Chapter 2: Living in Luxury, Struggling to Care

Most high school girls go home to a cozy bedroom, a packed fridge, and a well-meaning mom nagging them to do their homework.

Me? I go home to a ten-story luxury apartment complex with 24/7 security, a concierge, a marble fountain in the lobby that serves sparkling water, and a literal butler button in my suite. Yeah. I wish I was joking.

Why? Because my parents are rich.

Like... “we-don’t-have-a-savings-account-because-we-own-the-bank” rich.
But also “too-busy-traveling-the-world-and-being-socialites-to-remember-their-middle-child-exists” kind of rich.

I’m Mio. Middle child. The invisible one. The discount offspring.

So, in an attempt to “look after me” or “foster independence” (and probably to get me out of their massive mansion so they could have peace and quiet for their yoga-with-tigers retreat in Bali), they handed me the keys to an entire luxury apartment building and said.

“Take care of this for us, sweetheart. It’ll be fun.”

Fun.

Yeah, real fun, Dad. There are ten floors. Seventeen absurdly oversized suites, including mine. A heated rooftop pool. A mini-theater. And a golden elevator voice that greets me by name and calls me “Mistress Mio.”
Super normal high schooler stuff.

I live on the top floor, the Presidential suite, aka the Landlord’s Lair. That’s not its real name, but it sounds cooler when I say it that way. It has five bedrooms, its own fireplace (electric, because I’m not trusted with fire), and a mini library I’ve never used except to nap in. Oh, and a bidet that sings. Still not sure how to turn that off.

The kicker?
I’m the only one who lives here.
The building is fully operational—spotless, guarded, and ready for tenants—but I’ve been too lazy to rent out the rooms. I was supposed to “manage it like a responsible adult,” but come on. I'm a teenage girl. I’ve got exams, existential dread, and a TikTok backlog to catch up on. Who has time to be a landlord?

There are two guards, though.

Zach and Randy.
Zach is about six-foot-seven and could bench press a vending machine, but he cries during anime openings.
Randy? He’s shorter, rounder, and somehow convinced I’m a “tiny mafia boss.” He salutes me every morning like I’m about to declare war on the neighboring apartments.

“Miss Mio!” Randy shouted just yesterday, dramatically opening the gate as I walked to school. “We’ve got suspicious movement on the ninth floor—oh wait, it’s just a broom that fell. False alarm. As you were, ma’am.”

At this point, I think they’ve both made peace with the fact that I’m their boss. I haven’t done anything boss-like yet, but I do bring them leftover takeout sometimes, which they accept like sacred offerings.

And then… there’s Chester.

My butler.

Yes. I have a butler. No, I didn’t ask for one. He just… came with the apartment. Like furniture. Or mold.

He’s tall, sleek, always in a black tuxedo with white gloves and an expression that says “I serve tea and trauma.”
He glides around silently, like a spooky Roomba in human form.

“Miss Mio,” he says, bowing so perfectly it makes my posture insecure. “I’ve taken the liberty of ironing your school uniform and charging your phone. Would you like me to do your math homework for you?”

I’m 87% sure he used to work for the British royal family, and 13% sure he’s secretly a vampire. He never blinks. Ever. I’ve been watching.

Sometimes I forget he's even in the room until he materializes behind me holding a tray of perfectly cut fruit and emotional judgment.

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

“Kiwis are green.”

“Those are candy.”

“…Then no.”

Chester sighs like a disappointed father who expected his child to become president and instead watched her become a professional couch gremlin.

And that’s my life.
Ruler of an empty palace.
Supreme overlord of absolutely no tenants.

Until last night's bizarre event.

xXx

This morning, I woke up to the faint scent of lemon polish and soul-crushing routine. Another day. Another trek to school pretending I’m not losing my mind over the fact that my new classmate might be a literal witch.

I brushed my teeth like normal. Ate breakfast like normal. Tried to ignore the flashbacks of glowing symbols and purple smoke like that was also normal.

Spoiler: It’s not.

I kept thinking about Reina, her voice sharp in the night, the way she carved light into the air like it was soft butter. The smoke, the shimmer, the fact that she looked dead serious while doing it. I didn’t dream it. I know I didn’t. My dreams don’t usually involve potential arson near the greenhouse.

“Mistress Mio,” Chester said, appearing next to the table like a bat in a tuxedo, “your uniform has been double-steamed, and the limousine is ready for your departure.”

I blinked at him. “...I’m walking.”

A pause.

Then he bowed. “Of course. A humble stroll through the city. How terribly romantic. Shall I shadow you from the rooftops?”

“I swear to god, Chester.”

“No need to invoke divinity, Mistress. I shall merely prepare your emergency umbrella. In case of the sun.”

He held it out like a ceremonial blade.

I took it. Out of guilt. And also because it was UV resistant, and I burn like a vampire in June.

xXx

The walk to school didn’t help.

My brain kept replaying last night like an overdramatic anime flashback. Reina’s voice. The shimmering runes. Her eyes, focused, glowing faintly in the dark. It felt like I’d stumbled into someone else's story. A fantasy novel left open on the wrong page.

And now I had to sit next to her in class like I hadn’t seen her conjure ghost smoke behind the school building.

Totally fine.

Absolutely fine.

Not fine.

Especially when the third period rolled around and our teacher slapped a mock literature exam on our desks with the kind of smile you only see on people who enjoy watching others suffer.

"Don't overthink it," she said sweetly, like that would somehow undo the soul-crushing panic vibrating through the room.

Easy for her to say. She wasn’t sitting two feet away from a possible broomstick enthusiast.

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.