Chapter 2 NEW RULES

I wake up disoriented, the kind of confusion that sits heavy behind the eyes.

For a moment, I don’t remember where I am. The ceiling is too high, too smooth. The sheets smell like detergent I don’t own. When I sit up, the room stretches around me, wide and perfect and unfamiliar.

Not home.

The realization settles slowly, like a bruise forming under skin.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed and stand, padding barefoot across the cold floor. The windows are tall, framed by curtains that look like they’ve never been touched. Outside, the grounds are manicured to the point of cruelty. Nothing out of place. Nothing wild.

I feel out of place instead.

Downstairs, the house hums quietly. Not with life with systems. I follow the sound of voices toward the dining room, rehearsing neutrality in my head. Just breakfast. Just small talk. Just get through it.

Catherine looks up when I enter, smiling bright and polished, already dressed like she’s stepping into a magazine shoot.

“Seraphina,” she says, rising to kiss my cheek. “You slept well?”

“Sure,” I lied.

Damon is already seated at the table, coffee untouched, tablet resting near his hand. He looks up when I stop short, and again that strange feeling hits me like he was waiting for the exact second I’d appear.

“Good morning,” he says.

I nod. “Morning.”

I take the chair farthest from him. The table is long enough to feel intentional.

A staff member sets a plate in front of me without asking what I want. Eggs. Toast. Fruit arranged too neatly. I pick at it, appetite thin.

Catherine launches into stories about her meetings, about travel plans, about how busy things have been. She’s glowing in that way she gets when she feels chosen.

Damon listens quietly.

Then, between sips of coffee, he says, “We need to establish a few things.”

Catherine doesn’t even look up. “Of course, darling.”

My shoulders tense.

“For security reasons,” he continues, calm and even, “Seraphina will have a driver when she leaves the property.”

I blink. “Excuse me?”

“It’s non-negotiable.”

I look at my mother. “Mom?”

Catherine waves a hand. “It’s just precaution. Damon worries.”

“I’m nineteen,” I say. “Not twelve.”

Damon’s gaze flicks to me. Sharp. Measuring. “Age doesn’t eliminate risk.”

“And risk doesn’t eliminate autonomy.”

Silence snaps tight.

Catherine clears her throat. “Seraphina, let’s not start the day like this.”

Damon continues, unbothered. “There will be a curfew. Ten on weekdays. Midnight on weekends.”

I laugh once, short and incredulous. “Absolutely not.”

His brow lifts slightly. “This isn’t a discussion.”

I push my plate away. “You don’t get to decide my life because you married my mother.”

Catherine finally looks uncomfortable. “Honey…”

“I’m talking to him,” I say, not taking my eyes off Damon.

Something sparks there. Not anger. Interest.

“You live under my roof,” he says quietly. “That comes with expectations.”

“My roof,” Catherine interjects weakly.

“Our roof,” Damon corrects without looking at her.

I stand. “Then maybe I shouldn’t be here.”

For a moment, I think he might challenge me. Instead, he leans back slightly, folding his hands.

“Sit down,” he says. Not loud. Not harsh.

Commanding.

I hate that my body reacts before my brain catches up. I sit.

Catherine exhales in relief. “There. See? We’re all adults.”

I stare at my hands, jaw tight.

Damon’s voice softens just enough to feel deliberate. “This isn’t about control. It’s about safety.”

“From what?” I snap.

He pauses. Just a beat too long.

“From attention,” he says.

My laugh this time is bitter. “I’m not important enough for that.”

His eyes lock onto mine. “You are.”

The room goes still.

Catherine checks her phone, already disengaging. “I have to take this,” she murmurs, rising. “You two… finish breakfast.”

She leaves without looking back.

I push away from the table again. “You don’t know me.”

“I know enough.”

“That’s the problem.”

We stand across from each other now, the table between us like a boundary neither of us asked for.

“You watch me like I’m a problem,” I say.

“I watch you because you don’t see what’s around you.”

I cross my arms. “And you do?”

“Yes.”

The certainty in his voice unsettles me more than anger would have.

“I don’t need a guard,” I say. “Or a driver. Or a schedule.”

“You need protection,” he replies.

“From you?” I ask before I can stop myself.

Something dark flickers behind his eyes. Gone just as fast.

“I’m not your enemy, Seraphina.”

“Then stop acting like my warden.”

We stare at each other, breath held, something unspoken stretching tight between us.

Finally, he steps back. Gives me space.

“Classes start at nine,” he says. “Your driver will be ready at eight-thirty.”

“I’ll walk.”

“You won’t.”

I grab my bag from the chair. “Watch me.”

As I pass him, his voice drops, low enough that it feels meant only for me.

“This house isn’t as safe as it looks.”

I stop.

Slowly, I turn back. “Is that supposed to scare me?”

“It’s supposed to warn you.”

I search his face for sarcasm, for exaggeration. I find neither.

“Why?” I ask quietly. “Why are you doing this?”

For the first time since I met him, he hesitates.

“Because,” he says carefully, “some doors shouldn’t be left open.”

The words settle in my chest, cold and heavy.

I leave the room without another word, but all the way upstairs, one thought keeps repeating, sharp and unwelcome.

I don’t like him.

But for the first time in years, someone is paying attention.

And that might be the most dangerous thing of all.