The silence lasted forever. Heavy and uncomfortable for me. What the fuck, couldn’t stand it.

“Well, you got a name, or are you paid to stand in doorways?”

“Dajour.”

“Is that French?”

“No,” he said follow by muteness.

That’s how I understood he was staff. The rules: don’t speak unless spoken to. But I had spoken to him.

I knew the type.

This fellow was too muscled, too young, and too casual to be the husband. The new husband, Joetaro, wore business suits on weekends and traveled with a rolling garment bag. The son’s in Maries. This guy’s a servant, one of ‘those people!’

 

Chapter One

The engine whined as I cranked the volume higher, bass rattling the plastic around my cup holders, one more casualty in the war against taste. Past the last curve, the house appeared... too much glass, too little color, as if someone tried to disappear the mansion into its own reflection. White concrete. Chrome rails. Black glass eating up the sun. My mother’s new husband, or whoever he paid to design it, had no chill.

With the tires squealing a little, I braked hard in the middle of the circle drive and killed the music. The next thing I heard was wind and the crunch of gravel as my mother’s luggage shifted in the back seat. Quite the African American castle. A monument to my mother’s gaudy immigrant she roped in as her latest savior.

Wearing my Versace dress, the yellow one with straps so thin you’d have to pay attention. Plus a Chanel visor that was more shield than shade. Nobody in the neighborhood to notice, but I loved to show off for the camera in my head.

The front door yawned open. In the frame, a man. Black, tall, built in a way you don’t see at Starbucks, arms crossed over a white tee that could’ve been an ad for laundry detergent. He gawked at me for a full five seconds before moving. Ignoring him, I reached into the passenger seat, grabbed my phone, and shut off Airplane Mode so the notifications could drown me.

Nothing, except a single text: “U here yet?” From Mom, timestamped eight minutes ago.

Popping the back open, I yanked out the Louis Vuitton duffels, two, monogrammed and dusty from months in storage. Leaving the trunk up, I dragged both across the pavers with one hand.

Fuck where are the servants? I needed help.

Repeatedly, Mother told me, help was for people who expected gratitude.

The man in the doorway didn’t move. Not a muscle. What did he think? The glass made him invisible. Possibly he wanted to see how long I’d drag my shit before I broke. The man glared at me behind Ray-Ban sunglasses that hid the arrogance. His arms bulged against the white of his shirt, tattoos climbing one forearm.

Tats that mean something. Yeah, he was a showoff. Stuck-up prick. This was unacceptable for hired help. Time to set him straight.

“What’s your name?” I asked, giving him a glower to wilt his arrogance.

My heels stuck in the gap between two pavers, yanking them free with a little “fuck” under my breath, half hoping the jerk heard it. Still no movement.

Pulling the bags, my hip driving the handles, as the sun tormented the back of my neck through the mesh of my hair extensions. I wore my own hair out, pale and straight, every inch of it paid for, and sweat glued it to my skin.

When I reached the first stair, he stepped back. Not out of the way, but enough to force me to close the distance. I got close enough to smell aftershave, sandalwood, definitely money. Up close, he was older than me, twenty-eight or thirty. College sports kind of face. I waited for him to say something, but he didn’t, so I went first.

“Can you move?”

His eyes traced from my face down to the duffels, and back up. “So, your Skylar?”

“Who else would I be?”

“Fantastic car.”

“Thanks. It’s leased.”

He snorted. It was more judgment than a laugh. I let the duffels fall at my feet and shifted all my weight to one hip and stared him down. The silence lasted forever. Heavy and uncomfortable for me. What the fuck, couldn’t stand it.

“Well, you got a name, or are you paid to stand in doorways?”

“Dajour.”

“Is that French?”

“No,” he said follow by muteness.

That’s how I understood he was staff. The rules: don’t speak unless spoken to. But I had spoken to him.

I knew the type.

This fellow was too muscled, too young, and too casual to be the husband. The new husband, Joetaro, wore business suits on weekends and traveled with a rolling garment bag, probably packed. I had met him at the wedding, but only for five minutes. The serial bride, Dixie, my mom’s third.

He held it as a contest, so I broke it.

“My mom said someone would help me with the bags.” I didn’t say please. I didn’t ask. I let the word ‘help’ hang there.

“Bullshit, she’s packing. You can leave them there. She’ll want you in the kitchen. But you should bring them inside yourself. There are no servants in this house.”

Ignoring Dajour’s lack of movement, I hauled the duffels to the tile entryway. Once inside, the air conditioning drilled sweat from my forehead, and the smell of fresh paint hit hard. Whoever cleaned this place for the photo shoot forgot to open a window.

The rude help followed me in. His footsteps were softer on the marble, which bugged me for reasons I couldn’t name.

Glancing back, catching him watching me. Not creepy. There’s a door I couldn’t close. I tipped my sunglasses down and sized up the living room. All white leather, chrome angles, fireplace with no wood, and a stack of Vogue as the only books on the table. The art on the walls was all canvas, no frames, each one a square of black, as if the decorator ran out of budget for color.

I turned to face him again.

“You live here?”

He nodded.

“So what are you, head of security?”

“Something like that.”

This time, a small smile. Still not polite, but arrogant and self-important, ‘those people.’

I wanted to say something smart about him being paid to watch people, but the kitchen door opened, and my mother’s voice bounced off the glass.

“Skylar, for God’s sake, did you get taller?”

She wore linen pants and a silk blouse, her hair blown out and her makeup flawless. She had a carry-on in one hand and her phone in the other. Joetaro trailed behind, hands full of his own luggage. He grinned at me, but not fatherly.

No, it was more of a boss noticing a new intern.

“Hi Mom,” I said, and kissed the air beside her cheek. She made a point of squeezing my shoulders and pushed me toward the living room.

“I need to finish packing, sweetie. There’s sushi in the fridge if you’re hungry. We’re leaving for the airport in ten minutes. Oh, you met your brother, right?”

“Brother, are you kidding me?” I stared at her.

“No joke,” she said.

“You’re leaving?”

She blinked; it hadn’t occurred to her I would ask. “We’re doing Maui before the opening in Tokyo. It’s been planned for months. You know that.”

She said it as a point of interest I’d missed, not something she’d failed to mention.

I stared at Dajour, expecting him to smirk. He didn’t. He kept watching, arms crossed, a wall in the room.

Mom turned back to the kitchen, voice trailing off. “Dajour, would you show her to her room after you check the car for, you know, whatever?”

He nodded. “Copy.”

That’s when I noticed his arms again, inked all the way to the wrist, muscles showing when he moved.

“Upstairs is off-limits after ten PM,” he said, no irony. “You’re on the second floor, left at the end. There’s a bathroom, but if you use the master, keep it clean.”

I almost laughed, but his face didn’t shift. I wanted to ask what time curfew started, if he was going to tuck me in, but I let it go. After all, there’s no use arguing with ‘those people.’ Stepbrother or not, I wasn’t raised to be his personal reparation.

Mom came back out, now with sunglasses and a beach hat. “Text me if you need anything,” she said, lowering her voice. “Please don’t start anything. I need a break.”

“Sure, Mom,” I said. “What would I start with a Neanderthal?”

“It might interest you to know, Dajour Fuka, like his father, has pure African blood. Only people with bloodlines that aren’t pure African share DNA with Neanderthals. Besides, he’s a decorated hero, not a spoiled adult child.”

As if to make peace, she did the air kiss again, opened the front door, and called for the driver.

Joetaro walked over, set his hand on my arm, and gave me a glance that didn’t quite reach concern. “You’re in good hands. Behave. There’s a bright future for you if you accept what my son has to teach you.”

Accept what his boy has to give me, what the fuck. What right did he have to tell me jack-shit? He wasn’t my father. I shrugged, and may’ve had a snarl on my lips.

They rolled their cases outside. The glass door shut behind them, and I was left with Dajour, still arms-crossed, still silent. At that point, he went outside; he left me alone to talk to my mother.

Through the glass, I caught my mother’s voice, filtered by two layers of window. She spoke into her phone, but she glanced back at the house. Her voice slipped through:

“Straighten that little bitch out. You’re her brother now; I’m depending on you. Whatever it takes, knock that damn entitlement out of her. You don’t know her yet, Dajour; she’s a stuck-up little brat, and no one can stand being around her. You’re my only hope.”

Gross, she put her hand on his bicep and gazed at him with... adoration. What the Fuck?

“Don’t worry, Mom, I got your back.”

The words pinched something under my ribs. Not a new feeling. I’d heard it before, when I was eight and got sent home from camp. When I was thirteen and caught with my first vape. The time I called her from college the night I dropped out. She never spoke about me, only around me.

“Straighten the little bitch out.”

Dajour returned, glowering at me.

“Can you give me a hand, Bro? You’re a bulky, strong ex-military man and I’m a tiny girl.”

“Move your ass and do it yourself. Cause you heard your mommy... you belong to me.”

Staring at him, a strange stirring spread in my belly and through my body. The longer I locked eyes with him, the worse it became. Shuffling from one foot to the other, I broke, reaching for my bags. Oddly cottony mouth, my heart pounding. Heat pooled in my stomach, and lower. The place I’ve kept boys away from.

Wet. Quivering. Fuck no!

In an attempt to quell my fear, I tipped my sunglasses up and stared at him.

“Sweetie, are you always this way?”

He waited a beat, stepped aside. Still no smile.

“Do what I told you or I’ll put you over my knee and spank that tight butt raw.”

Recoiling, my attempt at bravery destroyed, I dragged the bags past him, heels thudding on the tile, without so much as a glance over my shoulder.

Oh, fuck yeah, he’d do it; yes, he would. Dirty bastard.

 

Chapter Two

The lock’s echo had barely left the glass when he walked. No “do you need water” or “let me show you around.” He moved, and the house moved with him: lights waking in the corners, AC ratcheting up two degrees, a white noise of machinery somewhere under the floors. I trailed, Chanel bag in tow. The wheels thunked over the grout lines, heels stabbing out a rhythm behind his bare feet.

Without so much as a glimpse over his shoulder, he moved away. Every ten paces, he hit a new room.

“Kitchen,” he said, his voice cutting into the space. Following him in a stupor, he treated me like an employee on a tour of my new workplace.

The kitchen was marble and chrome, with no fridge magnets and not a single bowl of fruit. Mother’s touch showed only on the wine fridge’s top shelf—pink Whispering Angel rosé, four identical bottles with the labels pointed out.

The island was the size of a coffin and probably cost more. Moving on, he didn’t pause, and I had to rush to keep up.

“Laundry,” he said, pointing at a door off the hallway. “Off-limits.” No explanation why, or for whom.

Rolling my eyes, extra for effect. “Are you giving me the tour, or marking your territory?”

Stopping at the bottom of the stairwell, “Both,” he said, not looking at me. “Upstairs.”

The stairs were open risers, steel and glass, cold under my hand when I grabbed the railing to catch up. Pushing ahead, he didn’t check if I followed. His steps made no sound on the floating slabs. But every time I placed a heel, it echoed up the whole spine of the house. I pictured Mom’s face, imagined her sighing about the shoe marks.

Second-floor landing, and a hard left.

“Guest bedrooms. Yours is on the end. You’ll keep it clean.” The rooms copy-pasted: king beds, white duvets, no art, blackout shades rolled up to expose the woods behind. No TV. No hair dryer, either.

He stopped in front of one door. “Yours. Sheets are fresh.” He stood aside, waited for me to enter.

I didn’t. “Wow, you do turndown service?” My tone snapped, but his face didn’t shift.

As he walked on, I trailed, dragging the bag. At the next stairwell. “Third floor’s off-limits after ten PM. Don’t go up there.”

“What happens if I do? Alarms? Booby traps?”

No fucking answer; he went up anyway.

The third floor was a single open space, all glass walls and exposed beams. One end held a desk, MacBook, legal pads stacked, not a pen out of place. At the other end: a gym, a full rack of weights, a bench, a rubber mat so thick it was a military thing.

“Off-limits,” he said, and let it sit there.

I took in the view. Tree line, power lines, and in the distance, the edge of the golf course. No neighbors close enough to see in, in daylight or night. It was a bunker I pretended was a house.

Leaning against the window, with his arms crossed, he waited for me to finish. I tried another angle. “So, do you actually live here, or are you the world’s grumpiest Airbnb host?”

No reaction. The noiseless void was so tight I had to fill it. “You know my mom’s going to complain if I tell her you’re mean to me, right?” The words tasted weak, but I said them anyway.

Finally, Dajour Fuka turned. Walked to the stairwell, back down, and I followed because he didn’t give any alternative.

On the first floor, he stopped in the living room. More glass, more chrome, the couches squared off, waiting for a trial. He faced me, full-on. No buffer, no glass, zero between us except his body and the total absence of give in his eyes.

His voice landed hard as stone: “You don’t touch the thermostat. You don’t touch my weights. You don’t close your door after 10 pm.” Each line, a sentence. Each sentence, a rule.

I blinked, let my mouth hang a half second longer than normal, and tried to catch him off guard with a laugh. “I’m sorry, who exactly do you think you are?” I did the hand gesture, palm up, fingers out, showing I owned the room.

He held my gaze. Didn’t blink, didn’t shift weight, didn’t move his arms.

I held it, too. I’d practiced for this. Eye contact, chin up, lips pressed. Outlast, outwait, out-bitch. It worked at every private school and every club bathroom.

He kept staring.

Everything changed. Not a contest, or an argument. A fact, same as the glass walls or the concrete floors. He didn’t care if I liked it. He didn’t need me to agree.

My face flushed, a hot little needle under my skin. I fought it with sarcasm, but my throat caught.

He turned and walked out.

The silence after turned thicker than before. I tried to hate it, but there was zero to push against. No drama, no fight.

I stood in the living room, arms folded, bag at my feet, and let the cold from the floor bleed into my bones.

The rules hung in the air, unbroken and absolute.

Kitchen. The house echoed it back, marble bouncing my steps and voice into nothingness. Standing at the counter, a quart of water in his hand, filling a glass from the filtration tap. With his back was to me—squared off, deliberate. If he heard the click of my heels, he gave zero evidence.

I swung my bag onto the island and let it land hard enough to register. That cracked the silence.

“Okay, so I’m not trying to be a bitch, but I need the WiFi.” I kept my voice casual, careful, but it jumped a step louder than I meant. “Also, my car keys? I left them in the entry, but they disappeared. And what’s the deal with dinner, do I fend for myself, or…?”

Unflinching, he filled himself a glass, raised it, emptied it, and set it back down. Still facing away. The cold shoulder wasn’t subtle. I braced my hands on the marble and pushed, spine popping as I arched up to make myself taller.

“Hello?” I said. “I know you hear me. Fuka, what kind of fucking name is that? ‘You people’ have no sense at all.”

Glowering, he turned, laser eyes focused on me. His face was unreadable. I upped the volume.

“You’re supposed to be in charge, right? So do your fucking job. Give me the WiFi, give me my keys, and I’ll stay out of your way.” I tried for a little menace, a little helpless. He ignored both.

Slapping the marble hard, my skin stung. “Is this, what, some alpha male thing? You ignore me until I beg? Newsflash, that doesn’t work on me.”

His eyes flicked to my hand, darted back to my face. A tension built in his arms. He stepped toward me, not fast, not menacing, moving because he wanted to; the world wouldn’t stop him.

Four steps closed the whole room. He was next to me, inches away, taller by a head, sweat from the glass still glisten