He didn't like silence.
He worshipped it.
Silence told him the house was working. That the cameras were breathing. That the locks were in place and the routines were obeyed. Silence meant Serene was outside — alone, vulnerable, exposed — and that she would come home craving walls again.
Roman stood in the observatory above the east wing, a glass of wine untouched in his hand. The sun painted long shadows across the garden. Below him, Lelo was practicing curtsies in her yellow dress. Alone.
She'd refused lunch.
Again.
Roman didn't need to ask why.
---
"She's been gone for six hours," Lelo muttered, plucking petals from the same flowerbed Serene had once stared into. "Six hours and twenty-two minutes. She's probably with him."
Roman turned toward her voice.
"With who?"
"The boy. The one who gave her oranges. I saw them once." Lelo's eyes narrowed. "He touched her hand."
Roman didn't flinch. "He's not a problem anymore."
Lelo looked up sharply. "Did you kill him?"
Roman smiled. "You know I don't like when you ask that."
"I just don't want her to forget me," she said, her voice brittle. "I was the first one who loved her. The first one who chose her."
Roman knelt to her height.
"You were the beginning. You always will be."
"But she left."
"And she'll come back. Because this is home. Because we built her here."
Lelo stared at the front gates.
Then whispered, "I don't want to share her anymore."
Roman looked past her, through the trees.
> "You won't have to. Not for long."
---
Later that evening, just before the kitchen staff set the table, Roman received a call.
He didn't recognize the number.
He answered anyway.
A smooth voice, male, older: "We're coming. I assume you remember what real family looks like."
Then silence.
Roman lowered the phone.
And began to smile.
--