Chapter 2 [Wren's POV]

[Volume One: Let Us Revisit Childhood]

The Ashfords lived on the top floor of the building. The very top of the top.

The elevator to the penthouse was tucked away in a forgotten corner of the lobby, nowhere near the central bank of cars that everyone else used.

"Finally—we get to ride this elevator!"

When Mom said it, her voice carried something strange. Pride mixed with bitterness, like vinegar stirred into honey.

I understood what that "finally" meant.

We lived in the basement of this building. Dad was the superintendent—when pipes leaked or lights died, he fixed them. Mom cleaned apartments for the wealthy tenants upstairs, including the Ashfords.

Dad knew this building better than he knew our own home. Which pipe fed which fixture, what lay hidden behind every wall—he could navigate it all with his eyes closed.

He used to say the old building had its moods and its secrets, and the man who kept it had to keep those secrets too.

Back then, I didn't understand what he meant. I thought it was just something adults said.

It would be years before Dad had his accident in this building, years before I understood—some secrets kill people. And Dad had known too many of them.

Mom had been coming and going through this building for years. But she'd never once ridden this elevator.

Because this elevator was for the people who lived upstairs. Not for the people who scrubbed their floors.

So today, being able to take my hand and press that button without apology—in her mind, it must have felt monumental.

I didn't want to go up at all.

I would have preferred to return to the basement, to my tiny room cluttered with Dad's tools, where I could curl up in a corner with a book. That was my place.

But I couldn't say so. If I did, Mom's face would darken.

So I kept my mouth shut and followed her into the elevator.

"Get in, Wren."

The car was half the size of the central elevators. When the doors closed, the button panel ran top to bottom: PH, 16, 15, down to L for lobby. Mom pressed PH without hesitation.

The button didn't light up.

"What the hell. Is it broken?"

She jabbed it several more times. The doors chimed and slid open again. It was Reyes, the concierge manager, in his crisp uniform, wearing an expression of practiced regret as he gestured for us to step out.

"This elevator is reserved for penthouse residents. For other floors, please use the central elevators."

Mom's English was thickly accented and halting. She stumbled over her words.

"Uh—Wren, no, Vivian! Go Cole house! Play!"

Reyes's gaze dropped to me. I was clutching Mom's skirt, half-hidden behind her. He lifted his eyes back to her and said coolly:

"I'll need to confirm through the intercom. Please step out first."

He held the closing doors open with one hand and gestured outward with the other. Mom yanked me by the wrist and muttered a string of curses in our home dialect under her breath.

I understood about half of it. None of it was kind.

I snuck a glance at Reyes. He must have caught the tone even if he didn't know the words, because his brow furrowed and he shifted his weight.

"Follow me."

We trailed him to the concierge desk. He'd just picked up the intercom when another resident approached, asking about a grocery delivery.

Reyes glanced at Mom, then casually set down the receiver and turned to handle the other tenant.

Mom wasn't having it. She raised her hand and rapped her knuckles on the counter.

"Excuse me! I was here first!"

The concierge manager didn't even look at her. He held up one finger—wait. Mom's face flushed red. Her mouth opened as if to let loose, but all that came out was a sharp, humiliated exhale.

She knew better than to make a scene in this country. Losing her temper wouldn't get results—it might even land her in trouble. She'd endured this kind of cold dismissal before. She was numb to it by now.

I wasn't.

I stood behind her, my face burning. Not with shame for Reyes, but for us. For Mom's knockoff designer clothes, for her broken English, for the fact that we lived in this building but still had to announce ourselves at the front desk like strangers.

I wanted to take Mom's hand and walk back down to the basement. Down there, no one asked us to state our names. Down there was ours.

But I knew if I said anything, Mom would snap: You don't understand.

"Wren, you should be grateful you're even halfway respectable. If only your hair were lighter. Blonder, even."

She reached out and tugged at my limp, mousy-brown curls, then let go with a small sound of irritation.

I didn't respond. I started counting the lights in the ceiling. One, two, three. When I counted things, I didn't have to think about anything else.

Reyes handed the package to the other resident with a warm smile and a light joke. Once they'd left, he picked up the intercom again, his expression blank. He tilted his chin toward me.

"Name?"

I shrank further behind Mom's skirt. She answered for me.

"Vivian Kelly."

Mom always called me by my full name, Vivian. Only Dad—only Dad called me Wren.

Reyes spoke respectfully into the receiver, hung up, and gave a curt nod.

"You can go up now."

Mom didn't say thank you. She spun around, grabbed my wrist, and marched toward the private elevator. Her heels struck the floor like hammer blows.

Back in the elevator, she pressed PH. This time, the button lit up.

"Oh! There we go!"

Her grip was too tight. My wrist ached, but when I looked up to say something, the fierce urgency radiating from her stopped me cold. I swallowed my words. Her palm was slick with sweat.

The elevator stopped at the top floor. The doors opened slowly. Beyond them was another door. Mom took a deep breath and pushed it open.

She pulled me through, and for the first time, I stepped into the Ashford home.

The elevator opened into a wide, high-ceilinged gallery hall. In the center stood a round table with a white marble bust. Above it hung an old crystal chandelier, casting soft light over the sculpture.

The walls were paneled in dark wood and adorned with a large oil painting in a gilt frame. It depicted a scene from the Revolutionary War, centered on a man in a deep blue military coat.

Mom looked around, her gaze snagging on the painting.

"Huh. I feel like I've seen this guy somewhere before… where was it…"

I looked up too. Mom released my hand and rummaged through her purse, pulling out a dollar bill.

"Oh my God, Vivian! Look—he looks exactly like the guy on this bill, doesn't he?"

She waved the money in front of my face. I nodded absently.

"Wow, they really weren't kidding when they said this was an old-money family. Of all the houses I've cleaned in my life…"

Mom kept talking. But I was staring at the painting.

The man in the blue coat had pale gray-blue eyes.

The exact same color as the boy I was about to meet.

I didn't know then that this color would follow me for years. That it would slip into my dreams, into the places where I had no defenses.

All I knew was that those eyes in the painting seemed to recognize me.

I shivered and edged closer to Mom.

A woman in a dark uniform appeared from the far end of the hall. She nodded politely to Mom, then looked down at me and smiled.

"You must be Vivian. I'm Rosa, the household manager."

I clutched Mom's skirt and said nothing.

Rosa didn't seem to mind. She extended her hand. "The young master is waiting for you in the playroom. Follow me."

The young master.

The words rang in my head like a struck bell.

I knew who "the young master" was. Everyone in the building knew Cole Ashford. I'd seen him once or twice in the hallways when Mom was working—a blond boy who moved quickly and never looked at anyone, as if the entire building belonged to him.

I didn't want to go.

I tugged on Mom's hand, trying to make her understand: I want to go home.

But Mom bent down and whispered in my ear, her voice soft and unyielding.

"Vivian. Listen to me. This is the best chance you'll ever get. If the young master is willing to play with you, that's a gift. You be good. Smile. Don't embarrass me. Do you hear me?"

I heard her.

I always heard her.

I let go of her skirt, lowered my head, and followed Rosa down the hallway.

The carpet beneath my feet was thick and soft. My footsteps made no sound. The silence was suffocating.

Rosa stopped in front of a door and pushed it open.

I looked up.

Sunlight poured over my face like water. An entire wall was glass, and beyond it stretched a sky so blue it hurt to look at. The room was enormous—big as a gymnasium.

A boy was hanging from a bar suspended in mid-air. At the sound of the door, he turned his head.

Our eyes met.

Pale gray-blue.

Just like the man in the painting.