteen, laughing so hard they're doubled over, red Solo cups in hand. A rare moment. But real.

I pause on it.

They don't match. Not in aesthetic, not in energy, not even in ambition. If they weren't bound by bloodlines and years of forced family dinners, I doubt they'd speak. But somehow, they stuck. Misha's the chaos that drags Kaz out of himself. And Kaz? He's the silence that reins Misha back in before he sets everything on fire.

I sip my espresso and lean closer to the screen.

Still, it doesn't sit right. I keep scrolling through layers of data—event attendance, academic trails, social connections. Misha has exes who worshipped him. Kaz has... gaps. Unusual gaps. I can't find his real hobbies. No journals, no photos of art or collections. Not even old forum posts under aliases. That's rare. Everyone leaves a footprint.

Except Kaz.

It's like he erased the person he used to be and replaced him with... this. This cold, sculpted version that doesn't belong in the world he occupies.

I flip through a series of anonymous chatroom threads and intercepted messages. Nothing.

I even tracked his GPS logs from two months back—nothing suspicious. No secret rendezvous, no visits to hidden buildings. Nothing.

Yet my instinct screams that something's missing.

I minimize the tabs and stare at my reflection in the black screen for a second.

He's hiding something, and it's not the kind of secret you bury under passwords. It's personal. Emotional. The kind of thing no system will ever expose—unless I force it out of him myself.

The idea sends a ripple of excitement through me.

There's a knock at the study door.

"Miss Rae?" one of the maids asks gently. "Shall I bring your dinner up now?"

I flick a glance toward the clock. 8:47 PM.

"Leave it outside the door. I'm working."

She bows her head and scurries off. Good. I hate repeating myself.

I go back to the open files, finger tapping the desk in a steady rhythm.

Kaz. You have a crack somewhere.

And I'll find it.

Just as I reopen the logs, a notification pops up at the corner of my screen.

Aiden:

> hey bestie. miss me?

you didn't look murderous today so i figured i should check in before the meds wear off.

I don't sigh. I don't roll my eyes. I simply stare at the message like it's a roach that wandered into my sanctuary.

Me:

> If I wanted background noise, I'd turn on a chainsaw.

Kindly crawl back to whatever mental sinkhole you spawned from.

Aiden:

> wow

u flirt like an arsonist

Me:

> And you text like a lobotomized clown on bath salts.

What do you want?

Aiden:

> just being a good friend! checking in! offering emotional support n love!!

ur therapist's fav hallucination!!!

Me:

> My emotional support is a locked door and a loaded firewall.

You're neither.

Aiden:

> awww look at u being all warm and fuzzy

wait.

no.

that's just the fumes of ur soul rotting from the inside.

Me:

> If you say one more word, I will rewrite your genetic code into a sea cucumber and throw you into low tide.

Aiden:

> DAMN

okay okay

jeez

someone's still reeling from the Eye Contact™ today

Me:

> What eye contact?

Aiden:

> oh babe

don't be coy

that stare you and kaz shared today had depth

like... 18th-century forbidden-lover-waiting-in-the-rain depth

Me:

> It was a glance.

If I stared longer, it was because I was calculating how many ways I could disassemble his nervous system.

Aiden:

> mhmm

that's one way to describe eye-fucking

aggressive. hot. terrifying.

10/10 would watch again

Me:

> I hope the ground swallows you in alphabetical order.

Aiden:

> ugh. you DO care.

alphabetized death is the sexiest threat I've ever gotten.

Me:

> If I see your face tomorrow, I'm calling pest control.

And that's me being merciful.

Aiden:

> ur mercy smells like gasoline and class warfare

I'll wear a helmet

see you tomorrow, bestieeeee

I don't respond.

There are many things I can tolerate—hypocrisy, cruelty, chaos—but clinginess in glitter shoes isn't one of them.

I close the messages and return to my screen, fingers poised, mind sharp.

Kaz. You're hiding something.

And Aiden?

You'll die trying to make me care.