Chapter 7 A Weekend In The Museum
By 10:00 A.M., in Montenegro's house, Maria pops her head out, a stray lock of dark hair falling over her forehead. She looks at her daughter, really looks at her and a shadow of relief flits across her face. "You seem better this morning, Lissa. The sleep helped?"
"A lot," Melissa lies. She offers a bright, practiced smile, the kind she’s honed since she was five years old. "It’s just nice to have a kitchen that doesn't smell like takeout. Once we get the coffee maker set up, it’ll feel like a real home."
She watches her mother relax. It’s a delicate dance. Melissa knows that if she shows even a flicker of the crushing anxiety clawing at her throat, Maria will stop being a mom and start being a surgeon, looking for the "wound" to fix.
So, Melissa plays the role of the resilient daughter. She hums a low, upbeat tune as she begins to organize the linen closet, moving with a fluid efficiency that belies the weight behind her ribs.
For her parents, she will be "okay." She will be the girl who moved across the country and took it in stride. She will hide the fact that every time her phone vibrates with a generic news notification, her heart stops. To them, she is a fresh start. To herself, she is a controlled demolition.
"I think I’m going to take a walk later," Melissa says, keeping her tone light. "I need to... see the neighborhood I will be living in and maybe find the nearest library."
"That’s my girl," Maria beams, finally finding the dinnerware.
Melissa turns away, her smile fading the second her mother isn't looking. She isn't looking for a library; she’s looking for the exits. She’s scouting the perimeter. But as she picks up another box, she keeps her movements light and airy, maintaining the illusion of a normal Saturday morning for as long as the walls of the house can hold it.
Meanwhile, Georgia Walker lies back against a mountain of goose-down pillows, the sheer silk of her nightgown shimmering in the morning sun. Her room is flooded with light, highlighting the Royal Court she has built: the trophies, the framed political endorsements, the designer bags lined up like soldiers.
There is a soft, rhythmic knock at the door—two taps, exactly as she demands.
"Enter," Georgia says, not looking up from her tablet.
Helga, Georgia's personal maid, enters silently. She carries a silver tray with the weight of a sacred offering. On it sits a tall glass of bright green liquid—a customized kale, ginger, and spirulina detox blend that Georgia insists on every Saturday.
"Your juice, Miss Georgia," Helga says, her voice low and neutral. She places the tray on the nightstand next to a Diptyque candle that smells of Bulgarian roses.
Georgia doesn't say thank you. She picks up the glass, the cold condensation stinging her fingertips. She takes a sip, the bitter, grassy flavor a sharp contrast to the sweetness she projects in public. This is her Saturday ritual: purge the toxins, plan the week, and reinforce the hierarchy.
She scrolls through her social media feeds, her eyes sharp. She sees a photo Sarah posted of her and Lindsay at a different diner—a direct snub from the night before. Georgia’s lip curls. She makes a mental note to have the student council review Sarah’s "funding requests" for the winter formal decorations.
She takes another sip of the green juice, feeling the cold liquid settle in her stomach. She looks at her reflection in the gilded vanity mirror across the room. She looks perfect. She looks untouchable. But the silence from Jeremy still stings like an open wound.
"The temperature in the dressing room is two degrees too low, Elena," Georgia says without looking at the maid, her voice calm and devoid of any morning rasp. "Fix it before I shower. And tell the chef the kale in this juice is slightly too bitter today. It’s uninspired."
"Of course, Miss Georgia."
Georgia stands, draped in a silk robe that costs more than Melissa’s SUV. She sips her detox juice, the cold liquid sharp against her tongue. She moves to her vanity, picking up a gold-plated brush and beginning the hundred strokes she requires every morning. Each stroke is rhythmic, a meditation on control. In this house, everything is curated—the art on the walls, the scent of the air, and most importantly, her image. She watches herself in the mirror, her eyes hard and bright.
"Helga," Georgia calls out just as the maid is about to leave.
"Yes, Miss?"
"Tell the driver I’ll need the Porsche at noon. I have some... shopping to do."
Shopping was her version of a war council. She needed a new outfit for Monday. If a new girl was coming to Stoneledge, Georgia intended to be the brightest thing in the hallway—the kind of light that made it impossible for anyone else to be seen. She dismisses the maid with a wave of her hand and returns to her tablet, her mind already weaving the web she would drop over the school the moment the first bell rang.
By the time she reaches the bottom of the glass, the juice is gone, and so is any trace of the girl who was dismissed on a street corner last night. She is the Governor’s daughter. She is the Class President. She is the girl who dictates the weather at Stoneledge Hall, and today, she decides the forecast is perfect.
Five miles away, the silence at the Black estate is of a different breed. It is the silence of a mausoleum built of marble and glass. His parents had left for a charity gala in Chicago at four in the morning, leaving the sprawling estate to the care of a silent security team and the hum of the central air.
Jeremy stands in the sprawling kitchen, the marble countertops cold beneath his palms. His parents are already in D.C. for the gala, leaving him in a house that feels more like a hollow museum than a home. The only sounds are the distant hum of the central air and the soft, rhythmic clinking of fine china as Mrs. Gable, the silver-haired housekeeper, prepares his breakfast.
“Good morning, Jeremy," she says, her tone warm but professional. "The chefs have prepared the organic granola and egg-white omelet," she says, placing a plate down.
Jeremy slides onto a leather stool, staring at the perfectly plated food. “Just restless, Mrs. Gable.Thanks, it looks.. consistent.”
He picks at his food, staring out the floor-to-ceiling windows toward the driveway where two house guards stand like statues. He feels like a prisoner in a gilded cage. He reaches for his phone, scrolling past another demanding text from Georgia.
"Is everything all right, dear?" Mrs. Gable asks, her hand lingering on the table.
Jeremy looks up, offering a tired, hollow smile. "Just a long week, Mrs. Gable. I think I’m just ready for something, anything, to actually change."
He takes a bite of the tasteless food, eyes drifting to the window. Monday can't come fast enough.
"Just another weekend in the museum," he whispers to the empty air.
