Time is a luxury

"Come on, sweetheart." Mrs. Mayfield finds herself a way through the adult men and blocks the room entrance.

she comes in and takes my wrist. "Come little one, let's drink some tea in the kitchen."

As Mrs. Mayfield drags me out of the room, I look at Evan, who gives me a reassuring nod. I also look at my dad, who warns me with his eyes. Again I bow my head and follow Mrs. Mayfield as an obedient little girl.

The walk to the kitchen feels endless, Mrs. Mayfield's hand firm but not harsh on my wrist. Her composure is unnerving, the perfect image of grace under pressure. I can't help but wonder how much of it is a façade, a mask she wears to keep everything in its place.

The house is eerily silent now, except for the sound of our footsteps echoing on the polished wood floors. I glance over my shoulder once, catching the faint murmur of voices from the room we left behind. My father. Carter. Evan. I can only imagine what kind of scene is unfolding without me there.

"Sit," Mrs. Mayfield urges us as we approach the kitchen. Her tone is soft, but it offers no space for disagreement. I comply by lowering myself onto one of the island's stools. She moves with deliberate care, placing a teapot on the burner and collecting two beautiful porcelain cups from a cabinet.

"Would you like sugar?" She asks, as if this were a perfectly typical evening and my world hadn't just been turned upside down.

"No, thank you," I said softly, my voice barely audible.

She turns to me, her look unreadable. For a minute, she looks at me, her piercing eyes taking in every aspect. It makes me feel as if I'm under a microscope, exposed in ways that words cannot express.

"You're a smart girl, Sophia," she says, her voice calm and calculated. "Smarter than most give you credit for, I believe."

I don't know what to say, so I sit there, hands folded tightly in my lap.

"You must understand," she says, pouring the tea carefully, "that the world we live in has rules. Rules that existed long before you or I came around. They may appear unfair—cold, even—but they are what maintains everything in order."

Her words linger in the air, thick with insinuation.

"I know," I say quietly, not sure if it's true. I want to know. I want to comprehend. But right now, everything feels impossible to solve, as if I'm drowning in a sea of demands with no way out.

Mrs. Mayfield pours a cup of tea in front of me and takes a seat across the island, her posture perfect. "Evan… He's always been different. Wild, untamed. It's both his charm and his doom. "He drags others into his chaos without thinking about the consequences."

"I know he's a good guy," I add, gazing at the tea in my cup. "He's just a bit unpredictable and hard to read sometimes," I admit.

Mrs. Mayfield tilts her head slightly, her face softening in a way that is both maternal and calculated. "That unpredictability, Sophia, is precisely what makes him dangerous," she replies quietly but firmly. "Not as scary as you might think—he's not harsh or malevolent. Disregarding rules and balance can have serious consequences.

I shuffle uneasily on the stool, the weight of her words weighing down on me. The tea in front of me has not been touched, and steam curls lazily into the air. "He's not trying to hurt anyone," I say again, my voice barely above a whisper.

"No," she agrees, leaning forward slightly and folding her hands neatly on the counter. "However, in our world, intentions are not always enough. Evan thrives in chaos. It's where he feels the most alive. However, people like us—like you—cannot afford instability. "Not if we want to survive."

I raise my sight to meet hers, and for the first time, I notice something beneath her calm appearance. A glimmer of emotion—pity, perhaps, or understanding. I can't tell which.

"Do you want to survive, Sophia?" she asks, her tone sharp as a sword.

The question throws me off guard, and I blink, wondering what to say. Do I want to survive? Of course, I do. But is survival enough? Is it enough to live in the gilded cage, to obey the rules, to be the obedient daughter, the dutiful companion, and the ideal representation of what everyone expects?

"I…" The words get caught in my throat, and I look down at my hands, which tremble slightly on the smooth surface of the counter. "I don't know."

Mrs. Mayfield sighs quietly. "You're young," she replies, her tone softer now. "It's natural to have questions and be restless. But life is about choices, my dear. And sometimes the most difficult decision is to accept the role we've been assigned.

Her words linger in the air, and I feel a flash of frustration rise within me. Accept the role I have been given? How can I when my role feels like a prison? When every move I take and every word I say is judged against others' expectations?

"What if I don't want to?" I ask before I can control myself, my voice shaking but defiant. "What if I want something else?" "Something more?"

Mrs. Mayfield's lips form a faint, sad grin. "Then you must be willing to fight for it, Sophia. And you must be cautious of the cost. Freedom always has a price."

The weight of her words falls on me like a heavy cloak, and a shiver runs down my spine. I remember Evan, his pledge to help me break free, the fire in his eyes, and the conviction in his voice. I think about Carter, his strong sense of duty, and how he tried to protect me despite all the chaos. And I think of my father, his grave expression, and the walls he's built around me, which I'm not sure I can climb.

For a moment, I don't know what to say. I'm not sure how to feel. All I know is that the path ahead of me is unpredictable, and the decisions I make now will influence everything that follows.

"I need time," I mumble to myself rather than Mrs. Mayfield.

She nods, as though she understands. "Time is a luxury, Sophia." But I hope you utilize it wisely.

Her words stay with me long after the tea has cooled.