Sleep Over

A Week Later

Cassidy’s invitation arrived like sunlight through stained glass—unexpected, beautiful, and a little startling. It came during lunch, in a folded note delicately perfumed and slipped into Lydia’s hand with a grin.

“You’re coming,” Cassidy said, full of her usual light. “No excuses. I need someone sane to read poetry with and mock the art on my

father’s walls.”

Lydia raised an eyebrow. “Poetry and bad art?”

Cassidy smirked. “And silk pajamas. And too many chocolate truffles.”

So, Lydia said yes.

The drive to the D’Aramitz estate was long enough to leave behind the greys and golds of the city, trading them for countryside thick with trees that arched like cathedral ceilings. When the gates opened—tall and wrought iron, entwined with roses—Lydia felt something shift in the air. Wealth here wasn’t loud. It was deep, quiet, and old. It breathed through the soil.

The estate rose before them like something carved from a fairytale—no, not a fairytale,

Lydia thought. A legacy.

A sweeping manor of cream stone and

ivy-wrapped towers stood in the center of

expansive grounds. The windows were tall and arched, each one glowing with amber light as if the house had been stitched from stories. There were fountains that whispered and gravel paths that stretched like veins through manicured gardens. The house was alive.

Regal. Watching.

Inside, it was even more surreal.

The floors gleamed under velvet-soft rugs, and the ceilings were adorned with murals of

angels and storm clouds. Chandeliers sparkled like constellations. A butler took Lydia’s coat with a bow, and a maid offered her rosewater tea before she could even say thank you.

Cassidy led her up a winding staircase, talking the whole time about nothing and everything—about the scent of lemon in the laundry, the butler who sang opera when he thought no one was listening, how the third-floor gallery gave her nightmares.

They passed paintings of solemn men in

powdered wigs, women with corseted waists and haunted eyes. Lydia imagined them

whispering behind their frames, curious about the strange girl with unpolished shoes.

“You live here?” Lydia finally asked, breathless.

Cassidy laughed. “Surreal, right? I still wake up some mornings expecting a bell tower and a bunch of nuns.”

They spent the evening in Cassidy’s room, a space filled with silks and candles and an

absurd number of pillows. There were books stacked in corners, record players humming, and lavender soap that made Lydia feel like she was bathing in clouds. They wore

matching pajamas—cream and pink—and sat cross-legged on the floor surrounded by

pastries, beauty products, and open poetry books.

It was warm. Easy. Like sisterhood.

Later, while brushing her hair in front of the

ornate mirror, Cassidy sighed, almost too

quietly.

“I think I have a crush.”

Lydia, curled on the rug with a cup of vanilla tea, blinked. “Really? Who?”

Cassidy’s cheeks turned the color of

raspberries. “Maxwell.”

Lydia sat up straighter. “Maxwell as in…

Callum’s friend?”

Cassidy nodded, eyes flickering to the mirror as if afraid it would judge her. “He’s so… I don’t know. Charming. All the girls fawn over him, but I think he’s deeper than he lets on.”

Lydia smiled, not mocking, just curious. “Does Callum know?”

Cassidy gave her a look. “Do you think I want to be interrogated over dinner?”

They laughed, dissolving into giggles that filled the room like perfume. For a moment, Lydia felt far from the academy. Far from everything sharp and watching.

But that illusion didn’t last.

Because later, when the house fell quiet and Lydia stepped into the hallway in search of water, she nearly collided with him.

Callum.

He stood at the end of the corridor,

half-shadowed, barefoot and shirtless beneath an open robe. His presence was sharp,

immediate. The kind that re-centered gravity.

For a second, neither of them spoke. The

hallway, with its gold sconces and silk-draped walls, seemed to hold its breath.

“You’re staying here,” he said finally, voice low.

“I was invited,” Lydia replied, equally quiet.

He moved closer, slow and deliberate, until they were a breath apart.

“You didn’t think to mention that when we met earlier?” he asked, eyes unreadable.

“I didn’t think it mattered,” Lydia said.

A silence unfurled—tight, pulsing.

Callum’s gaze flicked over her, not in lust, but in assessment. He looked like a boy who had never been told no, standing in a house where everything belonged to him—even silence.

“You don’t fit in here,” he said softly, and it was unclear whether it was meant to wound or warn.

“I’m not trying to,” Lydia whispered.

His jaw tensed, and something in his

expression shifted—softer, but not safer.

He stepped closer, and she could feel the heat of him now, the quiet storm beneath his calm.

“Good,” he said, after a long moment. “Fitting in is overrated.”

And just like that, he walked away, barefoot down the silent hall.

Lydia stood there, heart drumming in her throat, unsure if they had argued or bonded. Or both.

Back in the room, Cassidy was already asleep, her breath soft and steady beneath the pale canopy of her bed.

Lydia climbed under the sheets, the house humming around her like a memory.

She didn’t know what Callum meant to be.

But she knew this: he was not someone you ignored.