Page 45 of Jayson
KEIRA
The hum of the engine fills the silence. The world passes by outside the window—gray streets, sleepy storefronts, half-dead trees lining the sidewalk like skeletons bracing for winter.
Jayson hasn’t said much since we left the estate. His jaw’s tight, one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the gearshift with the same quiet tension he carries in his spine. He’s not a man who does small talk. And I’m not in the mood for it. Still, when he speaks, his voice is low and deliberate—more instruction than conversation.
“You came home for the weekend,” he says. “Got in on Thursday night, left for a friend’s house until Sunday.”
I nod. “Okay.”
“You stayed a few days with a friend. Doesn’t matter who. You’re private. You don’t give names.”
“Right.”
“If they ask why you didn’t come back when the news broke?—”
“I didn’t want to deal with the press,” I finish. “My father was always a magnet for a media circus.”
He glances at me, the corner of his mouth twitching in what just might be approval.
“You’ve got this,” he mutters.
Do I?
I nod, too numb to answer out loud, because the truth is—this isn’t something you ‘get.’ This is something you survive. I’m nineteen years old. And I’m Mrs. Jayson Caluna. Married. To a man who kills for a living. To a man I barely know. A man not of my choosing.
The ceremony was rushed, signatures scrawled in ink still wet when my newhusbanddecided he needed to “clear his head” with a drive. Not exactly a honeymoon, but I didn’t expect champagne and roses. Not when the only reason I’m his wife is because it grants him legal protection. Spousal privilege. A legal loophole dressed up as matrimony.
He asked if I wanted to collect some of my things. As if I’m still allowed a version of my old life. As if I even have an old life to return to.
I think he believes he’s being generous.
He told me—calmly, like we were discussing weather or taxes—that I could continue my studies. That I could come and go from the estate as I pleased, give or take. The only non-negotiable was the estate itself. I had to live there, full-time. Just in case anyone ever decided to dig into the authenticity of our union.
He framed it like a compromise. I call it what it is: a gilded cage with slightly ajar doors. And I? I'm the girl who walked in willingly. Because the alternative was death.
So yes, I “got this”. But at what cost?
I stare out the window.
The houses are getting more familiar now. They wear their normalcy like a mask—white fences, wind chimes, trimmed hedges. The same neighborhood where evil lurks behindmanicured lawns. Bad things happened here when I was young and no one looked too hard.
I can feel the weight of it pressing on my chest.
“I won’t tell anyone,” I say suddenly, the words slipping out before I can second-guess them. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
He doesn’t respond right away. His fingers drum once against the steering wheel.
“I know.”
That’s all he says. Just that he knows.He doesn’t trust me—not really. Men like him don’t trust easy. But I hope he understands one thing—I have no reason to talk. No one to tell. No interest in dragging the truth into the light when it’s already buried deep enough to suffocate us both.
Because some truths are safer in the dark. And this one? I plan to keep it buried.
The moment we turn onto my street, something coils tight in my chest—my breath hitching, my spine locking like my body already knows what’s coming.
Jayson guides the car up the long, winding driveway, each turn pulling me deeper into a past I swore I’d outrun.
And then it’s there. My father’s house. Still pristine. Towering. Pretending to be something it never was. It hasn’t changed—but I have, and that makes all the difference.
