Chapter 2 House Rules

Vicky...

Mom was glowing in a way that made me feel like the villain for breathing wrong.

She drifted through the kitchen like she'd always belonged here, fingertips sliding over the countertop, humming softly as she opened cabinets that were already stocked. Everything was arranged with the kind of order that wasn't comforting-it was controlling. The cereal boxes faced forward like they were posing. The spices were alphabetized. Even the coffee pods sat in a glass jar like someone had counted them.

"Adrian thought of everything," Mom said, turning to me with that look. The look that meant: Please don't ruin this.

I gave her the smile I'd learned when I was twelve and she was dating men who wanted a quiet house. "Yeah. He's... thorough."

Adrian stepped in behind her, quiet as a shadow. He didn't look at the groceries or the unpacked boxes. He looked at the corners of the ceiling, the hallway angles, the reflections in the glass. Like the house was a machine and he was checking whether it was running the way it should.

He held his phone in one hand, screen glowing. His shirt sleeves were rolled to his forearms, and for a second my eyes snagged on the veins there before I forced myself to look away.

"We'll keep things simple," he said.

Mom's shoulders relaxed instantly, like he'd just promised her a future. "See? Simple."

Adrian's gaze slid to me. "Simple means predictable."

I waited, arms crossed, pretending I wasn't listening.

He tapped his phone once. A soft chime answered from somewhere overhead. It wasn't loud, but it filled the room anyway. Mom didn't even flinch. She'd already decided this was normal.

"Schedule," Adrian continued, voice level. "Breakfast at eight. Dinner at seven. If you're not here, you let Marissa know."

Mom nodded quickly. "Of course. That's fine. We can do that."

I raised an eyebrow. "What if I'm out?"

Adrian didn't blink. "Then you let Marissa know."

"I'm not twelve."

"I didn't say you were," he replied. "I said I don't like surprises."

Mom laughed softly, trying to make it cute. "He's just a routine person. It's good, actually. Structure is good."

Structure. That was one word for it.

Adrian's attention shifted toward the hallway, like the house was tugging on him. "The west hall stays closed."

My skin tightened. "The one with the keypad?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

He set his phone down on the counter and turned it face down, like he didn't want it watching him while he spoke. That small movement was so deliberate it made my stomach twist.

"Privacy," he said. "For work. For security."

Mom waved a hand. "He runs half his life from that office. Don't worry, honey. It's boring. Numbers, calls, meetings."

I kept my eyes on him. "Privacy in a house full of cameras?"

Mom's smile flickered for half a second, then returned brighter. Adrian's expression didn't change at all.

"Those are for safety," he said. "Not entertainment."

"Convenient," I muttered.

Mom's voice sharpened, still sweet on the surface. "Vicky."

Adrian lifted a hand-not touching Mom, not touching me-just a calm gesture that quieted the room anyway.

"Another rule," he said. "No wandering after midnight."

I blinked. "Is this a house or a prison?"

Mom laughed like it was a joke. Adrian didn't laugh with her.

"You're an adult," he said. "Do what you want. But if something happens, I won't have time for panic."

Something happens.

The words landed heavy. Not threatening exactly-more like he was stating weather. Like danger was part of the property and he'd already measured it.

Mom moved quickly to soften it. "He means the property is huge, sweetie. You could get lost outside. And there are... maintenance corridors."

I turned to her. "Maintenance corridors?"

Mom hesitated, caught between honesty and the version of this life she wanted to sell me. "It's an old house under all the renovations. There are service routes. Adrian doesn't like people in them."

Adrian corrected her without looking at her. "Not old. Just expanded."

Mom blinked. "Right. Expanded."

I watched the exchange-the tiny mismatch, the tiny correction-and that same wrongness from yesterday crawled back over my skin. Mom didn't notice. Or she did, and she was choosing not to.

Adrian picked up his phone again. "Phones stay off during dinner."

Mom nodded like it was romantic. "That's actually nice. Like... quality time."

I stared at him. "Why?"

He met my eyes. "Because I said so."

There it was again. That calm control that didn't need to raise its voice. My body hated that it reacted before my brain could decide what he was. The way he held eye contact too long. The way he didn't fidget. The way he made rules like he was doing you a favor.

Mom clapped her hands once, too bright. "Okay! Enough rules. Let's unpack. Vicky, you can take the room beside yours for now, and later we'll-"

"Second door on the left," Adrian said, as if he'd memorized the house down to the breath people took inside it.

I picked up my bag just to stop standing there. "Fine."

Mom followed me toward the stairs, still smiling, still playing perfect wife. "He's been under a lot of stress, honey. The move, the work-just be patient. This is a fresh start."

Fresh start. That was Mom's favorite phrase. Like saying it could erase everything that came before.

Halfway up the stairs, I paused and looked back.

Adrian was still in the kitchen. He hadn't moved. He was watching us-not in a hungry way, not in a warm way. In a measuring way. Like he was calculating what it would take to keep this house running with two new bodies inside it.

Mom kept talking, her voice light. "I'm thinking we'll do Sunday dinners. You'll invite friends. We'll make this a home."

"A home," I echoed, mostly to myself.

In my room, I dropped my bag on the bed and stared at the ceiling. The air smelled faintly like lemon polish and something sharper underneath, like new electronics warming up.

I told myself to breathe. To stop being dramatic. To stop looking for cracks in Mom's happiness.

Then I heard it again-a soft chime.

Not from upstairs.

From the hallway.

I stepped out, bare feet sinking into thick carpet. The hall was empty. Quiet. Too quiet, like the house was holding its breath.

I walked slowly toward the stairs, then stopped.

A small black dome in the corner of the ceiling-one I hadn't noticed yesterday-tilted with a soft, almost inaudible whir.

It turned.

Not toward the center of the hall.

Toward me.

I stood there, frozen, staring up at it. Waiting for Mom to laugh and tell me it was normal. Waiting for Adrian to appear and explain it away with that calm voice.

But the camera didn't blink. It didn't stop.

It just watched.

And somehow, in a house this big, I'd never felt smaller.