Chapter 1 ”Moving”
P O V · ETHAN
We left Chicago at the end of summer. I had just turned twenty-one.
Too abruptly for it to be called just a "new chapter." Too quickly for me to get used to the idea that I was actually leaving.
The boxes appeared in the apartment one morning — many of them, identical, neatly lined up along the walls. I clipped one with my foot as I walked past, and it didn't even shift.
Two weeks later, the city I'd grown up in had become nothing more than a place we'd left.
My father made the decision on a Wednesday. By Friday the papers were signed.
No one asked us.
No one ever asked me and my mother.
I'd long since gotten used to it.
The house in New York met us with silence. Not a cozy silence — a deliberate one. Almost calibrated down to the smallest detail.
We'd been here before. Sometimes we came for a few days, when my father needed to stay in the city on business. Always briefly.
No one had planned on living here.
And yet the house met us with the same silence. The kind where every sound becomes too distinct: your own footsteps, the faint creak of parquet under someone else's feet, the distant hum of the city beyond thick glass.
I walked forward without stopping, ran my hand along the back of the sofa — no dust.
So everything had been prepared in advance.
Of course.
My mother moved slowly through the rooms. She touched the furniture — first with her fingertips, then with her palm, lingering longer than she needed to. Ran her hand along the edge of the table, the glass of the cabinet.
Stopped at the window.
"It's beautiful here," she said it like she was trying to convince herself.
My father didn't even look in her direction
He was already on the phone — the moment we walked in. He passed us without slowing.
"I've seen the figures. No, 'almost' doesn't work for me. Either we do it properly, or we don't do it at all."
"Mr. Williams, I've brought the documents for your signature," a man in a suit said in a low voice.
My father only gave a brief wave in reply.
And the office door closed behind them.
My mother let her hand fall. She smiled — quickly, almost imperceptibly.
I held my gaze on the closed door a little longer than I should have.
Then turned away.
At dinner, it was all the same.
A large table — too large for three. White plates. The quiet, almost sterile sound of cutlery.
I pulled my chair a little further out than usual and sat down without hurrying.
My mother sat across from me, cutting her food into small, neat pieces, though she barely ate.
My father — at the head of the table. His phone lay beside his plate. He wasn't looking at it, but he kept it in his field of vision.
"University," he said. "You start tomorrow."
I nodded.
"Harlow University. I didn't choose it at random. The children of the right people study there."
I looked up.
"I figured."
He paused for a second, studying me as if appraising another investment.
"Connections form early," he went on. "You don't have to be friends with everyone. But you need to understand who can be useful to you."
I leaned back in my chair.
"And if I'm not interested?"
My mother's eyes snapped up.
A pause.
My father's expression didn't change.
"You will be," he said calmly.
"Maybe he just needs to study?"
"Natalie..." My father didn't have to raise his voice. One look was enough to silence my mother completely.
I smirked, just barely.
"Because you've decided so?"
The silence grew denser. Almost tangible.
My mother lowered her eyes back to her plate.
My father slowly set down his cutlery. Laced his fingers.
"Because you understand how things work," he answered.
I held his gaze.
"Or because you want me to play by your rules."
Another pause.
A long one.
He didn't raise his voice.
"There's no difference."
I nodded slowly.
"There is."
I didn't go on.
Neither did he.
"Besides," he added a second later, his voice already evening out, "they know the name there. The Cole Foundation is one of the university's sponsors."
I looked at him.
"So more will be expected of me."
It wasn't a question.
He nodded.
"Don't disappoint."
I picked up my fork.
"We'll see."
After dinner my mother stayed in the kitchen.
I stopped in the doorway.
She was sitting at the table with a cup of tea, warming her palms against the hot porcelain.
"Are you all right?" I asked.
She turned.
"Of course. I'm just... getting used to it."
"To what?"
She looked out the window.
The room met me with the smell of fresh paint and something foreign, something that hadn't yet become mine.
Boxes along the wall. A bed without a cover. A bare desk.
I dropped my backpack on the floor. It struck a box and slowly slid down.
The window looked out onto the inner courtyard: a streetlight, a tree, a bench.
Empty.
I came closer, looked down for a few seconds.
Then stepped back.Lay down on the bed, hands behind my head.
University. New people.
A place where everything had long since been decided — roles, groups, rules.
My plan had been to finish university in Chicago, get out, and do what I actually wanted.
But, as it turned out, my father had plans of his own where I was concerned.
And, of course, they led straight into Cole Holdings
I slowly ran my tongue along the inside of my cheek and smirked.
We'll see.
I wasn't planning on adjusting to anyone.
Outside the window, the city was living its own life — loud, fast, indifferent.
Cars rushed by somewhere below, the light of the streetlamps fell across the ceiling in ragged stripes, and New York didn't seem to notice that someone had just started a new life here.
I stared into the darkness, not closing my eyes.
And somehow I was certain of only one thing:
tomorrow everything would change.
