My first night

Violet’s Pov

I wasn’t honest when I said I’d seen better. That was just me trying to protect myself from the truth. Richard wasn’t some fantasy. He was real, right in front of me, and built like someone carved out of stubbornness and sweat. I hated that my eyes followed him whenever he walked into a room.

But I wasn’t here to crush on anyone. Especially not a guy who made it painfully clear that he didn’t want us here. He barely made eye contact, barely spoke unless he had to, and when he did, there was always this tone in his voice, like we were intruding. I got it. He didn’t like us. Fine. I didn’t like being here either.

I dropped onto the bed, which bounced like a trampoline. Everything about this place felt off. Too clean. Too cold. Like the kind of house people showed off in magazines but never actually lived in. The walls were blank, the lighting too perfect, and the air smelled of something overly sweet and artificial, like someone dumped an entire bottle of cheap perfume into the washing machine.

I tried to relax. I really did. But everything felt wrong. The sound of Michael’s footsteps in the next room, the mechanical hum from the vent above me, the distant traffic outside, even a dog barking somewhere far away, it all piled up in my head. There was no comfort here. No weight in the blanket. No peace in the silence.

I reached for my phone and hit play on the only thing that ever helped, rainfall mixed with the soft ringing of Tibetan bowls. I turned the volume up high and forced myself to lie still, eyes closed, arms stretched flat beside me. But no matter how much I breathed in and out, sleep didn’t come until long past midnight.

And even then, it didn’t stay. At six, my body shot awake like it always did. No alarm needed. I hadn’t slept in since the night my dad was taken from us. Since then, my body doesn't trust rest anymore. I got up. Just as I stepped into the hallway, the bathroom door swung open. Steam spilled out and Michael stood there, fresh from his shower, towel slung low across his waist like it belonged there. He smiled, all confident and relaxed.

“You’re up early, Violet.”

I didn’t answer. His good mood clashed too hard with mine. I didn’t wake up for conversation, I woke up to survive.

“Is there a gym in this house?” I asked.

“Yeah, in the basement. I’ll get dressed and show you.”

“Okay.”

I dressed in something simple. Tank, shorts, tied my hair back, filled my water bottle, grabbed my journal. Then I waited in the hall. He came out ready for work, tight shirt, stiff tie, arms pushing against fabric like it was a challenge. He looked like someone who didn’t know the meaning of subtle.

He led me down to the basement. Leather couches, a bar on one side, a sleek glass-walled gym on the other.

“Well? Impressed?” he asked.

“It’ll work.”

Then he prepared to leave and I stayed and for the first time since I came, I felt like I had a space to be alone. He flashed another smile, of course he had dimples. As if the broad chest, perfect jawline, and unfairly toned arms weren’t enough, he had to top it off with a smile that could melt steel. I was almost grateful when he finally left, shutting the gym door behind him and taking that ridiculous magnetism with him.

Alone at last. I flipped open my journal, scribbled a few quick thoughts, then adjusted the stationary bike to fit my short legs. Earbuds in, playlist on. The first beat dropped, and I pushed into a hill course, cranking the resistance high enough to hurt.

The pain was the point. There was so much I couldn’t control, grief, change, the awkward tension in this house, but I could control this. My breath. My movement. The burn in my thighs. I could make myself go harder, faster. I could decide to lift heavier, push past what I thought I could do. It wasn’t easy. I hated it. I loved it. It made me feel real again.

Thirty minutes later, legs aching and breath ragged, I slid off the bike and into my stretching routine. Then came weights. I hit the sets like a machine, biceps, shoulders, core, until my muscles tremble and my hands could barely hold the dumbbells.

And still, I kept going. Finally, I faced the mirror and ran through my katas. Slow, controlled, deliberate. Movements I’d memorized years ago, but still grounded me. By the time I finished, sweat clung to every inch of me. My pulse pounded in my ears, but my thoughts had stilled. That constant buzzing in my brain? Gone.

I felt calm. Not happy, never that, but calm. Like I’d clawed my way back to the surface.

I wiped everything down, tossed my towel in the hamper, and headed upstairs, tugging on a hoodie over my soaked tank top. The kitchen lights were already on, morning sun filtering through the big windows. My mom sat at the table, sipping coffee in one of her razor-sharp pantsuits, her hair immaculate as always. Mr. Bennett sat beside her, looking relaxed in a cardigan and slacks, nursing his own cup.

“Good morning, sweetheart,” Mom said, beaming. Her voice had that overly chipper tone that meant she was trying extra hard to make this feel normal.

“Michael said you found the gym,” she added, wrinkling her nose. “Did you enjoy it?”

“It was fine,” I said, crossing to the fridge like I owned the place. If I was going to be stuck here, I might as well act like I belonged.

“Do we have any lemons?”

“Uh…” Mr. Bennett scratched his head. “Housekeeper usually handles groceries. There’s a list on the fridge if you need something.”

I found a shriveled, tragic excuse for a lemon, squeezed what juice I could into my water bottle, and added “lemons” to the grocery list.

“Coffee?” he offered.

“No, thanks.” I took a long drink. “I don’t eat breakfast this early.”

Mom and Mr. Bennett exchanged a look and I ignored it.

“What are you doing today?” I asked.

She sighed. “Office. He’s teaching. Are you okay being alone?”

I rolled my eyes. “I’m not six.”

“She’s a writer,” Mom said with a proud smile.

“I am a writer,” I corrected.

Mr. Bennett smiled. “Would love to read something sometime.”

He really wouldn’t.

“Thanks. Have a good day.”

I kissed my mom’s cheek and slipped out, grateful to have dodged breakfast with her charming new stepsons.