Time flowed strangely here. Days were measured in naps, meals, and the soft sounds of the Ayer estate, yet every moment felt like an eternity to a mind that remembered seventeen years. But today… Today felt different.
I had done it. Crawled. Across the polished wooden floors of the nursery, unassisted, moving from one corner to another with deliberate, careful determination. The thrill that surged through me was overwhelming. This was my first real act of freedom, and it felt like a rebellion, even if no one but my nanny would notice.
- Richard, careful!- My nanny's voice was gentle but alert, hovering just in case I toppled over. She had been my constant companion in this new life, guiding me, watching over me, but also giving me room to explore. I had come to trust her, though I never let her know how much I relied on her presence.
I paused, balancing on my small hands and knees, marveling at the textures under my palms. The polished floor was smooth, warm from sunlight streaming through the windows, and smelled faintly of wax and lavender. I reached for a wooden toy near a miniature horse and felt the grain of the wood, the subtle imperfections that made it real, tangible. I remembered a wooden horse from my old life, one I had been allowed to play with as a child, yet it had always felt hollow, controlled, meaningless. This one… felt alive.
I looked down at myself in the sunlight streaming across the nursery. My hair, white with streaks of red, like a living tapestry, shimmered in the light, a perfect mix of my mother Melinda's pale skin and white hair, and my father Patrick's dark skin and vivid red hair. Even in this infant body, I could feel the uniqueness of it. A mark of both heritage and individuality, something I had never been allowed to be in my previous life.
I moved again, curious about the little things I could reach. Fabrics, toys, and the edges of furniture. Every texture, every sound, every scent was a discovery. I could hear the distant echoes of the estate footsteps on marble, the soft rustle of leaves outside the window, the murmur of voices I didn't recognize but that carried authority. This world was bigger than I could comprehend, and for the first time, I didn't feel constrained.
My nanny smiled at me, picking me up briefly to reposition me. Her hands were warm, steady, and comforting, and I realized that though I was free to explore, I still needed guidance. There was safety in that balancea strange, novel feeling after a life where I had always feared my parents' control.
I paused, considering my parents. Patrick is strong and imposing with red hair and dark skin. Melinda, graceful and pale, hair like moonlight. I was their son, Richard Ayer, the first and only heir to the Dukal house, and yet… I was no one's puppet here. I had the memories, the knowledge, and the chance to live a life for myself, starting from scratch. And for the first time, I felt something close to hope.
I crawled again, this time toward the window, mesmerized by the world beyond. Trees swayed gently, leaves whispering in the wind. Sunlight splashed across the garden below, and for the first time in my seventeen-year-old life or my new life as RichardI felt the pure, unfiltered joy of being alive.
This world was vast, mysterious, and entirely mine to explore.
It didn't take long.
Footsteps echoed from the hallway beyond the nursery door, measured at first, then hurried. My nanny straightened immediately, her attention shifting away from me as the door opened.
And then she was there.
- Richard!-
My mother rushed toward me, abandoning all elegance in her haste. Melinda Ayer dropped to her knees and scooped me up without hesitation, pressing me tightly against her chest. Her cheeks rubbed against mine again and again, soft and warm, her laughter breathless and genuine.
- There you are… there you are…- she murmured, as if afraid I might disappear.
I froze.
Her warmth was real. I could clearly feel the steady rhythm of her heart, the heat of her skin, and the faint scent of flowers and clean linen. This wasn't staged. This wasn't for appearances. No audience watched her now.
And yet… I couldn't trust it.
Not after my old life.
Memories clawed their way backhands that guided me not out of love but control, praise that existed only when I performed correctly, affection measured and conditional. I had learned early that warmth could be a leash.
My small hands curled instinctively into her clothes, but my mind pulled away.
Do I even belong here?
The thought struck harder than I expected.
This life wasn't originally mine. Somewhere, in some possibility that would never exist now, there might have been another child. Their real son. A boy who would have grown up without my memories, without my scars, without my fear.
Had I stolen his place?
Did I have the right to be here held like this, loved like this?
A darker thought followed.
Should I leave?
The idea crept in quietly. Slip away one day. Disappear before they could grow attached. Set myself free before I hurt them by existing. Because if I stayed… wasn't I stealing something precious? The simple happiness of raising their own child?
My chest tightened.
And yet, if I left… wouldn't that steal something too?
I was still trapped in those thoughts when I noticed him.
Patrick Ayer stood near the corner of the room, arms crossed, watching us silently. He didn't rush forward like my mother. He didn't smile widely or speak. He simply observed, sharp eyes taking in every detail.
My father.
He was… intimidating. Tall, broad-shouldered, dark-skinned, with striking red hair that contrasted sharply against his composed expression. I didn't see him often. He was usually away, gone for days at a time.
Sometimes, too many times, he came back drenched in blood.
Not wounded. Just… bloodied.
I didn't know what he did outside these walls. I didn't know what kind of man he truly was. And that uncertainty unsettled me more than fear ever could.
What kind of people am I tied to now?
But there was something else, too.
Whenever Patrick was home, truly home, he never wasted a moment. He always made sure to spend time with us. With her. With me.
His gaze softened when it landed on me.
- There he is,- he said quietly. - You're late, Melinda. He might've crawled halfway across the estate by now.-
She laughed softly, still holding me close. - And I would have followed him every step.-
Patrick stepped closer then, reaching out with a careful finger. He didn't touch much, just brushed my tiny hand, as if unsure how much strength to use.
- You ready, little one?- he asked. - We're taking you outside today.-
Outside.
The word echoed in my mind.
My first outing. Beyond these walls. Beyond the nursery. Beyond safety and routine.
Fear stirred old instincts whispering that leaving the house meant danger, judgment, and expectations.
But alongside it came something new.
Curiosity.
The nanny began preparing things quickly, efficiently, and with practiced skill. My mother adjusted her grip, holding me protectively. My father turned toward the door, already thinking ahead.
As they carried me out of the room, I looked back one last time at the place where I had first learned to crawl, to explore, to exist.
I didn't know if I belonged to this family.
I didn't know if I ever would.
But for now, wrapped in warmth, carried forward into an unknown world, I allowed myself to stay.
Just a little longer.