Your earliest memory dates back to your fifth birthday.

The sanctuary you called home was awfully small back then, but so were you. Decorations had been kept to a minimalistic degree, typical in the banners and balloons tossed and taped around whatever surface that lay still enough. There weren’t all that many safe from your prying grasp. It must have been a tough, tedious task for your parents.

You remember there being a single window shrouded off to a corner in the kitchen. The words Happy Birthday were streaked onto the spotted pane in a coarse coat of green paint. It was a sloppy job, but in the way the sun had shone through so smoothly, illuminating the inside with a soft, subtle shade; you could look past the crooked letters.

Your mother—how beautifully she stood there, bathing in what vivid viridescent light that passed on and through. With a hand in your hair and the other stroking the bump of her belly, she smiled. It was contagious amongst the three of you.

He was there, too.

As they set out to collect the day’s groceries, you found great interest in the idle pebbles littered amongst the paved pathway. You nearly tripped over your little feet with each kick, but a hand was there, wrapped around your own to keep you steady. Looking back on it now, you can’t recall whose hand it was. Just that it felt familiar. In modest moments, those instances of intimacy were all that you had cared for.

The farmer’s market was only cheap because your father had a way with words. He would often work around the price of produce with a half-hearted haggle. And it was always too early in the morning for anyone to care. You wouldn’t come to realize why he had cared so much until a few years later; the term financial hardship had only just been adopted into your mental dictionary. You never asked for much anyway.

Despite it being just out of season, your father managed to snag a box of cherries. They were dark and incredibly plump, some with withered stems and others without. You remember the way one smushed between your little thumb and forefinger as you picked it out of the box. You hadn’t meant to ruin it, but the beautiful contrast of its red juice against your pale flesh entertained the possibility that you likely did.

It was spoiled; a bittersweet taste on your tongue that you went on to swallow once or twice until the box had found a place in a trashcan down the path, emptied. Your stomach suffered in silent aches all throughout the rest of that day.

You were so young then, they must have taken you out to play sometime after. The further fringes of the public park were vast, verdant fields that you had run around in until collapsing, exhausted. There never was a second body just as small as your own to lie in the grass with you; to pant profusely as your breaths fell in sync with one another.

It was only ever the three of you.

There weren’t any presents besides a homemade cake. You hadn’t expected much, anyway. There was a life blooming inside your mother’s belly, and at one point, you thought that it was as good a gift as any. She told you it was a boy. In a few months, you were going to be an older brother. That smile on her lips, how sure she sounded…

The paint never washed off the window. They kept it up for the next day, then the following week, and the month after. Sometime in that frame, it had begun to crack. Little green flakes were littered onto the window sill. You would play with them when the days seemed too long, which became more often than not.

Your mother lost the energy the scrub it off, and your father took to his workplace like a second home. When they were both swept away by the lines of life, you would draw circles in them and pretend that it was your father’s ashes. He tried not to smoke with the baby coming, but sometimes you’d catch him late at night when you stumbled into the kitchen for a glass of water.

He would sit there by the window, puffing clouds into some old newspaper, and you’d stay for a moment to watch the smoke disperse into the cool night air. Your mother never found out. Not that you were all too good in keeping secrets, she was just too busy resting in bed. You often looked forward to the mornings when you’d bring her breakfast.

Those were the days when she could still manage a smile.

As time passed on, you would see little and less of her face. It was only when your father left the room for a quick moment that you fit an eye through the small opening of the door and watched. Her hair would be tangled up at the back of her head. Sometimes she’d twist and turn, and it was only then that you would notice how much flatter her stomach had gotten.

It couldn’t bulge up from beneath the sheets anymore. You always wondered what happened, where the baby had gone, but their voices were only ever above a whisper. The obscurity hardly brought any sleep to your head. And it was during one of those restless nights that you walked in on your father in the kitchen; legs stretched out onto the table as he leaned back into the chair, a still cigarette lit between his lips.

His eyes were lost someplace. You didn’t know where, but it looked to be so far away. You caught sight of a torn envelope on the table where the ashtray sat. A letter lay beside it with the label you recognized to be the hospital; some detailed report with the word intrapartum stillbirth imprinted one too many times. You kept a recitation of its spelling looped in the back of your mind.

When you went to school the next day, you gave each letter to your teacher and asked what it meant. The usual sparkle in her eyes had softened as she gave you a small, tight smile. The guidance counselor explained it over a talk with your parents. You remember the way home, how your mother stared down at you in scorn, how your cheek had stung red for that entire week.

The sanctuary that you once called home grew to be nothing more than a stale, small space. It took two years for your father to welcome another member to your family. She named it Green, after its eyes that had glistened beautifully against its spotted grey coat.

You only ever caught the furry thing with your mother. It would roll onto its back, her hand would come to caress its belly, and it would pur with pleasure. She spoke to it—to him more than she did to you or your father. The bowls were always to the brim with food and water. You often found yourself saving the school’s lunch to eat once you got home. There wasn’t a moment where you would find her hands free from its fur.

You made do with nothing.

It hadn’t taken long for you to realize that she loved it more than anything. Your father made an effort to reassure your doubts. He told you that it carried the soul of your brother and that she only cared for it just as much as she ever did for you at such a tender age. You figured that with time, she would grow tired of such a sly thing.

On one fateful day, you remember how warm its life had felt against your own; how its eyes—even after death—seemed to glare at you with such brilliance. You hadn’t meant to hurt it, but the graceful contrast of its vigor upon your stale skin supported the speculation that you did.

She could no longer bare the sight of you.

At home, the expanse of its walls grew further as you did older. On the afternoon of your thirteenth birthday, your father had walked you home from school. You thought it to be an unusual thing. He hadn’t done so since you were six. With a quick turn, he led you to the park where you had once worn yourself to weariness in. He set down his briefcase and pulled a baseball out from his suit pocket, and threw it toward you.

Aimlessly, it fell to your side and bounced away half-heartedly. You stared down at it, then to him, then to the sharp grass that prickled against your ankles. Not a moment longer, your father picked up his briefcase and started back towards the house without a word. The rest of that evening carried on in silence. You laid in bed that night and awoke the next day, friendless.

You forgot the sound of her voice.

For the longest time, you wondered if the apologetic notes you slid under her door would do any good in restoring the relationship. Your thoughts would wander to her hands; if they trembled at all when she held it or when she tore them apart. The door to her bedroom was never left open wide enough for you to tell. At some point, your father had stopped trying, too.

He would sleep on the couch for days on end. The cushions had flattened down with the imprint of his body. You would check its progress of deterioration each day until it could no longer bear the weight of another night. Your father soon found quick comfort in cheap hotels.

Even if you weren’t all that parched, you’d find yourself stumbling sleepily into the kitchen and staring out the window. The ghost of a cloud would hang still in the air and burn the tip of your nose, but it just wasn’t the same as with him.

You remember an odd girl who always wore the same green bowtie in her dark hair. She followed you into high school, and it was only then that you found the nerve to ask why. With a dull stare and prolonged pause, she said that it was all she had left. You never understood what that meant.

Her name was Noire. She had eyes just as bleak as the expression she wore, but sometimes they would shine for you. You thought it to be the strangest thing only because she reminded you so much of your mother. You wondered if their voices sounded similar at all; if her eyes had grown to be dark and dreary, too. Sometimes, you’d catch yourself at the foot of her bedroom door, a fist raised to knock so that you may ask.

It only ever fell back down to your side.

Noire didn’t have any parents. She told you one time after school, as the two of you gazed upon the green fields with homework sheets resting on the bench, forgotten. She hadn’t a clue of what happened to them either. She lived with her aunt and uncle, and they were kind enough so that she wouldn’t care to ask. Although, she wondered what it was like.

You remember feeling ashamed. There wasn’t a proud answer you could give with your mother confined to her bedroom and father occupied with work. You considered lying. Even then, you didn’t know what to say. She couldn’t feel pity. She couldn’t sympathize, but she had placed a hand over yours and laid her head on your shoulder. She said that it was ok.

By then, the concept of love had been estranged from you for eleven years. When you finally realized, it was all too late. Her aunt and uncle left for a land of better opportunities. Noire promised to come back after a few months; when she would finally be of age. You must have been torn to threads about it because she left you her green hair tie. You kept it in a small pouch of your backpack and forgot about it after two years.

You remember how your father came home one night and slept on the floor. The next morning, your eyes caught the shine of a golden band around his finger when he handed you an envelope. Over the course of his hotel stays, he had gotten quite close with the desk lady. They were getting married. You asked about your mother, but he kept quiet. He planned on staying with that woman and her young daughter.

They needed a man in the house. He said he was sorry for not telling you sooner and wished you luck. When he left for the door, he turned back around and told you that he was proud. You never knew what for. The envelope had enough cash for a month’s worth of groceries. You tried not to think much of it.

Even as you stopped at the foot of her door once more, a hand latched onto the knob. You stood there for a moment to collect yourself, to gather some sense of reasoning. As you pushed through and stepped inside, you were greeted by the subtle sways of green velvet curtains dancing amongst an absent breeze.

You wondered how long.

Thoughts were estranged from you. You hadn’t known what to expect in the first place. The letters weren’t there, piled up in shreds by the doorsill. You wondered if she took them or if your father had trashed them after he found her missing. It would have been nice to ask him before he left; if he knew all along that she was gone.

They had left you alone with a life, yet no will. You can’t remember ever bidding the space goodbye. There was an ad in the newspaper for a free room in exchange for labor. It was in the inner city, hidden between one too many secluded alleyways and littered lots. Not that you minded at all; Boris was a patient brute. He owned a butcher shop with a flashy green sign that was great for laundering. Your only job was to carve, not chat.

For a few years, you played nice and kept quiet. Even when the cows he brought in seemed a little too bulky to only bear meat; when he ran a guy’s face straight into a slicer because he talked too much; when an officer came by to buy a sandwich and possibly your pair of lips. The other men would often tease you for sitting too still, but Boris would come around and put them in their place.

He liked you enough to keep you away from the gruesome ends of his line of work. You appreciated the fact that even with your cold, desolate stares, he thought of you as a boy and wished to preserve that innocence. You never considered leaving. Even after his own men turned him in, you would light the sign up each morning and get to work.

The smell of meat would follow you home when he could no longer. It was during one of those nights, as you stumbled wearily across the street, that another brute passed by and jabbed a knife into your stomach. He said that it was your fault. That Boris was a great man and it was you who stabbed him in the back. You couldn’t understand what he meant, even now.

As you lean against the light post; a persistent twinge aches at your abdomen. You threw a hand over in hopes that the blood would slow down, but it only streams. You watch through lidded eyes, how the subtle contrast of red clashes against the chalky white of the pavement. You watch, with fading breaths, how consciousness escapes your body and floats beside the streetlight that flashes green. And you remember…

Chapter I. START

The Alstro residence sits in solitude by the sea, overseer of all that the waves take and diminish. Swaying to and fro the shoreline, glistening by the glare of Florida’s sun. A stale, salty scent comes to sting at your nose as a breeze passes on and through. The distant resonance of wavering waves floods the space of your ear, just as the sparkle of sea stuns your eyes.

You can’t bring yourself to tear away.

Against the beautiful backdrop of the beach, the home itself isn’t as astonishing except within its exaggerated size and ten too many windows to marvel at the outside. A simple modern home resting peacefully at the foot of a surface, as if it were in solace at the end of the earth. For something so striking yet peculiar and peaceful—it seems impossible that it could exist.

Your hand itches to undo the belt of your bag, to retrieve your camera and capture the momentous sight that lays bare before you. Temptation is terrible; you almost give in, too, and lose yourself in its wonder, but somehow find the will to tear away and start slowly towards the door. The hairs along your arms prick against the fabric of your shirt with each nearing step.

Nervous, yes, and perhaps a bit scared too. You aren't quite sure what to expect. The Alstros are, from what scarce information there is online, a formidable few—a baseless assumption due to the obscurity of the family’s proceedings. The head of the family, Larks Alstro, is said to be a reserved and imposing figure, who is quite accomplished with the generational success of the CroCus Shipping Co.

There wasn’t much else to look into besides that. The obscurity of the whole situation is unsettling, to say the least, but it can’t be helped. It’s the best opportunity there is for a stable paycheck, considering how light the labor is, so you try not to ponder and make haste of what little steps remain. Although, a ring to the bell doesn’t do very much in scouring away anticipating assumptions.

As you stand before the colossal door, your heart pounds in your ear with each suspected step taken towards it. The thumps through your chest nearly fall in sync with every passing second until the door is finally pulled open. The elegant frame of a woman steps from behind, her slender hands folding graciously at the waist as her head dips in a welcoming nod.

“Right on time. How punctual!”

A chignon of blonde-white hair and a pair of sparkling green eyes greet you gleefully. Her countenance almost conceals the few wrinkles creasing her skin as if she were much younger. Ms. Ann Thurium took great amusement when giving you a guess at her age during your initial meeting. You hadn’t suspected her to be anywhere over forty, and yet here she is, nearing the prime of senescence.

She beckons you inside with the fluid motion of her hand. “Oh, Lottie… It’s wonderful to see you again!”

A faint flush sweeps across your cheeks, just as a small smile takes to your lips. “I could say the same for you, Ms. Thurium. I hope you’ve been well.”

“Please, drop the formalities. I told you, just ‘Ann’ is fine!”

She nudges you playfully as you step inside, giggling as if she were a blooming maiden. Ms. Ann Thurium had proven herself to be quite the character. You met in a public library just last week; you had been scanning the shelves for a particular textbook and just when you had found it, her hand brushed up against yours.

It would have been a cliche if she were much younger, where the possibility of romance wouldn’t have fallen too far out the window (in complete disregard for her age, she had a peculiar beauty you could only attribute to nobility). She introduced herself as a former English professor who wanted to catch up on the current curriculum of World Literature.

You apologized and left her and the book without much thought, but she was oddly persistent in pampering you with even more textbooks after catching sight of the half-written essay you returned to. She offered to look it over, and was taken aback by your fluid wording—quite literally—her dramatic gasps and praises nearly caused the two of you to be removed from the library.

Over hushed whispers, Ms. Ann had rambled endlessly about her granddaughter, Daisy, who was in need of ‘academic guidance’. Not a moment later, she offered you work as a tutor, and with dubious hesitance, you accepted. It had been all too long since anyone gave you the light of day, much less with such intensity. You couldn’t figure out why she had even bothered with your timidness, but perhaps your turn for attention had finally come.

After looking into the family’s background, it almost felt too good to be true. But you were drowning deeper in debt and there wasn’t anyone to spare you the light of day, and still isn’t, so you find yourself slipping off your shoes at the foot of the Alstro’s marvelous home.

Ms. Ann instantly notices the gesture and gasps, “My, what a gentleman! I’ve really hit the jackpot, haven’t I? Please, make yourself at home! I’ll let Larks know you’re here.”

You step in further as she wanders off someplace. You don't take in the surroundings until you’re a good few feet from the door. The interior is incredibly spacious; the amount of furniture and decor is kept to a minimalistic degree, but not to so little as to say that the space is barren. You’re sure there's more to see beyond the halls and upstairs, likely in matching modesty, but that’s all that fits the frame for now.

Flat white walls, some portions engraved with gray stone while the rest are taken by windows. The ceiling lights are kept low, save for what shines past the panes to obscure other parts into shadows. You can see the glistening glimmer of the ocean from where you stand. Around ten meters beyond the entrance lies an enormous pane stretching up the stairs, pristine in its view of the outside.

The home itself exudes an aura of elegance that you find yourself, once again, longing to capture it all with the curt click of a camera.

There isn't as much to marvel at when Ms. Ann comes back around to lead you further inside. The kitchen, dining, and living room are all typical in their simplicity and dull colors. Scattered bits of furniture lie here and there, littered across carob-stained vinyl. Nothing is exactly eye-catching, but there isn't anything not to be amazed by either.

It's fascinating in the most senseless of ways.

She soon stops at one of the few doors of the first floor, completely astray from the more communal areas of the home. Ms. Ann takes a curt moment to look you up and down, her eyes crease up slightly with an emotion you confuse for awe. Her graceful hands come to smooth back the cool brown locks of your hair before dropping down to the collar and the button beneath.

“Loosen up a little, Lottie. He’ll only cut a finger if your shirt isn’t buttoned up all the way,” she teases.

You watch her hands carefully as they undo the top button, then fall to her side. Her unsettling words lay trapped in the narrowness of your throat, which you find all the more difficult to swallow down so suddenly. She seems to notice; you suppose so because of the way she rests your hand on your shoulder.

She smiles gently, “I’m kidding! Larks may act tough, but he’s really a mommy’s boy. You’ll do just fine, I know it!”

Despite the nod you give to convey an understanding, a tremor takes over your hand when opening the door. One blind step inside is all it takes for Ms. Ann to suddenly disappear, nowhere to be seen among scant surroundings by the time the door closes shut.

Like the rest of the home, sunlight from the distant windows is what illuminates the room. It's a simple study room, basic in its necessities albeit a bit more vibrant in color than what you have seen so far. There’s a fish tank off to the center that displays hues of all forms with whatever sea creatures roaming within.

You inch closer, drawn in fascination to the little fish. But a quick glance at the man sitting behind the desk, waiting expectantly, is what sends you past the tank. Larks gestures for you to take a seat with the flick of his hand, which oddly feels more demanding than any verbal request you have come to hear—like a lamb being led to slaughter.

Larks is a well-built man, the shape of his muscles is prominent through the fabric of his clothing. His sharp eyes shine like emeralds as they narrow over the resume you had printed for Ms. Ann back at the library. You watch in tense silence. Larks’ face remains expressionless as he skims through the resume. His eyebrows lay flat, unfurrowed, and dark like his hair. There isn't a single hint of emotion on his face, yet you can't help but feel intimidated.

“Lot Mone… are you Irish?”

You tilt your head, raising your brow as your lips part in confusion, but no words come out. You’re taken aback by the tone of Larks’ voice. It's like the ocean; deep, dark, disquieting, yet oddly smooth and serene. It's ironic in some way, you don't know what. In any case, your name is at the top of the page. You question whether Larks was actually reading through or just trying to figure out your name’s origins by himself.

Larks keeps his gaze firm at the name, going on to ask, “If not, then how is it pronounced? Moné, or Möne? Perhaps Móne, or is it Monè?”

Each syllable rolls off his tongue evenly, sounding as if he were fluent in each language of origin pronounced. You catch yourself staring at the subtle bobs of his throat.

“It’s a rather odd name, I know. But however you interpret it is fine. I’ve heard just about everything at this point.” You find it in yourself to laugh nervously, simply because you aren’t quite sure either.

You have never met anyone to share your name with. It’s always written down somewhere on something insignificant like a lunch box or some stray paper, hence it’s treated as so. Your mother never taught you any better; she was gone before you knew to converse with strangers. Mone is only a word now, left at the mercy of whoever pronounces it. Although, you can’t say that you aren't fond of the way Larks treats it. It almost makes you feel special.

Larks sighs, “You can’t take the hint, can you?” His gaze shifts from the paper.

“I’m sorry… I really don’t understand.”

You stare back with just as much uncertainty, perhaps even more as irritation pronounces itself upon the man’s features. Your eyes follow the sheet as it’s let loose, eventually settling on the desk like a feather. Carefully, you watch as Larks leans forward, intertwining his fingers and stilling them on the slick surface before him.

The emerald of his eye studies every bit of subconscious reaction, settling sternly, “You don’t have much of a work history. At this point, I would shred the resume and ask never to see you again.”

The weight of his words rests wearily upon your shoulders. You feel your face flush red, a mix of embarrassment and humiliation. Your limbs feel light as they unfold for you to stand. A tenuous twitch takes your knees when turning towards the door.

“Sit down.”

The severe sternness of Larks’ voice drops you right back down onto the chair. You feel your stomach start to churn as the air holds still at your head. It really was too good to be true. The urge to drop down convulsing, crying, choking all at once disperses at the sound of Larks’ sly tone.

“I want to hear your worth,” he rejoins. “Tell me why I should bother. You need the money, don’t you?”

You look off to the side, eyes scrambling to find something else to focus on besides the prominent presence projecting before you. You search inwardly for words—genuine ones about yourself, and your accomplishments. You’re sure that you have something, but it seems all too difficult to remember in the heat of the moment.

There had never been anyone present to celebrate and remind you of such things with celebrations, so those memories had scattered off to some secret place; where all insignificant things go to rest until they rot. But then you think back to the library, the book, and recollect reluctantly:

“… To be honest, your mother—Ms. Ann, she offered me to come by after reading an essay I was working on at the time. It’s not that I’m intelligent at all, I just—”

“The self-degrading type, huh? That’s just wonderful.”

“Not like that!” Your interjection is dismissed by the mild disinterest Larks wears on his face.

You try once more, urging, “I just can’t promise more than what I’m capable of. I’m sure you understand—how many people have you come to hire on the basis of skill and they turned out to be everything but?”

“None. My perception of people is rather thorough.” Larks notes.

You open your mouth to speak, but all sense of reasoning has run off somewhere. In essence, things haven’t gone as promised. It’s not as if you were all that much promising, anyway. Desperation forced you into an unfathomable situation with the only people who have ever bothered to speak to you willingly.

And you’ve ruined it simply by being incompetent.

“I admire your honesty, I’ll give you that, and your efforts aren’t to be overlooked either. However, you’re either clumsy or foolish for leaving that button undone.” Larks stares in scorn.

You look down at your collar in panic. Your fingers scramble to fix the button in place as you rush, “Ah! That was Ms. Ann, you see, she—”

“I know. I just wanted to see your reaction.”

The impulse to correct your appearance diffuses; you watch your hands as they slowly fall back into your lap. You don't dare to look up at Larks' perceived smugness. You feel helpless.

He muses, “You really are all that she claimed you to be.”

You find yourself wondering what that was exactly. You don't recall showing any weakness, you were just acting yourself, although you only knew very little of who that is. You can’t help but feel as if the two were in on some sick joke, mocking your helplessness under the false pretense of hope.

You hear a sigh from the man before you, something you fear foreshadows your defeat until Larks’ voice floods the space like a sea.

“Starting Monday to Friday, you’ll be here from nine till noon. Accommodate any classes or plans you’d have around that schedule. My chauffeur will take you to and fro every day; from here to your home. Taxis are annoying.”

Your head jolts up, weightless. For a lingering moment, you stare at him in pure disbelief, questioning the faultiness of your ears, or if the joke wasn’t quite over yet. You had virtually been signed off without the slightest hint of potential, nor a discussion of terms.

“But, I—”

Larks counters, curt. “I trust that I don’t need to reassure any of those baseless doubts. You should know that your efforts will be rewarded appropriately. Don’t play a fool for me, Lot.”

He must have assumed you already looked into their background, so you shouldn’t worry about a fair paycheck. It had to be decent, or even better—enough to keep you afloat. Perhaps Larks knew of your situation, too. You wonder once more, rather than a joke, if this was some kind of act for charity.

It isn’t as if you had much of a choice in the matter. You don't have anyone else to rely on besides yourself, and you can only bear to be turned down by so many.

Despite everything, you feel as if you are about to cry. Your eyes sting, and you’re almost certain that your nose is burning red, too. The whole situation is just so ridiculous that you could bawl your eyes out right there and then; in front of a man who would most definitely care less because he could never understand.

“ … Thank you,” you manage instead.

Larks’ nod is taken as a dismissal. The chair jars against the vinyl as you struggle to stand. You dip your head in a slight bow out of habit; a gesture for when you can’t find any other words to express yourself, or simply when you haven't much energy for interaction. You make sure to tuck the chair back in before starting off towards the door.

When you walk, it’s as if your feet scarcely sweep across the floor. You feel light, both tremendously relieved and elated. The pallid flesh on your fingers latch onto the door handle but before you can pull it, Larks calls out once more.

“Is there anyone else? If something were to happen to you, I’d need to know who to contact.”

You turn to look back at him. Even from the distance at the door, the glow of that glistening green is still vibrant. Only now, something in them perverts and you feel your heart twist along with it. Although it could just be from how far off he seems, you aren't sure.

“It’s just me.”

The features of his face mellow down into a frown. “I see.”

Not a moment later, the door pulls open. You take a step outside and don't dare look back as it clicks shut behind you. You’re greeted once again by Ms. Ann’s cheeriness. She beckons you closer and eases any stray tension with a rub of your shoulder.

She smiles teasingly. “See? That wasn’t so bad now, was it? I have a feeling, Lottie! You’re just going to love it here…”

Chapter I. END

How far are you willing to go for love?

Love Lies Bleeding tells a compelling and engaging story through the rare use of a second-person perspective. It’s a slow burn intended for young adults that fits comfortably under the literary fiction genre and strikes at approximately 36,000 words. This book carries themes of family, love, identity, longing for recognition, emotional neglect, deception, and violence— basic necessities for suspense!

Based in Florida, this book is centered around you (Lot Mone), an introverted college student plagued by the financial and emotional struggles of loneliness.

After meeting the doting Ms. Ann Thurium, an ex-college professor who takes to your unique creative talents, you are finally granted the opportunity to form social connections. She offers you work as a personal tutor for her young granddaughter, Daisy Alstro, who is kept isolated from the outside world.

You look into their background and find that the Alstro’s are a generational wealth-accumulated family, derived from the successful shipping company owned by the current head, Larks Alstro. Any and everything else there is to know about the family is kept obscure.

Compelled by the craving for attention, stability, and love that your parents failed to fulfill, you accept Ms. Ann’s offer and come to learn of the Alstro’s true nature—just as they seem to know all there is about you. With the revelation of your family’s estrangement, you are forced to resurface traumatic memories of your mother’s passing while also strengthening your bond with the lonesome Daisy.

Is the connection you form with Daisy strong enough to overlook such details, and even the constant warnings from the Alstro’s maid, Denia? As you further indulge yourself with the Alstro’s affairs, you become entranced with Larks’ lovely wife, Quill—a proposal for love that's all you’ve ever wanted.

How far are you willing to go to preserve it?