My new home!

Cassidy's POV

The car stopped with a gentle pause in front of the house. Mansion didn’t do it justice—it looked like something dragged out of a European monograph. White stone gleamed in the sun, rows of windows shone like polished jewels, a fountain rose in the courtyard with water sparkling in arcs, dusted by light. The front door—solid, polished wood, framed by pillars—stood like the entrance to a different universe.

“Ready?” Mom asked, voice trembling.

“Not really.” My voice was half a whisper, but she smiled anyway.

A uniformed driver opened our door with a courteous nod. “Welcome to Ashford Manor, Ms. Hart, Mrs. Ashford.”

Mom’s new name. It sounded strange.

Richard stood at the foot of the steps, hands folded, smile wide and genuine. His hair, perfectly styled, glinted in the sunlight. His suit probably cost more than every car we’d ever owned. Yet there was a softness in his eyes that eased some small corner of my anxiety.

“Hello, beautiful,” he greeted my mother, voice warm as honey. He kissed her cheek, and she almost glowed.

Then he looked down at me, his smile gentle. “Cassidy. We’re very glad you’re here.”

I hesitated, glancing at my battered backpack, the only piece of my old life I could bring. I took a breath, squared my shoulders, and stepped out onto the drive.

“Thank you,” I said quietly, forcing a smile. The words felt strange, rehearsed, like trying on someone else’s shoes.

He offered me his hand. I took it out of politeness, feeling the decisiveness of his grip. It wasn’t threatening—just steady, reassuring.

We walked up the stairs together, my mother and Richard exchanging little touches, glances that flickered between longing and delight. I watched them, feeling like an audience in someone else’s romance.

Stepping inside felt like entering a cathedral. The foyer soared, lined with marble in hues of cream and gold. The floors gleamed, mirrors reflecting hundreds of tiny crystal lights from a chandelier so enormous I wondered how it stayed in place. Paintings—real ones, not cheap prints—hung along the walls. Each room spilled into the next: a formal parlor, a library moaning with the scent of old leather and paper, a sweeping staircase that divided to curve to the upper wings. I followed, dazed, Mom’s hand gripping mine.

Servants—actual servants—moved with choreography: offering cold drinks, carrying trays dusted with fruit and pastries, bowing to Richard and calling Mom “Mrs. Ashford” in soft reverence.

Mom tried, at first, to fit in. She laughed a little too loudly, stumbled on new etiquette, but Richard just smiled, correcting her gently. “You don’t have to be anyone but yourself, Alana.”

“I’m trying,” she whispered, blushing as a maid curtsied. “It’s all so… overwhelming.”

I wandered after them, uneasy, my head on a swivel. Everything was new. The sunlight that streamed through stained glass. The hush of luxury in every corner. But I couldn’t help seeing the shadows beneath it: the halves of conversations erased when we entered a room, the old men in suits who lingered in doorways and studied me with cool interest, the yawning silence that felt, at times, more dangerous than the chaos I’d left behind.

Richard led us through the house, introducing us to rooms with names—drawing room, music room, solarium. Mom laughed, touching everything, her happiness fragile as spun sugar.

“And this,” said Richard at last, halting in front of a broad white door with gold trim, “is yours, Cassidy. I hope you’ll be comfortable here.”

My mother stepped aside, letting him gesture me in. For a heartbeat I just stared, the door so tall it could have swallowed me whole. I felt her gaze on me, worried behind her smile. I took a breath and reached for the handle.

My new bedroom was impossibly bright. Light poured in through floor-to-ceiling windows, painting the walls in warm gold. The king-sized bed was crowded with pillows; the sheets crisp, impossibly soft beneath my fingers. A plush crimson rug sprawled underneath, matching the velvet armchairs and the curtains drawn back to reveal a private balcony overlooking gardens. Shelves lined the wall, packed with books—real books, some spines cracked with use, others untouched.

There was a vanity with a gilded mirror, a writing desk where sleek pens and heavy stationary waited, a walk-in closet bigger than my old living room. Framed photographs of beaches and cityscapes adorned the walls, and a vase overflowing with lilies sat beside a bowl of fresh fruit.

It was beautiful.

But the beauty made me uneasy. I felt like an imposter, a child in a museum, afraid to touch the art. All this—just for me? I set my backpack on a chair, unsure whether its grimy presence would stain the fabric.

My mother touched my arm. “What do you think, Cass?”

I searched for words, a thank you, a smile. “It’s… a lot. I don’t know if I deserve all this.”

She knelt beside me, tears brightening her eyes. “You do, sweetheart. We both do.”

I pulled her into a hug, letting my cheek rest on her shoulder. Even in silk and diamonds, she was still my mother—the same tired, brave woman who had protected me through every ugly night of our old life.

Richard entered quietly behind us, eyes soft. “I know it’s an adjustment, Cassidy. You can take your time. No one expects anything but honesty.”

Mom smiled up at him, so much gratitude in her eyes I almost cried. “Thank you, Richard. For everything.”

He smiled, brushing my mother’s hair behind her ear, a gesture so gentle it made my throat ache. “You gave me happiness,” he said. “I’m only trying to give it back.”

After a moment, Richard excused himself. “I’ll give you two a minute before the tour continues,” he said, slipping out into the hallway.

Alone in the hush, Mom sank onto the bed with a sigh. “It hardly seems real, does it?”

“Not really.” I sat beside her. “It feels like someone else’s life.”

She laughed softly, holding my hand. “It’s ours now. I hope it’s better. I hope you can be happy here.”

I wanted to promise her I would be. I wanted to be the daughter she deserved, grateful, smiling, ready to embrace whatever came next. But the promise stuck in my throat. I looked around: the polished wood, the gilt picture frames, the beams of sunlight. For all their beauty, something in me clung to the comfort of the battered old things I’d left behind.

She squeezed my hand again. “Do you remember when you were six, and you made that blanket fort under the kitchen table? You said it made you feel safe, even when things were noisy.”