Page 67 of Jayson
It’s being in a room full of people… and feeling like wallpaper.
It’s sleeping all day and still waking up tired.
Sadness is quiet.
That’s what makes it lethal. Grief doesn’t stomp or shout; it sinks claw-deep behind your ribs and waits for you to notice you’re bleeding. No cavalry rides in for a girl sitting alone with her silence. And I was raised to be polite—too polite to scream.
So I stand here on the landing, fingers gripping the banister, and let the hush gnaw at me.
Inventory time,my brain whispers, as if misery is a spreadsheet to reconcile:
Home? Gone—swallowed by mystery and evil and the inevitable questions that both will raise.
Family? Father dead, mother long buried, relatives vanishing like smoke the minute headlines turned toxic.
Friends? Empty group chats and unread apologies. The minute my father became public enemy number one, I too, became a pariah.
Future? University won’t touch the daughter of a scandal; the dean’s final e-mail was the politest exile I’ve ever received, even if I didn’t mention that part to Jayson. I know it was my choice to leave, but he didn’t have to make it so easy.
Freedom? Tricky. I’m married—to a man who killed my father—and living in a mansion that should be considered a gilded cage.
And yet, perversely, this is the safest I’ve felt in months.
Jayson Caluna never raises his voice, never raises a hand, never gives me the chilling smile my father perfected. He offers distance instead of threats; a locked door instead of a cage. Small mercies—but they count.
I force my stiff legs to move, descending the grand staircase one careful step at a time. My stockinged feet whisper against cold floorboards. Dawn light knifes through stained-glass windows, painting blood-red ribbons across the bannister. Outside, thunder rumbles—it’s been pacing the horizon since midnight, as restless as my thoughts.
Last night’s sleep was a knife fight inside my skull. I won, but just barely. The nightmares snapped at my heels but never dragged me under. That passes for victory these days.
I round the corner into the kitchen and find Nina exactly where dawn always puts her—centered at the long oak table, steaming mug cupped in her small, fragile hands. The room smells of fresh coffee and old lavender furniture polish. Nina, Jayson’s grandmother, is the kind of woman whose spine wasforged before the cool earth. I swear nothing rattles her except maybe an empty sugar bowl.
Her eyes flick to me, cobalt and assessing. “Morning, child.”
“Good morning.” My voice scratches out, thin as paper. I tug the sleeves of my oversized sweatshirt over my knuckles.
“You look like sleep tried to drown you again,” she says, mild but not unkind. She gestures toward the coffeemaker. “Pour yourself a cup before you fall over.”
I obey, cheeks heating. The mug is navy with a faded anchor decal; it feels solid in my shaking hands. Steam curls up from the lip. I add sugar—two spoons—and cradle the warmth like a talisman.
Jayson is nowhere in sight. Disappointment flickers in my chest, swift and stupid.What does that make me?A captive with Stockholm-flavored curiosity, apparently. I shove the feeling down.
Nina tracks the movement, one silver brow hiking. “He’s out on the eastern lawn. Running laps while the sky decides whether it wants to unleash its fury.”
I picture it—Jayson in gray sweats, breath ghosting in the cold, stride ruthless. The image scrapes something raw inside me.
“He trains at dawn every day,” Nina adds, as though explaining sunrise to a tourist. “Keeps his nightmares on a leash.”
“Does it work?” I ask before I can stop myself. I wonder what sort of nightmares a man like Jayson has.
“For him? Sometimes.” She takes a sip, eyes never leaving mine.
I manage half a smile and sit across from her. The chair is heavy, handmade, old; everything in this house feels like it will outlast us all.
“You live here on your own,” I say, although it’s more a statementthan a question. I haven’t seen anyone else around, and were it not for Lionel driving me to university, I wouldn’t have believed in his existence.
“Jayson’s the last of my family,” she confides. “The rest are all…gone.”
I swirl my coffee. “That must be hard. Do you… ever get used to it?”
