Page 3 of His Orders

Rubbing my temples, I groan as I flag down a cab. “Anywhere but here,” I mutter as I climb inside, slamming the door behind me.

The driver barely glances at me in the mirror. “That a real request, or…?”

I sigh. “Just take me home—Dawson House.”

Everyone in Valleria knows where that is. Minutes later, I step out of the cab, my heart thudding dismally as the townhouse looms, all polished stone and grand columns, its dark windows giving nothing away. Inside, I know everything will be in perfect order. Everything always is.

I push open the door, and sure enough, the Dawson family home is as cold as I left it. Not temperature-wise—no, the central heating is always set at exactly seventy-two degrees—but in the way that matters. The kind of cold that settles in the bones, in the silences, in the spaces between people who used to love each other without trying.

Drew’s voice is the first thing I hear. “Took you long enough.”

I glance over, finding my older brother standing in the foyer, sleeves rolled up, tie loose, expression hovering somewhere between exasperation and relief.

“I was out,” I say simply, peeling off my coat.

“I gathered.” His eyes narrow slightly. “You didn’t come straight home from the station.”

I kick off my boots, avoiding his gaze. “What are you, my parole officer?”

Drew snorts. “If I were, I’d already be drinking.”

I scowl up at him. “You’re already drinking, aren’t you?”

He just lifts his half-full glass of whiskey in response.

Dinner is as uncomfortable as expected. Our parents sit across from us at the massive dining table, a perfect, symmetrical illustration of a marriage that should have ended a decade ago.

Mother, in her usual pristine silk blouse and diamond earrings, picks at her salad like it’s made of pieces of pretty cardboard. Father, looking vaguely irritated as he reads something on his phone, barely glances up.

Drew and I keep the conversation moving—if only to keep it from sliding into ice-cold silence.

“So, Dad,” Drew says, cutting into his steak, “any progress with the mediator?”

Father makes a noncommittal sound, still scrolling. Mother, without looking up, murmurs, “Of course not.”

I stab my fork into my chicken a little harder than necessary. “Glad to see this is going well.”

Drew shoots me a look that’s purelydon’t start.

I take an aggressive bite instead.

Our father sighs, setting down his phone. “We’re handling it, children.”

Drew, to his credit, doesn’t roll his eyes. But I see the effort it takes. “I’m just saying,” he continues, voice perfectly level, “the sooner we finalize everything, the better. For everyone.”

Mother dabs her lips with her napkin. “Indeed.”

The conversation dies a graceless death.

I focus on my plate, trying to ignore the tension pressing into my ribs. After dinner, Drew follows me into the hallway, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He’s studying me. I can feel it—the careful assessment, the way his brows pull together like he’s trying to figure out what, exactly, is wrong with me tonight.

"So," he says, voice light, like he's picking his words carefully, "how are you doing?"

I freeze for half a second before reaching for my coat. “I’m fine.”

Drew exhales, sharp and unimpressed. “Right.”

I throw him a look. “What?”

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