Page 1 of Friend
Chapter One
Sunrise
The ear-shattering screech of an alarm was my first hint that it was going to be a terrible day. I wiped my eyes as I rolled out of my bed and tried to ignore the red numbers mocking me that, yes, itwasactually four-thirty in the morning. Even the sun had not risen yet.
Despite having followed this schedule for years, I’d never gotten used to waking up this early. However, I had no choice. I had too many things to do before school. Sleeping in was a luxury I couldn’t afford.
Especially lately.
Norman—my brother’s second-in-command, who not-so-discreetly coveted my position as Er Bashou—had been sucking up to my quintet to convince them to replace me. The problem was I knew that if they decided to accept Norman’s request, I would have no argument for maintaining my role. Iwasslacking in my duties to Damen, so he had a point.
But it wasn’t entirely my fault either.
It was getting harder to do both jobs, and I wasn’t sure how much longer I could keep this up.
But even though I should focus on Damen, I couldn’t. My current job was more important.
I could only do my best until I didn’t have to do this alone anymore.
The drafty air chilled me as I walked down the long, cold hallway and down the dark stairwell. Mother’s house was ridiculously huge, especially seeing as though it was only her and me—and a handful of servants—who even lived here. But she kept it, hoping that one day, the four of us would live together again.
Meanwhile, I wanted nothing more than to get out.
I grit my teeth at the thought of spending another day here—at this place that I hated, and at the school that I could have already chosen to leave. However, I couldn’t graduate early—I couldn’t leave her behind.
Everything I’d worked so hard for would be pointless if I did.
The air grew lighter as I neared the kitchen, and the smell of bacon drifted into the hallway. I pushed open the thick, white door and entered the room.
“Good morning, Mr. Abernathy!” Georges was in the process of making breakfast. “You’re up early.” The southern man nodded toward me and grinned, his dark hair gleaming under the bright white lights that could sometimes reflect too much in the industrial kitchen and make a person’s eyes hurt. “You’re still young. Surely you need more sleep than this.”
I silently waved back—still half-asleep—as this was something we went through every day, and headed toward the small empty counter, tucked in the corner of the kitchen that Georges always left empty for me.
There was no other place in the kitchen that was mine, and I didn’t particularly enjoy cooking. But Georges had quickly learned that there was one thing that he could not do for me.
I would not let him because this was different. I was doing this forher.
I moved through the familiar steps in practiced haste, but not without making sure my intent was focused. Flour, sugar, eggs, clove, cinnamon…
“Looking good, Mr. Abernathy.” Georges peeked over my shoulder as I stirred honey into the brown cake mixture. “Another success. Although, I’m not sure why you just don’t make a large one on the weekend and just pack a slice each day.”
“I can’t useoldcake. It has to be new,” I told him, pouring the freshly mixed batter in the miniature cake dish. “It tastes different.”
She would definitely notice—she was observant like that.
Especially about food.
“If you say so.” He hummed, although I could tell by his tone he didn’t agree. “There’s fresh milk in the fridge.” His reminder was curious as always, because he knew I generally didn’t drink milk—but I took some to school every day. “I’m making a cappuccino for your mother; would you like one?”
Cappuccino?
I glanced toward the gadget that Mom had been gushing over during dinner last night. She’d just gotten it over the weekend and wouldn’t stop talking about its life changing properties.
It didn’t interest. I didn’t like fancy coffee. In fact, I drank mine plain or with a little bit of sugar. But I knew someone who did like that sort of thing.
“I’ll take my regular coffee for the drive.” I turned back to my project, setting the small four-by-four mold into place. “But can you make a second one for me? Please make sure it’s light and sweet.”
Georges suddenly stopped pretending to work and leaned over the edge of my baking station, pressing his elbow lightly into my side. “There’s no way you’re drinking that.” He smirked at me, voice almost a conspiratorial whisper. “Did you get a girlfriend?”
