He called her "Trash-tra" when he was her biggest bully at school. Now, at 3 a.m., he's the one mo@ning her name after she becomes his family's live-in nanny...

PERSONAL NIGHTMARE

ASTRA

The hallway smelled like cheap body spray and desperation.

“Is the little piggy gonna cry?” one of the jerks sneered, his voice loud enough to bounce off the lockers. They circled the other girl like hyenas, poking her, laughing when she flinched. I recognized her shaky hands clutching her books to her chest. Same hands I’d seen on myself in the mirror too many times.

I pulled my own hoodie up higher, letting the fabric swallow my hair and half my face. Keep moving. Don’t make eye contact. Don’t exist. I knew the rules: if they saw me, I’d be next. And nobody—nobody—ever stepped in when it was my turn. Why should I play the hero now?

I took another step.

Then a pair of expensive sneakers planted right in front of me.

My heart slammed so hard I tasted it in my throat.

“Going somewhere, Trash-tra?”

That voice. Low, lazy, laced with venom. Zane freaking Ashton.

I froze. Of course it was him. The king of this hellhole. Star quarterback. Golden boy. My personal nightmare.

He wasn’t with the piggy crowd, he ran with his own pack. Four of them flanked him now, all smirks and letterman jackets, like they’d rehearsed this in the locker room. Zane tilted his head, dark hair falling just over one eye, and flicked my glasses with one long finger. They slid crooked across my nose.

“S-stop it,” I whispered.

He leaned in closer, mocking my stutter perfectly. “S-stop it.”

I hated how my whole body vibrated when he got this close like every nerve remembered every time he’d made me feel small.

I hated him. I hated the way the entire school worshipped him. Yes, objectively he was stupidly handsome: sharp jaw, bright green eyes, broad shoulders that filled out that jersey like it was custom-made. But to me? Ugly. Rotten. A walking red flag in cleats.

This wasn’t random hallway cruelty. This was personal.

I glared up at him through my smudged lenses, channeling every ounce of sass I kept buried deep. “Move.”

His lips curved not a smile, more like a predator deciding whether to play with its food. “Or what, Trash-tra? You gonna write me a strongly worded essay?”

His friends snickered. One muttered something about “nerd.” My cheeks burned, heat crawling up my neck, but I didn’t drop my stare. I’d learned early: looking away was surrender.

The bell rang suddenly, sharp and deafening. Everyone scattered like roaches, rushing to class. I tried to sidestep him.

Zane shifted, blocking me effortlessly. He leaned down until his breath brushed my ear, voice dropping so low only I could hear.

“Keep walking around like you’re invisible, and maybe one day you will be. But not to me.”

A shiver raced down my spine, cold, unwanted, electric. He straightened, smirking like he’d won something, then turned and sauntered off with his squad, leaving me rooted to the spot.

The hallway emptied.

I sucked in a shaky breath, fingers trembling as I fixed my glasses.

“It’s almost over,” I muttered to myself, the words barely audible. “Senior year. One more semester. Then I’m gone.”

But deep down, I knew better.

Guys like Zane didn’t let things end that easily.

The rest of the school day dragged on in a haze of lectures I barely heard and hallways I tried to disappear in. I kept my head down, hoodie up, weaving through corridors and avoiding any spot where Zane or his crew might appear. When the final bell finally rang, I didn’t wait around. I bolted out the side exit, grabbed my scooter from the rack, strapped on my helmet, and slung the delivery bag over my shoulder.

I kicked the scooter to life and headed straight to the strip on Maple Street, the busy stretch with the pizza place, burger joint, and coffee shop where orders came fastest after the school rush. It was my daily routine: park near the curb, open the app, wait for the first ping.

The city air hit different out here, cooler, freer. My regulars were the only people who ever smiled at me like I mattered.

“Extra pepperoni, just how you like it, Mrs. Hannah.” I handed over the warm box at her door. The old lady’s wrinkled face lit up.

“You’re a blessing, sweetheart. Here…” She pressed a crumpled five into my palm. “For your trouble.”

I tried to wave it off, but she wouldn’t hear it. “Thank you, Mrs. Hannah. Have a good night.”

Next stop: Mr. Brown’s apartment on the third floor. He opened the door in his usual bathrobe.

“Saved me from another frozen dinner,” he said, chuckling. “You’re keeping me alive, kid.”

I laughed—real, for the first time all day. “Happy to help, Mr. Brown.”

I ran four more deliveries before the sky turned bruised purple. My legs burned, my throat dry, but every dollar counted.

I had no idea this would be my last normal night.

When I finally pulled up to our building, my stomach dropped.

Everything was outside.

Mom’s faded quilt, my textbooks, clothes spilling from ripped bags, a cracked lamp, my old stuffed bear half-buried under papers, scattered across the cracked sidewalk like trash. A couple of little kids from the next building were poking through it, giggling as one held up my old sketchbook.

“No—drop that!” I lunged forward, snatching it back. My voice cracked. “That’s mine.”

They scampered off, laughing. I knelt, trying to gather things, hands shaking so badly I couldn’t hold anything.

The door creaked open. Mrs. Delgado, our landlady, stepped out with her arms crossed, face scrunched in a familiar frown.

“Two months, Astra. Two months behind. I warned you.”

I stood up fast, heart hammering. “Please, Mrs. Delgado. I’m working every day after school. My mom’s in the hospital, you know that. The bills….”

“I know.” She cut me off. “I feel for you, girl. But I got my own bills. This ain’t charity.”

People were staring, neighbors on balconies, a guy walking his dog. Heat crawled up my neck. I dug into my pocket, pulled out the crumpled bills from today’s tips, maybe forty bucks total and thrust them toward her.

“Please. This is all I have right now. Take it. I’ll get more tomorrow, I swear.”

She looked at the money like it insulted her, then snatched it anyway. “Not even close to what you owe.” She pocketed it and turned away. “You’ve got till morning to clear this mess off my property.”

The door slammed.

I sank to my knees on the cold concrete. Everything hurt, my chest, my eyes, the back of my throat. Tears came hot and fast, silent at first, then choking sobs I couldn’t stop. No one came over. No one asked if I was okay. Neighbors watched from windows, then looked away.

I had no friends to call. No aunt, no cousin, no one. Books and TV always gave the lonely girl a secret support squad, but real life didn’t work that way.

At Harrington Academy, the fancy private school I’d clawed my way into at thirteen after winning that stupid statewide science competition—nobody had ever really wanted me around. The scholarship covered tuition, not belonging. My one almost-friend freshman year drifted away when her real friends decided I was too “weird.” Too raggedy. Too poor. I stopped trying after that.

I started packing what I could salvage into my backpack and two grocery bags, clothes, books, Mom’s favorite scarf, the bear. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

An old voice behind me. “Child, you got somewhere to put all this?”

Mrs. Rivera, the elderly lady from 3B. She leaned on her cane, eyes soft.

I sniffed, wiped my face on my sleeve. “No. I… I don’t.”

She sighed. “Bring what you can carry up to my place. I got space in the closet. Come get it tomorrow or the next day when you figure things out.”

I stared at her, throat too tight to speak. “Thank you,” I managed.

We hauled what we could, two trips. She didn’t ask questions, just patted my arm when we finished.

I slung the heaviest bag over my shoulder and started walking. No money for bus fare, but the hospital wasn’t far. Three miles. I could do three miles.

The streets blurred past. My sneakers slapped pavement, shoulders aching. By the time I reached St. Mary’s, the sky was full dark. Nurses at the entrance gave me weird looks, a girl with bags, tear-streaked face. I didn’t care.

I found Mom’s room on autopilot. Fluorescent lights buzzed. She was asleep, small and pale under the thin blanket, IV dripping slowly. She didn’t stir when I came in.

Dr. Ray was in the hall, clipboard in hand. He saw me and his face changed—concern, then alarm.

“Astra? What’s going on?”

I opened my mouth. Nothing came out at first. Then the dam broke.

I slid down the wall, bags tumbling, and just… bawled. Ugly, wrenching sobs that echoed down the corridor. Everything poured out—the eviction, the money, the stuff on the sidewalk, Mom not remembering my name last week, how I was failing her, failing everything.

Dr. Ray knelt beside me, voice low and steady. “Hey. Hey, breathe. Tell me what happened.”

But all I could do was cry harder, because saying it out loud made it real.

And I wasn’t sure I could survive real anymore.

NEW JOB

ASTRA

Dr. Ray’s office smelled like disinfectant and stale coffee. I sat across from him, clutching the handkerchief he’d handed me, pressing it hard against my eyes until the fabric was damp. My voice came out small and shaky.

“Everything is too much,” I whispered. “I’m really trying my best, juggling three part-time jobs with school and Mom’s hospital bills and rent and everything else. I just… I don’t know how much longer I can keep this up.”

Dr. Ray stayed quiet for a moment, letting me breathe. He leaned forward slightly, his expression steady, patient — the way he always looked when delivering bad news.

“You’ve been carrying more than most adults,” he said gently. “Anyone in your position would feel overwhelmed.”

A weak laugh slipped out of me. “I must look terrible.”

“You look exhausted,” he replied calmly. “Not terrible.”

His voice was kind, but professional — the reassuring tone of a doctor, not someone crossing a line. He slid the tissue box closer across the desk.

I wiped my face quickly, trying to pull myself together.

“I’ll figure something out,” I said. “I’ll take more shifts. Maybe another job after school. Even if I have to drop out—”

The words caught in my throat.

Dropping out.

After four years at Harrington Academy. After fighting so hard to stay there.

I swallowed hard.

“And… my mom,” I asked quietly. “Is she getting any better?”

Dr. Ray exhaled slowly and leaned back in his chair.

“The prognosis hasn’t changed,” he said. “Early-onset Alzheimer’s progresses differently for everyone, but her memory loss is accelerating. She’s having more confusion episodes, and physically she’s starting to struggle — balance, coordination. The medication can slow things down, but it can’t reverse the disease.”

My chest tightened. Tears slid silently down my cheeks again.

He paused, then added carefully:

“And the hospital can’t continue extending credit much longer. I’ve advocated for you as far as I can, but the billing department will need payment soon. Otherwise, they’ll begin discharge planning.”

The words landed like bricks.

I stared down at the floor.

“I understand,” I whispered.

Silence settled between us for a few seconds. Then Dr. Ray shifted in his chair, his tone changing slightly — more practical now.

“There may be another option,” he said.

My head snapped up.

“What kind of option?”

“A job,” he replied. “A live-in position.”

My heart skipped.

He continued:

“I know a family — very wealthy, very private. They come here regularly for treatment. They’re looking for someone responsible to stay in their home and help care for their children. The pay is generous. And it includes housing.”

Housing.

A place to sleep.

My spine straightened instantly.

“Yes,” I said, breathless. “Yes, I’m interested.”

He studied my face for a moment, making sure I understood.

“They’re particular people,” he said. “They value privacy and discretion. Not everyone is comfortable in that environment.”

“I don’t mind,” I said quickly. “I just need the job.”

Another pause.

Then he nodded.

“All right,” he said, reaching for his phone. “Let me call them.”

My fingers curled tightly in my lap as he stepped to the side of the room. My pulse hammered in my ears.

Please. Please let this work.

I listened to fragments of the conversation:

“Yes… I have someone suitable… Responsible, hardworking… Final-year student… Yes, she can start immediately.”

A short pause.

Then he ended the call and turned back toward me.

“You got the job,” he said.

For a second, I just stared at him.

Then the tears came again — not from fear this time, but relief.

I pushed out of the chair and hugged him without thinking.

He stiffened in surprise for half a heartbeat, then gently patted my shoulder — formal, reassuring.

“It’s going to be okay,” he said.

And for the first time in days, I believed it.

****

“Relax,” he said again, softer this time. “They’re going to love you.”

“I’m… relaxed,” I lied.

He chuckled. “No you’re not. That foot-tapping has been going for the last ten minutes.”

I looked down, my left foot was drumming against the floor mat like it had its own heartbeat. I pressed my palm hard against my thigh to stop it.

“Sorry.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for. Everything’s going to be fine.” He glanced at the bags between my legs. “And is that everything you need?”

“Well, yes, most of my things. I don’t really have much, and the rest of my stuff is with Mrs. Rivera, one of my neighbors. If I start this job, hopefully I can keep some of it in the room they give me, and the others I can pick up later when I get paid.”

Dr. Ray nodded once, eyes on the road.

“You will,” he said calmly. “This job pays well enough that you won’t have to worry about storage fees or losing anything. Just focus on settling in tonight.”

I nodded, but my stomach stayed knotted. The city lights blurred past the window, and every mile felt like it was pulling me further from the life I knew.

Dr. Ray’s hands tightened slightly on the wheel.

“They’re… particular about who they let in,” he said quietly. “Just be careful what you ask about.”

I blinked.

“What do you mean?”

He shook his head, eyes forward.

“Nothing. Just… trust me on this one.”

That didn’t make me feel better.

We turned off the main road onto a quieter street lined with tall trees. Then the gate appeared, black iron, massive, with a gold crest at the top. It slid open automatically as we approached, smooth and silent.

My breath caught.

“Oh my god…”

Dr. Ray gave a soft huff of amusement.

“Yeah,” he said. “That’s the reaction most people have the first time.”

We rolled through the gate and up a long, curving driveway lit by soft lanterns. The mansion rose ahead of us, three stories of pale stone, arched windows glowing warm gold, ivy climbing the walls like it had been there forever.

It didn’t look like a house.

It looked like a place with rules.

I turned to him.

“How rich are these people?”

He smiled faintly.

“Rich enough,” he said. “Come on.”

He parked near the fountain in the circular drive. I grabbed my bags, heart hammering, and followed him up the wide stone steps to the double oak doors.

They opened before we even knocked.

A beautiful blond woman stood in the doorway, tall, elegant, wearing a cream silk blouse and jeans that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe. Her posture was straight, composed, like she was used to being obeyed.

Behind her, a man in a crisp black suit, definitely a butler, stepped aside silently.

“Ray,” she said warmly, stepping forward to hug him.

“Elira,” he replied. “Good to see you.”

Then her gaze shifted to me.

She didn’t smile immediately.

She looked.

Slowly. Carefully. Taking in my clothes, my shoes, the bags in my hands.

Then, at last, her lips curved.

“You must be Astra.”

I swallowed.

“Good evening, ma’am.”

“Oh,” she said softly, studying my face. “You’re very pretty.”

The compliment didn’t feel casual.

It felt like an observation.

“Come in,” she said. “Please.”

We stepped inside.

The foyer alone was bigger than my old apartment. Marble floors. A chandelier the size of a small car. Fresh flowers arranged on every surface perfectly spaced, perfectly placed, not a single petal out of line.

Everything looked beautiful and…….controlled.

As Elira led us down the hallway, my eyes caught on a closed door at the far end.

There was a lock on it.

Old, heavy and out of place in a house this polished.

She noticed where I was looking.

Her smile came quickly. A fraction too quickly.

“That’s just storage,” she said smoothly. “Nothing to worry about.”

I nodded.

But something in my chest tightened anyway.

She led us into a living room with plush cream sofas, a roaring fireplace, and a long glass table covered in food, trays of macarons, tiny sandwiches, fruit tarts, chocolate-dipped strawberries, little cakes.

Everything was arranged perfectly.

Too perfectly.

“Help yourselves,” Elira said, gesturing gracefully.

My mouth watered, but my stomach twisted too hard to eat. Dr. Ray picked up a macaron and popped it into his mouth like this was completely normal.

Elira sat across from us, crossing her legs neatly.

“So, Astra,” she said. “Tell me about yourself. You have experience caring for children, yes?”

I sat up straighter.

“Yes, ma’am. I’ve babysat for my neighbors, younger kids, sometimes infants. I’m good with routines, feeding, bedtime stories, homework help. I’ve never had any complaints.”

She listened without interrupting, her expression thoughtful but unreadable.

“That’s good,” she said. “What school do you attend? Ray mentioned you’re in your final year.”

“Harrington Academy.”

Her brows lifted slightly.

“My boys go there too.”

I blinked.

“Boys?”

“Yes,” she said. “Three. One is in his final year just like you. The other two are twins. Eight years old.”

A senior and two little boys.

Manageable.

Hopefully.

She continued asking questions about schedules, discipline, cooking, schoolwork, routines. Each one calm. Precise. Like she was checking boxes in her head.

Then she paused.

“And your family?” she asked gently.

Her gaze stayed steady on mine.

“Who would expect you home in the evenings? Anyone who might object to you living here?”

My throat tightened.

“It’s just me,” I said. “My mom’s in the hospital. Early-onset Alzheimer’s. I’m her primary contact, but I can manage my time. I always do.”

Silence settled between us.

She studied me now not politely.

Carefully.

Evaluating.

“And you won’t bring drama into my home?” she asked softly.

“No boyfriends or distractions?”

Heat crept up my neck.

“No, ma’am. I don’t really… have time for that.”

A flash of Zane’s face crossed my mind, those green eyes always finding me in a crowd.

I shoved the thought away.

Another pause.

Long enough for my palms to start sweating.

Finally, she leaned back.

“You understand,” she said slowly, “this is not just babysitting.”

My chest tightened.

“My family values privacy. Loyalty. Discretion. If you live here, you represent this household.”

I nodded quickly.

“I understand.”

Silence again.

Heavy and measured.

Then she leaned forward slightly, studying me one last time.

The room felt too quiet.

Then….

She smiled.

“You’re hired.”

My breath caught.

“The position pays five thousand dollars a month, room and board included,” she continued. “I will also authorize a two-thousand-dollar advance tonight so you can handle any urgent expenses.”

Five thousand.

A month.

My hands trembled.

She slid a folder across the table.

“This is the contract,” she said. “Take a look.”

I lifted it carefully. The pages felt thick, Official and Important.

My eyes skimmed the lines, live-in duties, childcare, confidentiality, no outside jobs without permission.

The pen hovered over the paper.

Just for a second.

Then I signed.

Elira took the contract back, her smile warm.

Satisfied.

“Welcome to the Ashton family, Astra.”

Ashton.

The name hit me like ice water.

Zane Ashton.

I had just signed my life away…

to the house of the boy who made mine hell.

INSTABILITY

ASTRA

“This is going to be your room,” Elira said as she pushed open the door and led me inside.

My breath caught.

The bedroom was bigger than any room I had ever seen or been in. Soft cream walls. A massive queen bed piled with white linens that looked untouched. A wide window overlooking the dark garden. An ensuite bathroom.

There was a sleek desk by the window, a side table with a lamp glowing warm gold, and a velvet chaise in the corner like something from a magazine. A closed door on the far wall probably led to a walk-in closet.

Everything smelled faintly of lavender and new paint.

I stood frozen in the doorway, bags still dangling from my shoulders, feeling like I had stepped into someone else’s dream.

Elira watched me quietly, a small, knowing smile touching her lips.

“It’s sparse right now,” she said. “But you can decorate however you like. The walls were painted recently, so no nails for now. But you may add plants, posters whatever makes it feel like yours. This is your space while you’re here.”

My throat tightened.

No one had ever given me permission to make anything mine before.

“Thank you,” I managed. “I… I don’t even know where to start.”

“You will.”

She stepped back toward the door, then paused. Her posture shifted slightly, the warmth still there, but something firmer settling underneath it.

“But before I leave you to settle in,” she continued, tone gentle but unmistakably serious, “there are a few rules you’ll need to follow.”

I nodded quickly. My glasses slid down my nose.

“Of course. Anything.”

She raised one manicured finger.

“First: privacy is sacred in this house. You do not enter rooms that are closed or locked. You do not ask questions about matters that do not concern you. If something feels… off, you come to me or my husband. Not the boys or staff. Me.”

The locked door from earlier flashed in my mind.

The heavy metal latch.

Her too-quick smile.

“Understood,” I said.

She studied my face for a moment, making sure.

Then she continued.

“Second: the twins come first. Always. If they wake at two in the morning because of a nightmare, you respond immediately. No complaints or delays.”

Her voice softened slightly.

“They have had enough instability already.”

I wondered what kind of instability she meant.

“Third,” she said, meeting my eyes again, “no outside drama. No friends staying over. No boyfriends sneaking in. No posting about this house or this family online. What happens here stays here.”

The way she said it didn’t feel like a request.

It felt like a boundary carved in stone.

Heat crept up my neck.

“I don’t have anyone to bring over,” I said quietly. “And I don’t really post much.”

She held my gaze for a long beat.

Weighing.

“Good,” she said at last.

Then she stepped slightly closer.

“Fourth and this is the most important one.”

Her voice dropped just enough to pull my full attention.

“Zane can be… difficult. He is protective of his brothers and of this house.”

My stomach flipped.

This was his house.

Zane Ashton’s house.

The boy who made my life miserable.

“But if he pushes your boundaries,” she continued calmly, “or treats you unkindly, you come to me immediately. Do not attempt to handle him alone.”

The word difficult landed like a stone in water.

“Yes, ma’am,” I said automatically, then winced at how small my voice sounded.

Her lips curved slightly not quite a smile.

“I expect you can follow the rules,” she said.

“I can,” I replied.

She reached out and squeezed my shoulder lightly. The touch felt almost maternal, reassuring.

“You’re going to do well here, Astra. Get some rest. The twins will be up early tomorrow, and they will be very excited to meet you.”

She turned to leave, then paused in the doorway.

“Oh… one more thing.”

Her eyes flicked briefly toward the closet door.

“If you hear anything strange at night, footsteps, doors opening it is likely just the house settling. Old homes make noise.”

A small smile returned to her face.

“Don’t worry about it.”

She stepped out and closed the door softly behind her.

The click sounded louder than it should have.

I stood there for a long moment, heart thudding unevenly.

The room was beautiful.

The bed looked soft enough to swallow me whole.

The air smelled clean and expensive.

But her last words lingered.

If you hear anything strange at night…

I set my bags down slowly.

Then I crossed the room.

My hand hovered over the closet handle.

*****

I stepped out of the shower with a small smile. I had spent nearly an hour under the hot spray, letting the steam wash away the day’s grime and fear.

The bathroom was ridiculous, marble tiles, rainfall showerhead, heated towel rack.

I wrapped myself in one of the fluffy white towels and padded back into the bedroom.

The room felt less overwhelming now.

Almost… mine.

My gaze drifted back to the closet door.

It had been staring at me since Elira left.

I sighed, shook out my damp hair, and crossed to my bags. I pulled out my faded pajamas, an oversized T-shirt and soft shorts that had seen better days and slipped them on.

Comfortable.

That was all that mattered.

Then I turned back to the closet.

I counted to three.

Then I opened it.

The door swung silently.

Inside: rows of empty shelves, hanging rods bare, a full-length mirror on the back wall. A faint scent of cedar and nothing else.

No boxes.

No secrets.

Just space.

Normal.

I exhaled slowly.

Maybe I was being paranoid.

My phone buzzed on the side table.

One new message from Dr. Ray.

Ray: You settled in okay? If anything feels off, call me. Anytime. You’re not alone in this.

A grateful smile tugged at my lips.

Me: Thank you, the room is beautiful. I’m okay. Really grateful for everything.

I hit send.

My stomach growled loudly.

I pressed a hand against it.

I had barely eaten all day.

Elira had said the kitchen was open.

Still… it was late. The house felt too quiet.

But hunger won.

I slipped on my socks so my footsteps wouldn’t echo, cracked the bedroom door, and listened.

Silence.

I padded down the hallway past closed doors and expensive paintings. The staircase curved into shadow below.

Just fruit.

In and out.

The kitchen was massive, gleaming counters, double ovens, a refrigerator that looked like it belonged in a showroom. Moonlight spilled through tall windows, turning everything silver.

Then I saw it.

A plate on the counter.

Covered in foil.

A sticky note sat on top.

Astra in case you're hungry. Heat it if you like. — E

My chest tightened.

She had remembered.

She had expected me.

I peeled back the foil.

Steam drifted upward.

Grilled chicken. Roasted vegetables. Creamy mashed potatoes. A small salad.

It smelled incredible.

I blinked quickly.

Don’t cry.

I carried the plate to the microwave and set the timer.

Then I turned to the fridge.

Rows of labeled containers. Fresh fruit. Yogurts. Juices.

I grabbed the orange juice and searched for a glass.

The cabinets were high.

I stretched onto my tiptoes and pulled one open.

The hinge creaked softly.

Then….

A voice cut through the silence behind me.

Cold, sharp and familiar.

“Who the hell are you… and what are you doing?”

I froze.

Every muscle locked.

I knew that voice.

I had hoped, prayed even that I wouldn’t have to see him until morning.

But he was here.

Now.

And standing right behind me.

NOT OVER

ZANE

I pulled into the driveway and killed the engine, the low rumble dying into silence. Stepping out, I rolled my shoulder, feeling the ache from practice still buried deep in the muscle. The house was dark except for the soft glow of the security lights. Everyone was asleep or at least they should have been.

I fished the spare key from my pocket, unlocked the door, and slipped inside. The foyer was dead quiet, marble cold beneath my sneakers. I was halfway to the stairs when a soft rustle drifted from the kitchen.

I stopped.

Not loud. Just… movement.

I knew this house. Knew the hum of the fridge, the settling groans in the walls, the old pipes knocking at night. This wasn’t that.

Mom would never be in the kitchen this late. Dad wasn’t home. The twins were out before nine, and the staff knew better than to wander around after midnight unless something was wrong.

So who the hell was in there?

My pulse kicked up. I eased my backpack off one shoulder, set it silently against the wall, and moved toward the kitchen doorway.

I reached the threshold.

There she was.

Back to me, standing on tiptoe in front of an open cabinet, reaching for a glass she couldn’t quite grab. Short. Curvy. Dressed in an oversized T-shirt and faded shorts. Hair damp and clinging to the back of her neck.

I didn’t recognize her at first.

“Who the hell are you,” I said, voice low and sharp, “and what are you doing?”

She froze.

Then she turned.

And my whole body went still.

Astra Hawthorne.

Trash-tra?

For one second, I genuinely thought I was hallucinating.

Her eyes went huge behind those stupid glasses. “I…I’m not stealing,” she stammered.

I stared at her, my brain refusing to catch up. Astra. In my kitchen. In my house. At midnight.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” I snapped, stepping closer. “How did you get in?”

She gripped the edge of the counter. “I live here……now”

I laughed, short and disbelieving. “You live here?”

Her chin lifted, shaky but stubborn. “Elira hired me. I’m the new live-in babysitter for your brothers.”

The words hit like a punch to the throat.

Astra Hawthorne. Sleeping under my roof, walking my halls, and touching things in my house like she belonged here.

My jaw clenched.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“I’m not,” she said, trying for steady even though her hands were shaking. “I signed the contract. I’m staying.”

I moved closer until she had to lean back against the counter.

“You think you can just walk into my house and act like you belong here?” I said quietly.

Her breath caught, but she didn’t look away. “I’m not acting. I was hired.”

My gaze flicked to the counter. Foil-covered plate. My mother’s handwriting on the note.

Astra followed my stare. “She left food for me,” she said. “I have permission to be here.”

That made something ugly twist in my chest.

I planted one hand on the counter beside her, boxing her in without touching her.

“You will go upstairs,” I said, each word clipped, “pack your things, and tell my mother this isn’t happening.”

Her throat bobbed.

Then she said, “No.”

I let out a harsh laugh. “You think that was a suggestion?”

Her eyes flashed. “I’m not leaving because you told me to.”

That answer lit a fuse.

My hand shot out before I could think. I grabbed a fistful of her damp hair and yanked her head back hard.

“Ahhh,” She gasped and then let out a low groan of pain as her neck arched, exposing the soft line of her throat.

“You don’t belong here,” I said. “You didn’t belong at school, and you sure as hell don’t belong here.”

Pain flickered across her face, quick and sharp, but it didn’t break her.

She swallowed and whispered, “That’s not your decision.”

For a second, I just looked at her.

At the trembling shoulders. The fear in her eyes. The stupid, stubborn way she still held my stare.

Then the kitchen lights snapped on.

“What is going on here?”

My mother’s voice cut through the silence like glass.

I straightened immediately, stepping back half a pace but not taking my eyes off Astra.

Mom stood in the doorway in a silk robe, her face calm in that way that meant she was furious.

“Zane,” she said. “Why are you cornering her?”

“I don’t want her here,” I said flatly. “Get rid of her.”

Mom walked farther into the kitchen, placing herself between us.

“She is staying,” she said.

I looked over her shoulder at Astra. She was still pressed against the counter, breathing too fast, one hand braced behind her, her face pale.

“This thing?” I said coldly.

“She has a name,” Mom replied. “And she works for this family now.”

I laughed once, bitter.

“You hired her? Seriously?”

“Yes,” she said. “And you will treat her with basic respect.”

Astra looked like she wanted to disappear into the floor, but her chin was up again.

That look got under my skin.

Still scared and shaking but refusing to fold.

I stepped back fully, hands flexing at my sides.

“Fine,” I said, voice low. “Let her stay.”

My gaze locked on Astra one last time.

“But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

I turned and walked out of the kitchen.

I could feel her staring after me.

And deep in my gut, I knew this wasn’t over.

Not even close.

NARCISSISTIC PSYCHOPATH

Astra point of view

“I’m so sorry about that,” Elira said, her voice soft but heavy with regret. “I don’t know what’s gotten into him.”

I looked away from the stairway Zane had just stormed up, the echo of his footsteps still ringing in my ears. My scalp throbbed where his fingers had twisted into my hair like he wanted to rip it out by the roots. I turned back to Elira and forced my face into something neutral. 

On the tip of my tongue sat the truth: I know exactly what’s wrong with him. He’s a narcissistic psychopath who needs to be locked in a psych ward. But I swallowed it down.

I wasn’t going to let Zane Ashton cost me this job. Not after everything. This was too important, my mom’s hospital bills, a roof over my head, a chance to breathe. And it wasn’t Elira’s fault her son was a monster. Well… maybe a little. Spoiled rich kids don’t become like that in a vacuum. But he was grown enough to act like a decent human being.

I rubbed my hand over the sore spot on my scalp, wincing. It hurt like hell, but I’d felt worse. Zane and his friends had done far more painful things over the years—shoves into lockers, public humiliation, the occasional “accidental” ball to the face during gym. 

Hair-pulling was almost… predictable. Sad, really. I’d gotten so used to being bullied that this barely registered as new.

The worst part wasn’t the pain. It was how normal it felt.

A sharp beep from the microwave pulled me back. I turned quickly, opened the door, and pulled out the plate. The smell hit me—warm and delicious. My stomach growled loud enough to echo in the quiet kitchen.

I should’ve lost my appetite after what just happened. Logic said I should be shaking, crying, running upstairs to lock myself in. But food was my therapy. Always had been. And yeah, maybe my body size was part of why Zane and his friends targeted me, but stress-eating was the least of my problems. I barely ate twice a day since Mom’s illness got worse. I’d lost a couple of pounds from pure survival mode, but apparently “plump” was just my genetics’ default setting—no matter how much life tried to starve me out.

Elira watched me for a moment, then asked quietly, “Do you and Zane have history together?”

I nearly choked on my own saliva.

My head snapped toward her. “What?”

Her brow arched, calm but curious.

I shook my head frantically, hair flying into my face. “No—no, I assure you, nothing like that. He just… doesn’t like me. We’re not friends. He doesn’t want me working here.”

She sighed and dragged a hand down her face. “I don’t know, but I didn’t like what I saw.”

Panic clawed up my throat again. I couldn’t lose this job. 

“Please, ma’am,” I said quickly, “I promise you, we have no history.” Then, in full panic mode, I blurted, “I’m not even his type. Look at me. There’s no way in hell.”

Elira studied me, her gaze traveling over my damp hair, my oversized T-shirt, my full curves, my thick thighs. Then she shook her head slowly.

“That’s not exactly what I meant,” she said. “I don’t like the way he put his hands on you like he didn’t care you’re a woman. Zane would never hit a woman, so this… this came as a surprise.”

I almost let out a bitter laugh. Zane had never punched me, sure. But he’d put his hands on me before. Shoves. Shoulder checks. Once he “accidentally” knocked my books out of my arms so hard I bruised my wrist. But he’d never hit me outright. I didn’t correct her.

“But what do you mean by ‘not his type’?” she asked, tilting her head like she genuinely didn’t see the difference between me and the girls Zane dated.

I swallowed. “Um… he dates slimmer girls. Dark-haired. Tall. The cheerleader kind. And… well, I’m not exactly slim. And I’m blonde.”

Elira stared at me for a long moment, then gave a small, almost amused smile.

“I see that,” she said. “And you’re very pretty, Astra. But now I see why Zane always dates girls with dark hair.”

I frowned, confused. “What?”

A strange chill crept down my spine.

Like she knew something I didn’t.

She waved a hand like she hadn’t meant to say it out loud. “Nothing. Forget I said that.”

She stepped closer, voice softening again. “I’m truly sorry about what happened tonight. I’ll talk to Zane. He won’t touch you again.”

“Thank you,” I whispered, throat tight.

She gave my shoulder a gentle squeeze, then turned and walked out of the kitchen, heels clicking softly on the marble until the sound faded.

I stood there alone, my heart still racing.

Then I sighed, turned back to the plate, and wolfed it down in record time. I barely tasted it, but my body needed fuel. When I was done, I rinsed the plate, dried it, and set it back where it was supposed to be.

I knew Zane wasn’t going to stop.

He’d find a way to get me out of here. He always did. He’d make my life hell until I broke or ran.

And the terrifying part?

A small, traitorous piece of me wondered why he cared enough to try.

But this time?

I wasn’t running.

My mom’s life depended on this job. My survival depended on this job.

So Zane Ashton could try to break me.

He'd just have to get in line.

Behind me.