Page 10

Chapter Te n

Maggie

T he next morning, I follow a bouncing Finn down the stairs, his backpack thumping against his spine with each hop-step. The scent of butter and herbs draws us to the boy's kitchen, where we find Denise perched on a gold stool at the island tapping away on her laptop while Candice works her magic at the stove. Candice is the chef mostly responsible for the boy's meals.

"Hi Candy." Finn scrambles onto a barstool.

"Good morning, my little sugar snap." Candice smiles, light brown waves framing her full face. She winks at me. "Morning Maggie. Coffee's fresh."

I pour myself a cup while Finn settles next to Denise, who looks up from her computer and asks how we both slept. I tell her the pillows in this place are a life changer, and she and Candice both laugh.

"Is it pancake day?" Finn asks, swinging his legs and accidentally kicking the island.

"Next best thing, little man," Candice tells him. "omelets with the fancy cheese you love."

Finn's face lights up. "The stinky one?"

"Gruyere." Candice slides a child-sized omelet onto his plate.

I hover awkwardly, still not used to having someone cook for me. "Can I help with anything?"

"Sit. Eat." Candice points her spatula at an empty stool. "That's an order. Can't have you running on empty."

I obey, sliding onto a stool next to Finn, even though being waited on feels weird .

Denise runs through Finn’s after-school schedule while I cut into my omelet, the cheese stretching in perfect strings. She and Candice chat about some big lunch Barron is hosting today—presumably in the elusive East Wing.

Ten minutes later, Xavier appears, damp-haired, in worn jeans and a navy hoodie. He runs a hand through his hair, fist-bumps Finn on his way to the coffee machine, mumbling good mornings to everyone but me. Although his gaze does flick over mine for half a second before shifting to the counter. "Something smells amazing," he tells Candice, taking a long pull of coffee.

She smiles. "Thanks sunshine. For a minute there I was worried you'd sleep through your favorite breakfast."

He takes another sip from his mug. "Went for a bike ride on the trails."

I’m guessing a fat-tire bike, unless he somehow mastered riding through two feet of snow.

He drops onto a stool beside Denise as Candice slides a plate his way—only to keep a firm grip when he reaches for it.

"So?" She arches a brow. "Did you watch the game last night?"

Xavier rolls his eyes. "Unfortunately, yeah." His grin causes a dimple to pop on his left side.

Denise chuckles, glancing up from her computer. "They made a bet," she explains to me. "Football."

"And Xave picked the wrong team," Candice gloats, still holding the plate hostage. "Next Saturday. After lunch. One hour—three-cheese lasagna."

"Every time his team loses, Xavier has to do a one-hour cooking lesson with Candice," Denise tells me.

Xavier drags his teeth over his lower lip before meeting Candice’s twinkling eyes. "Next Saturday. Got it."

"Great." She releases the plate.

I stab a piece of egg. "What happens if Candice's team loses?" I ask Denise, unable to bury my curiosity, which, ok—isn't really about the football bet. It's the whole weird dynamic between Xavier and the staff that I'm fascinated with. It's not how you'd imagine the dynamic between the staff and their employer's son… but it also isn't a totally authentic closeness, either. A few of the staff seem to look out for Xave and Finn, but it's the kind of caring that has these bizarre parameters.

"If Candice's team loses, she has to bake Xavier any cake he chooses," Denise answers.

Candice grins. "Feels like ages since I made a cake."

"Triple-layer red velvet," Xavier corrects through a mouthful of omelet. "Less than two weeks ago."

"That was just me trying to fatten you up."

"That was you losing." He takes another bite of omelet. "Forty-seven to nine."

"It was so long ago, I barely remember."

He shakes his head, smirking. " I remember. Cake was fan-freaking-tastic."

"And so will be the lasagna you make this weekend." Candice loads mixing bowls into the dishwasher. "Oh, and heads-up, sunshine—if you show up hungover, I’ll have you whip ricotta dip on high speed. Extra loud."

Xavier rolls his eyes again, but the grin lingers—only minus the dimple.

"Do I like lasagna?" Finn asks no-one in particular.

"You like Candice's lasagna," Xavier tells him.

"And you'll like Xavier's," Candice counters, with affectionate confidence.

See? It's like Candice and Denise are his aunts or something. But then, there are these weird reminders that they are, in fact, just paid staff who work for his father—and dealing with Xavier and Finn is part of their job description. Like, when a few minutes later Denise looks up from her laptop and tells Xavier he has a sitting tomorrow evening with some fancy painter his mother hired to do portraits of him and Finn.

"Six to eight. And wear a nice shirt "

He squints at Denise like he’s trying to determine if she’s serious. "He just painted us."

"Three years ago."

Xavier scrapes the last bits of egg off his plate. "Whatever. I'm still out."

Denise closes her laptop. "It's two hours of your time."

"That I won't get back." He stands up, taking his plate with him and stacking it in the dishwasher. Like a normal human being.

Denise stands too, and leans against the counter, glancing at her phone beside her laptop when it pings, then back at him. "Xavier… Please." She sighs. "Don't be difficult."

"I'm not being difficult."

"You are."

"What? Because I'm refusing to act like it's the sixteen hundreds?"

"Now you're being a jackass." Candice swats Xavier's thigh semi-playfully with a dish towel.

He swivels to face Candice, hands held out to his sides. "Some pretentious artist refuses to acknowledge that the camera has been invented… And I'm the jackass?"

"This is really important to your mother," Denise pushes.

Xavier pivots with a sudden edge, and the shift is instant—his posture, his eyes. Sharper.

It’s the first time I’ve heard anyone mention Jacee around him or Finn, and I glance at the little guy to see if he reacts. But Finn is seemingly oblivious, busy stretching his cheese as high as his little arms will allow.

Denise swallows. "Look… I know. I get that it seems—"

"Ironic?" Xavier supplies.

"Xavier—"

"Hypocritical?" He drags his tongue along the inside of his cheek, his smirk slow and sharp-edged.

Denise sighs again, only this time she turns to collect her computer and coffee from the counter, signalling the conversation is done. "He'll be set up in the Solarium tomorrow at six. Please be there."

"I'm busy tomorrow at six." He brushes past her and grabs his backpack off the floor. Then starts down the hall.

Denise barely glances up. "Alright, then shall we discuss the vape pen and box of condoms Marianna found in the Games Room?"

Proving my earlier observation about this weird dynamic between the boys and the "help". Because this, apparently, is when staff confront Xavier directly about his less-than-savory extracurricular activities—when they need him to step into line with something that makes it difficult to fulfill their job requirements.

Xavier pauses mid-stride. "Christ…" He exhales hard. "Fine. Portrait in the Solarium tomorrow at six."

"Thank you." Denise doesn’t look up. "I’ll text you a reminder."

"Yep."

"You forgot your water bottle, sugar!" Candice calls.

"Don’t need it." He keeps walking down the arched hallway. "Omelets were amazing, by the way." Then he’s gone.

I follow a few seconds later, thanking Candice for breakfast and hugging Finn goodbye, who's leaving through another door with the driver. I enter the coat room just as Xavier is shoving hockey gloves into his duffel.

He glances over his shoulder, damp hair falling over one eye. "Following me now?" He zips his bag. "Because—what? Moving into my home and sleeping across the hall wasn't enough?"

I grab my coat from one of the hooks. "Your ego's writing checks your personality can't cash, Rockwell."

He straightens, slinging his bag over his shoulder. "Everything's about money for you, huh? Even your comebacks."

I should fire back with something scathing about his clueless, entitled existence . But something holds me back.

I think it's witnessing those sweet but also kind of unsettling exchanges in the kitchen. The slowly unfolding revelation that as privileged as it seems from the outside, Xavier and Finn's upbringing is really just a sewn together patchwork of various staff member's well-intended interferences. And while a couple of them seem to feel a genuine affection towards both boys, that's not what ultimately drives them to look out for them. The real reason boils down to the natural instinct of any half-decent human being to care for neglected children, no matter how spoiled or pampered they may be.And, like me, the hefty paycheck that comes hand-in-hand with that genuine affection.

And there's no way Xavier doesn't see that, too. He may be made of sharp angles and jagged edges, but I’m starting to think he’s the one who’s bleeding.

He raises an eyebrow at my silence. "Nothing?" He tsks. "I'm disappointed. You're losing your touch, LeClair."

"Just saving my comebacks for more worthy targets."

"Worthy targets?" His lips curl. "Right. Because I'm sure you're so selective with your dollar-store wit." He adjusts his bag, those hazel eyes flickering with calculated amusement as he pulls open the heavy door. "Face it, Nanny McPhee; you're just as desperate for my attention as every other girl who walks through these doors. You just package it differently."

The door slams behind him.

And fuck him. The guilt I almost felt? The sympathy? The tiny sliver of something softer?

He doesn't need my understanding. Xavier Rockwell just needs to get over himself.