Chapter 3

The first few days were a lesson in invisibility. I learned the schedules of the house. Olivia and Liam woke up early. They ate breakfast in a sun-drenched room that was bigger than my entire old apartment. I waited until they left for school or work before I crept into the kitchen.

The kitchen itself was a source of anxiety. It was a cavern of stainless steel and complicated-looking appliances. On my second morning, I tried to make coffee. The machine looked like the cockpit of a spaceship, with dozens of buttons and dials. I pressed what I thought was the 'on' button.

A horrible grinding noise filled the kitchen, followed by the sound of coffee beans shooting out of a vent and scattering across the pristine white floor. I froze, my heart pounding in my chest. I dropped to my knees and started frantically trying to pick up the tiny brown pellets.

"What are you doing?"

I looked up. Liam stood in the doorway, a gym bag slung over his shoulder. He wasn't supposed to be here. His face was a mask of annoyance.

"I... I was trying to make coffee," I stammered, my cheeks burning with shame. "I'm sorry. I'll clean it up."

He let out a sigh that was pure exasperation. He walked over to the machine, his expensive sneakers crunching on the stray beans. Without a word, he pressed a sequence of buttons. The grinding stopped. He opened a compartment, poured the beans back in, and pressed another button. A moment later, the rich smell of brewing coffee filled the air.

He didn't look at me. He just grabbed a mug from a cabinet, filled it, and walked out of the kitchen.

"There's a broom in the pantry," he said over his shoulder as he left.

His help felt more like a rebuke. It was a clear message: you are too stupid to even operate our appliances.

From that day on, I avoided the coffee machine. I ate plain toast for breakfast and drank water from the tap. I made sure I was never in the kitchen when they were. I learned to read the silence of the house, to know where they were by the faint sound of footsteps on a distant floor or the soft click of a closing door.

I kept to my small room at the end of the hall. It was my sanctuary. I had the textbooks for the elite boarding school I would be starting soon, the one my mother's scholarship had paid for, the one Mr. Sterling was now funding. I studied relentlessly, trying to catch up, trying to prepare. It was the only thing I could control.

One evening, I was walking down the hallway back to my room when I heard their voices coming from a large living area. Olivia was laughing at something on her phone, a rare, genuine sound.

"Look at this idiot in my comments," she said. "He thinks my bag is a fake."

"It probably is," Liam's voice replied, dry and without humor.

"It's not! Dad got it for me in Paris."

"He probably got it from a street vendor."

"Shut up, Liam."

I froze outside the door, not wanting them to know I was there. I was a spy in my own home. I listened to them bicker, a strange ache in my chest. It was the sound of a family. A broken, cold family, maybe, but a family nonetheless.

I retreated to my room, the sound of their voices fading. I was an outsider, a secret they were forced to keep. My strategy was simple: stay out of their way. Don't give them any reason to notice me. I would be a ghost in their house until I could find a way to leave for good. The small room, the quiet meals, the silent hallways-this was the price of the promise. It was the way I would earn my keep.