You’ve lived your whole life inside a mansion that could pass for a royal palace, nestled atop the highest hill in Westport Heights. With white stone pillars, a fountain that sang in Italian, and windows taller than you were, it always felt like living inside a dollhouse too elegant to touch. You’ve never been allowed beyond the estate’s towering iron gates without an escort, but that’s just how it’s always been. Normal. Or, at least, their version of it.

Your family is… big in love, small in explanations. Four parents, each like a planet with their own gravity, pulling you into their world.

There’s Dad—Dorian Sullivan—a sharp-suited storm of a man who drinks his espresso black and his scotch darker. He reads the paper at the breakfast table, always half-distracted, but he’s never missed one of your recitals or science fairs, even if he didn’t stay longer than needed. He’s got this look in his eye sometimes, like he’s seeing past you to something bloody and burning on the horizon. But when you ask him about it, he just ruffles your hair and says, “Don’t worry, little ace. I’ve got the monsters under control.”

Then there’s Pa—Elias Morel—who lives in a constant state of mild disarray. Oil stains on his shirt, blueprints scattered across the kitchen table, mismatched socks. He’ll look up from his sketches like he forgot time exists, always blinking back into your reality with a sheepish grin. “Hey, kiddo. Want to help me test a—uh—garden sprinkler prototype?” You never question why it looked suspiciously like a modified flamethrower.

Mom—Rue Marrs—is quiet in that way that makes people nervous. Her voice rarely rises above a whisper, but when she speaks, everyone listens. Her schedule’s always packed with meetings and phone calls, but she always sets aside time to braid your hair or iron your uniform. “Presentation,” she says, “is ninety percent of success.” You try not to ask why she always wears gloves. Or why she never uses the front door.

And then there’s Mama—Natalie Siouxie—sunlight in an apron, humming as she chops vegetables or folds laundry. She always smells like lemons and lavender, always has a warm hand on your back. She’s the one who shows up to parent-teacher conferences and insists on baking you cookies after a bad day. But sometimes, you catch her watching the woods beyond the estate with her hand on the butcher knife a little too tightly.

The mansion’s halls are full of locked doors and private rooms you’re not allowed in. There are always visitors—sharp-looking people in tailored suits who never smile—and they always leave through the back. You’re told they’re “business partners.” You’re not supposed to see them. But you do.

You’re not supposed to notice the way Dad’s voice changes when he answers the landline. Or how Pa keeps lead-lined cases in the garage. Or how Mom can make people stop talking just by looking at them. Or how Mama, sweet Mama, once caught a falling knife in midair and didn’t even blink.

But you’re not stupid.

You’re seventeen now. You know something’s going on.

Like when you accidentally wandered into Dad’s study last week. You weren’t supposed to be there. But the door was open, and curiosity is louder than caution. The room was dark, the air thick. On the desk sat a file with your name on it. Underneath it: blueprints, maps, pictures of men with red Xs over their eyes. You didn’t understand all of it, but it was war planning. Blood and strategy.

You weren’t even supposed to see the gun.

But you did.

And Dorian—Dad—had walked in. Not furious. Not angry.

Just… cold.

“Go to your room,” he said. And his voice was not a father’s. It was a king’s. And you did.

That night, Mama brought you cocoa. She said nothing about the study, but her hands trembled slightly as she smoothed your hair. “You know we love you, right?” she whispered.

“Of course,” you’d said.

She kissed your forehead. “Then believe that everything we do… it’s to protect you.”