Chapter 2: Living in Luxury, Struggling to Care

Most high school girls go home to a normal house. A bedroom. A kitchen. A family member yelling at them to wash their lunchbox or stop staring at their phone and do homework. Something manageable. Something human-sized.

Me?

I go home to a ten-story luxury apartment tower with twenty-four-hour security, a concierge desk no one really needs, a marble fountain in the lobby that dispenses sparkling water like that’s a normal thing for a building to do, and a butler button in my suite. An actual button. Press it, and somewhere in this building, Chester appears like he was waiting behind the wallpaper.

Why?

Because my parents are rich.

Not regular rich. Not “nice car and too many golf clubs” rich. I mean absurdly rich. The kind of rich where you stop asking whether something is expensive and start asking whether it would look better in black or gold. The kind of rich where my parents thought handing their teenage daughter an apartment building counted as practical parenting.

I’m Mio. Middle child. The one people remember a few seconds too late. The invisible one. The forgotten discount offspring. Not as talented as the first, not as cute as the last.

So, in an act they probably described to each other as “fostering independence,” they handed me the keys to an entire luxury residence and told me to take care of it.

Take care of it.

Like it was a houseplant.

Like it had six leaves and a ceramic pot instead of ten floors, seventeen oversized suites, a heated rooftop pool, a mini theater, and an elevator voice that greets me by name and calls me Mistress Mio like I’m secretly the final boss of a very specific genre of video game.

Super normal high school stuff.

I live on the top floor in the Presidential Suite, which is not its official name, but if my parents get to be ridiculous, so do I. It has five bedrooms, a private fireplace that is electric because apparently my family trusts me with real estate but not open flame, and a mini library I have used exactly three times, all of them for napping. It also has a bidet that sings. I still haven’t figured out how to turn that feature off. I’m not sure I want to know.

The worst part is that the whole building works exactly as intended. It’s spotless. The lighting is warm. The air always smells faintly clean in a way that makes me suspicious. The staff knows what they’re doing.

And I’m the only person living in it.

That’s the part that makes it pathetic.

The place is ready for tenants. It has been ready for tenants. I’m the reason it doesn’t have any. I was supposed to manage it like a responsible adult, which sounds nice until you remember I’m a high school girl with classes, existential fatigue, and a growing talent for pretending problems will solve themselves if I scroll long enough.

There are two guards, though.

Zach and Randy.

Zach is huge. Like “if he stood in a doorway too casually, you’d assume the building had developed a wall” huge. Randy is shorter, rounder, and for reasons known only to himself, completely convinced I am some sort of underworld princess in a school uniform.

Yesterday, Randy threw the front gate open for me like he was announcing the arrival of nobility.

“Miss Mio! Suspicious activity on the ninth floor has been resolved!”

I stopped.

“What suspicious activity?”

He glanced at his clipboard.

“A broom fell over.”

I stared at him.

He straightened.

“False alarm, ma’am.”

That is the level I’m working with.

At this point, I think they’ve both accepted that I am technically their boss, even if my actual job mostly consists of going to school, eating badly, and remembering to nod gravely when someone says things like “lobby maintenance schedule.” I haven’t done anything especially boss-like yet, but I do bring them leftover takeout sometimes, which they accept with the solemn gratitude of men receiving war medals.

And then there’s Chester.

My butler.

Yes, I have a butler. No, I didn’t ask for one. He just came with the building the way old estates come with portraits that definitely watch you when you walk by.

Chester is tall, precise, and always dressed like he has a formal dinner to attend in exactly seven minutes. Black tuxedo. White gloves. The kind of posture that makes my spine feel sloppy on principle. He moves around so quietly that half the time I only notice him when he’s already standing nearby holding tea, fruit, or disappointment.

Sometimes all three.

“Miss Mio,” he says, bowing with surgical perfection, “I’ve taken the liberty of ironing your uniform and charging your phone. Would you like me to complete your mathematics assignment as well?”

I’m still not sure whether that’s a joke.

I’m also still not sure he blinks.

I’ve been observing him for months. Nothing. Not once. If he turns out to be a vampire, I’m not going to say I called it, but I absolutely called it.

He’s the kind of man who materializes behind me with a silver tray the second my lifestyle starts becoming nutritionally offensive.

“You’ve eaten three bowls of ramen this week, Miss Mio. May I suggest… something green?”

“Kiwis are green.”

“Those are like candy. Something more savo-”

“Then no.”

Chester always sighs like a disappointed father watching his child grow into a bum.

And that’s my life.

Ruler of an empty palace.

Landlady of exactly no one.

Until last night, anyway.

xXx

Last night, I saw my new classmate behind the school at night doing something that could not be explained by normal human behavior, bad lighting, or sleep deprivation. Glowing shapes. Purple smoke. A voice too sharp for a normal after-school hobby. Reina had stood out there in the dark like she belonged to a story I was not supposed to have wandered into.

Now I had to go to school and sit next to her like I hadn’t seen any of it.

Great.

This morning, I woke up to the usual combination of lemon polish and mild spiritual exhaustion. I got dressed. Brushed my teeth. Ate breakfast. Tried very hard not to think about runes in the dark and suspiciously witch-shaped classmates.

It didn’t work.

I kept replaying it anyway. Reina’s voice. The shimmer in the air. The way she moved her hands like whatever she was doing wasn’t improvisation. It had looked practiced. Familiar. Real.

I know I didn’t imagine it.

My brain may be tired, but it usually doesn’t create moonlit magical incidents behind school buildings for entertainment.

“Mistress Mio,” Chester said, appearing beside the table with the timing of an expensive ghost, “your uniform has been double-steamed, and the limousine is ready.”

I looked up from my toast.

“…I’m walking.”

There was a pause.

Then Chester lowered his gaze by approximately half an inch, which for him was the emotional equivalent of collapsing onto a fainting couch.

“Of course,” he said. “A humble journey through the city. How daring.”

“Do not make this into an argument.”

“Would you at least like the sun umbrella?”

He held it out like he was presenting a ceremonial weapon.

I took it.

Not because I wanted it.

Because refusing would somehow make the conversation longer.

The walk to school didn’t help. If anything, it made it worse. My brain kept replaying the greenhouse scene in the kind of aggressive loop usually reserved for embarrassing memories and test answers I forgot too late.

By the time third period started, I was already in a bad mood.

And then our teacher dropped a mock literature exam on our desks with the kind of smile people wear when they enjoy watching minors suffer for educational reasons.

I stared at the paper.

Question 1: Analyze the themes of alienation and destiny in—

Is Reina secretly a witch?

I shook my head.

Focus, Mio.

Question 2: How does the protagonist’s journey reflect the broader social commentary—

Could she read my mind? What if she just hexed me right now? Would I even notice?

I pressed my pencil harder against the paper.

Question 3: Compare and contrast the use of light imagery—

There was literally light swirling around her last night. What if she thinks I’m a threat? What if she’s planning to erase my memory?

I peeked sideways at Reina.

She was doodling a tiny sun in the margin of her exam paper, like she was drawing the blueprint to a new universe.

I shoved my face back into my exam.

I was doomed.

Not because I was about to fail this mock test—(though, yeah, that too)—but because no part of my brain was capable of being normal ever again after last night.

xXx

I barely survived the exam.

When the bell finally rang, I dropped my pencil like it had personally betrayed me and slumped over my desk, mentally writing a heartfelt apology to my GPA.

Third period was over. My window of opportunity had arrived.

I was ready.

Sort of.

Reina sat beside me, twirling her pen and doodling something in her notebook, completely unbothered by the academic massacre we’d just endured. Her head tilted slightly, tongue poking out of the corner of her mouth like she was drawing a masterpiece. Probably a cat with wings. Or a magical potato. She seemed like the type.

I leaned in slightly.

“So,” I said, casually.

She looked up. “Hmm?”

“Sleep well last night?”

She blinked. “Yeah. Though my pillow smells like lavender now. It didn’t before. Maybe it’s haunted.”

“…Right.”

Okay. That was weird. But not the kind of weird I was fishing for.

“Did anything… strange happen yesterday?” I tried again.

Reina tilted her head. “Besides the fact that someone left a mysterious cucumber on my desk this morning? No.”

I blinked. “A cucumber?”

“I kept it. For science.”

I rubbed the bridge of my nose.

This wasn’t working.

I decided to be more direct.

“So, hypothetically,” I said, lowering my voice, “if someone saw you outside last night—doing something kind of… magical…”

Reina’s eyes widened. “Oh my god.”

My heart skipped.

She knows.

She remembers.

She’s going to admit it—

“Are you saying you saw me dancing?”

“…What.”

She slammed her notebook shut. “Listen, I thought I was alone! It was just a few twirls. Maybe a dab. You know how the moon messes with your vibe sometimes.”

“That’s… not what I meant.”

“Oh thank god.”

She sighed, dramatically flopping onto her desk. “I’d die if anyone saw that. I don’t have the stamina for public shame.”

I just stared at her.

Somewhere between deadpan and existential crisis.

Either she was a phenomenal liar… or I’d just accidentally gaslit a witch into thinking she did the Macarena behind the school.

Fantastic.

xXx

By the time lunch rolled around, I still had no answers.

Reina, meanwhile, was gleefully talking about her haunted lavender pillow and giving names to her cucumber (“Sir Pickle the Third”). I poked at my lunch, wondering how I was supposed to casually bring up magic without sounding like a lunatic.

Maybe I was a lunatic.

Or maybe, just maybe… this was only the beginning.

Of something far weirder than even I was ready for.