Page 50 of Checks & Bonds

After a few moments, I opened my eyes and scanned the bookshelf. My gaze landed on an old favorite—Wuthering Heights. The worn spine felt familiar in my hands as I pulled it from the shelf and settled back into my chair.

The words of Emily Brontë were supposed to offer solace, an escape into a world where someone else's problems overshadowed mine. But as I read, my mind kept drifting back to Henry and his infuriating arrogance.

Each page felt like wading through quicksand; the more I tried to focus, the more elusive it became. My thoughts were like unruly children, refusing to sit still or follow any semblance of order.

I read the same sentence three times before giving up. Slamming the book shut with a frustrated sigh, I tossed it onto the desk and buried my face in my hands.

Why did everything have to be so complicated? Why couldn't there be an easy way out?

I let out a slow breath and lifted my head. The room seemed darker somehow, shadows creeping in from every corner. But I wouldn't let them consume me. Not tonight.

Determined not to dwell on what I couldn't change, I picked upWuthering Heightsagain and forced myself to read one page at a time. Even if it felt impossible now, I knew that eventually, the words would weave their magic around me and offer a brief respite from reality.

For now, that had to be enough.

My stomach growled, a low rumble that echoed in the silent room. I tried to ignore it, but the hunger gnawed at me, relentless and insistent. I glanced at the clock; it was late, well past dinnertime. With a resigned sigh, I pushed myself up from the desk and decided to venture downstairs.

The hallway was dimly lit, shadows stretching and shifting with each step I took. My bare feet made no sound on the cool marble floors as I navigated the familiar labyrinth of corridors. The kitchen door was slightly ajar, a sliver of light spilling out into the darkened hall.

I peeked inside and saw Carmen wiping down the counters, her movements efficient and practiced. She looked up as I entered, her eyes widening in surprise.

“You can’t be here, Miss Freya,” she whispered urgently, glancing around as if expecting Henry to appear at any moment. “You’ll get into trouble.”

“I know,” I replied, my voice low. “I know. I’m just…”

“Hungry?” she asked, her expression softening with understanding.

I nodded, feeling a wave of gratitude wash over me.

Carmen sighed and set down her cloth. She moved to the fridge and pulled out some leftovers, her movements deliberate and unhurried as she began to heat them up. The kitchen filled with the comforting aroma of warm food, making my stomach growl even louder.

As she worked, Carmen glanced over at me. “Mr. Mathers… Henry,” she corrected herself, “he’s not an easy man to understand.”

I looked at her, curiosity piqued. “What do you mean?”

She paused for a moment before continuing. “When he was a child, he was different. Kinder. But after his parents passed away, something changed in him. He felt he had to take on responsibilities too soon.” Her eyes were distant as she spoke, lost in memories. "He thought the world of his grandfather. And when he died, so did a piece of Henry. All three deaths were unexpected and tragic. You must understand."

I blinked, absorbing her words. I hadn’t known that about Henry’s past. It cast him in a different light—one that didn’t entirely excuse his behavior but made it more understandable.

Carmen set a plate of steaming food in front of me and offered a small smile. “Try to see beyond his anger and arrogance,” she said softly. “There’s more to him than meets the eye.”

I nodded slowly, unsure of what to say.

“Good night, Miss Freya,” Carmen said quietly before turning back to her cleaning tasks.

“Good night,” I whispered back as I sat down with my meal.

The warmth of the food was comforting as I took my first bite. The kitchen seemed quieter now; the tension easing slightly with each mouthful I swallowed.

But Henry's ghost — the Henry he could have been if he hadn't been surrounded by tragedy — haunted me even so.

16

Henry

Freya didn't eat dinner with me. She didn't even come down the stairs. The silence stretched, tightening around my chest like a vice. Her defiance was a spark, igniting the anger simmering within me.

The room seemed to shrink around me, the walls closing in as my temper flared hotter and hotter. Without another word, I grabbed my own plate, the ceramic cool against my fingertips. In one swift motion, I hurled it across the kitchen. It shattered against the far wall with a satisfying crash, pieces scattering like confetti, food splattering the wall.

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