Page 7 of Dream On, Liar

The estate rose around me in quiet grandeur, all polished stone and careful silence—almost like it was some movie set. There had been a time it was simply home. I’d been too young to remember it that way myself, barely a toddler then, but from the pieces I’d put together from fading photographs and the fragments of memory my father chose to share…it had been a cluster of happy moments. Though, over the years it had become a symbol of obligation instead. Filled with memories that were scheduled, rather than created.

I was already five minutes late, and if you had the displeasure to know my father—you’d know that he always made a fuss about it. Still, all I could do was stare at the front door.

I’d even left earlier than what I was supposed to, just to make sure I didn’t give him another thing to fuss about, but my plan hadn’t worked.

This was exactly why I wasn’t a planner.

Plans meant expectations, and therefore the unbidden anxiety that came with the chance of not doing exactly as planned, and then disappointments that followed them.

At least, if I had left when I had to, and arrived late, I would’ve cared marginally less than I did in that moment. On regular days, I didn’t consider myself to be an anxious person—avoiding the plans helped that—but my father just triggered some unearthed issues. Social Media, and the self acclaimed professionals liked to frame them as daddy issues, but between the mommy issues, and the lack of interest I carried around, I liked to call them: ‘The aftermath of being a child of two teenagers who wanted me…until they didn’t.’

Gathering what little courage I could muster, I forced myself up to the front door. Before I could even raise my hand to knock, it swung open, revealing a woman I didn’t recognise.

I blinked, my gaze flicking over her neat uniform, and that alone told me enough. She was the new housekeeper, even if her face was unfamiliar.

I wonder where the tradition of keeping a housekeeper had begun.

The thought crossed my mind before I could properly register. Tucking it away to look up later, I gave her a smile.

“Miss,” She said with a small nod, and a practised smile. “Your father is in the news room.”

Of course he was.

I stepped inside, the warmth of the house calming the bite in my cheeks, the scent in the air was familiar, and yet there was a hint of change in it too. The inside of the house looked exactly as it always had, every surface in it’s place, every detail controlled, as if nothing here was ever allowed to shift without permission.

“Would you like something to drink?” She asked, shutting the door behind us. “I’ve just put a kettle on.”

I cleared my throat, forcing to remember she was a kind lady, and probably didn’t need to know the inner workings of my father—just yet. “I’m not sure if I’d be staying around long enough to finish that drink.”

Her lips pressed into a thin smile, like she knew exactly what I meant, and nodded.

Wonderful.

Without bothering to take off my coat, I murmured a quick thank you before heading past her.

Growing up I had learned that there was a clear difference between domestic houses, and well, my father’s house.

Where you’d normally find a living room, and open space…my father had a custom build news room. And yes, it was as horrific as it sounded. Multiple smaller screens lined together, displaying different channels while the biggest screen in the middle played the one he was most interested in. Although, there were times I’d caught him playing game footage too, but I’d always considered it to be an outlier, and not something worthy enough to replace the name it held.

I hovered near the door frame, my eyes landing on the screens first as they debated the same story, headlines looping, commentators dissecting, voices rising and folding over one another.

My name crawled across the bottom of one screen, paired with the contents of my research paper that held my attention before I registered what my father was saying. “I’ll handle it. She’s on her way—”

I stepped in properly then, careful, like the room might turn on me if I moved too fast.

His head snapped in my direction, sensing my presence and something close to disappointment passed through her expressions, and I stilled.

At forty-four, Mason Knox was exactly like the kind of man the screens loved, tailored, composed, and always half a step ahead of the narrative he was feeding them. There was something unmistakably athletic in the way he carried himself, like he hadn’t entirely left the field behind after a bad injury, just traded it for sharper suits and sharper words. His voice carried easily, low and assured, the kind that didn’t need to demand attention because it expected it. And as much as I hated it, there was still something familiar in it, something that settled somewhere deep before I could remind myself why it shouldn’t.

He ended the call without even bothering to finish his sentence, before flicking one button on the remote and muting all the screens simultaneously.

“What happened to Mrs. Smyth?” I asked, keeping my tone even, like that was the only thing I’d come in for.

“Retried.” He replied, his voice clipped and short.

I nodded, because what was I supposed to say to that?

I rocked on the balls of feet, remaining silent.