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Twyla
I breathed a sigh of relief as Cedra Holloway strode out the front door, her heavy boots echoing on the plasti-wood floor. I’d only known her for brief moments, yet I could already picture the permanent frown on her face and tightness in her shoulders as she walked away from the house.
My long, cumbersome engagement skirt swooshed along the tiles as I cautiously padded over the large front windows and pressed my face to the glass pane. There were large groups of people gathered across the dried field, and I squinted, trying to get a closer look at the festivities.
I’d only ever attended flashy Feast Balls, though I knew from my anthropology studies that people on other Stars celebrated very differently. Royals like me didn’t feast prior to planting crops or harvesting—we just feasted because it was an excuse to party.
I’d never had the chance to see celebrations on a different Star, especially a closed one. It was a privilege not open to many. I cupped my hands around my eyes to try to get a better view, but they were simply too far away to make out much of what was happening or what anyone was saying.
I watched, entranced by the huge and uncontrolled blaze of the bonfire and the uncoordinated singing, until I felt a cramp in my calf. It shook me a little to see how much louder people were here, more free, and certainly happier. There was no routine to their dances...they simply danced, laughed and enjoyed themselves without reservation, so very different from the coordinated and repetitive dances back home
I caught myself smiling on different occasions as I watched them, foot tapping idly even though I couldn’t hear the beat.
How I wished I could be a part of them, carefree, and not tied down by damn Royal rules.
At the periphery of my vision, I could just about recognize the shadow of Cedra Holloway seated on a low bench with a bottle in her hand. She was a few feet away from everyone else, her form easy and relaxed—a clear contrast to how she’d looked like a while ago.
I would’ve been blind not to notice the power in her form and the strength in her body. After all, she did tower over me with those broad shoulders.
But I couldn’t help but feel there was a softness about her as well. I felt it in the way she’d held me tight without actually hurting me—in her purposefully gruff voice, meant only to scare me.
But I felt it most when her gaze had softened as I pleaded my case with her.
There was more to Cedra Holloway than met the eye.
I moved away from the glass, still staring at the hypnotizing bonfire, and nearly tripped over the box I arrived in.
Bending low, I picked it up, trying to tuck it under one arm but settling for two in the end. The box was heavier than I imagined as I dragged it to the back of the large house and propped it against the cooler.
The kitchen was a spacious plasti-wood affair with a small dining table to one side and a cookery on the other. There was also ample counter space for the avid cook—not that I was one, but I sincerely believed that was only because I hadn’t been given the opportunity to try what my mother had considered a “menial task.” Until now.
If I were to survive on my own, I needed to know the basics, like how to operate a stove. Sadly, I could count on one hand the number of times I’d entered the kitchens back home. There simply wasn’t a need—the bots would get me anything I wanted.
It doesn’t look like someone lives here, I thought as I took in the bare kitchen.
There were no curtains adorning the windows or even a digital picture to line the walls. The place barely looked lived-in, if it wasn’t for the worn plasti-wood.
I compared it to my suite at home, with its muted pastel walls and cream-colored lace curtains that I’d sewn myself a few years ago. Vanilla-infused scents were pumped through the vents at intervals so it always smelled fresh and inviting, like soft baked goods. It had been my refuge for so long that the thought of never setting foot in the room that probably still bore my imprint on the bed was unfathomable.
And yet, here I stood, alone in a stranger’s kitchen, knowing I could never return to my old life. My decision to leave had been hasty. Perhaps some would call it reckless, but I held no regrets. All my life, I’d been haunted by my family’s expectations of me—the sole heir to the Oboid fortune and a perfectly respectable socialite in the upper crust of Royal One.
Even when I was alone, I felt a pressure on my shoulders pushing against the fragile curve of my spine. I’d studied marketing because my dad had decreed it would be the best thing for our business. And I’d taken etiquette classes because my mother had repeatedly instilled in me that I represented the Oboid name.
Each time I closed my eyes, I was reminded that my life wasn’t my own. Not truly.
And when they’d introduced me to my future husband, it felt like they’d cuffed my hands and cut off my oxygen. I’d fallen deeper and deeper into a breathless void each day that followed, until I knew I had to make a choice: get out now or forever hold my peace in the worst misery I could fathom.
How odd, I thought as I reached for what I assumed was the service door at the back of the kitchen. My chest feels different. Looser. As though I can finally breathe.
The creak of the hinges made me jump and I quickly called out for the lights, desperately needing to neutralize the creepy feeling awakened by the hinges.
My frustrated groan echoed back to me when the dim white light flooded the room...it was a service room that was used for storage.
Great.
My shoulders sagged. There were random items everywhere! Old furniture, filing cabinets, odd stacks of documents, even an ancient guitar that looked like it had seen better days.
I scanned the small room and spotted a window with a cushioned ledge that was laden with boxes that could possibly double as a bed.
