Chapter 3: Dangerous Attachments

I really must have lost my mind, getting mixed up with the governor’s man.

Some nights I’d stare at the ceiling, counting the cracks, telling myself to stay away. But every day, I found myself drifting back, pulled by something I couldn’t name.

That night, I quietly helped the summer storm back to his room, treated his wounds, and left.

I moved quietly, careful not to let anyone see. His room was a study in muted luxury—plush carpets, low lights, heavy curtains. The kind of place that swallowed secrets whole.

Truly possessed—if anyone found out, I’d be ruined.

Just thinking about it made my hands shake. My cover would be blown. I’d be lucky to make it out with just a pink slip.

But I just couldn’t watch him die in the Magnolia Wing.

Not on my watch. Not when I could do something—anything—to help.

For half a month, I secretly brought him medicine every night. When his wounds finally healed, I let out a long sigh of relief.

I’d tucked ointment in his nightstand, made sure he had ice packs, even snuck in painkillers from the first aid kit in the staff lounge. He never said thank you, but I didn’t need him to.

As soon as I relaxed, I fell sick myself and took a week off from the head of security.

It was the sort of exhaustion you can’t shake. Fever dreams, fitful naps on the lumpy couch, the hum of my old box fan drowning out my thoughts.

The more I thought about it, the more frightened I became. I smacked my forehead. Jesus, get a grip. You’re losing it.

My reflection in the mirror looked haunted—red eyes, tangled hair, and a mouth that kept muttering, "You idiot."

The stress was too much—I ate three bowls of mac and cheese in one sitting.

It was the kind from the blue box, neon yellow and comforting in its own way. I ate standing over the sink, not bothering with a plate.

Back in my room, I wanted to cry under the covers but ended up falling asleep.

The sheets were cool, smelling faintly of detergent and summer rain. I drifted off with the TV on low, some late-night infomercial about the perfect set of steak knives.

When I woke up, I went to find Derek for a drink.

We hit up the local dive bar—The Stumbling Moose—where the lighting was dim and the jukebox only played country songs from the ‘90s.

The jukebox wheezed out another old Garth Brooks tune. The air smelled like spilled beer and fried pickles. Derek complained, “Who knows what’s gotten into the governor—he suddenly called all the guards to the front lawn. We stood there like idiots for an hour, but the governor never showed and just dismissed us. My legs are still aching.”

He nursed his beer and rubbed his calves. "Next time, I’m wearing sneakers, dress code be damned."

After a few beers, I gloomily asked, “Derek, what do you think… if the governor gets tired of the men in the Magnolia Wing, what does he do to them?”

The question hung between us, heavy as a thundercloud. I kept my eyes on the condensation sliding down my glass.

Derek absentmindedly shelled peanuts. “If they die, they die in the Magnolia Wing. Years ago, when the governor first started keeping men, he was ruthless—bodies were carried out all the time.”

He tossed a peanut shell onto the sticky bar top, not meeting my gaze. "People forget quick. Mansion’s got a way of swallowing up the ugly stuff."

I scratched my head, distressed. Sigh, I shouldn’t have asked—now I felt even worse.

The backs of my hands were tight with worry. I wanted to say something, but the words caught in my throat.

While we were drinking, a commotion broke out nearby.

Somebody spilled a pitcher of beer, laughter erupting as the bartender scrambled for towels. The door chimed, letting in a wave of humid air and more chatter.

“Caleb’s back from college, doing great—he’ll go far.”

The voices grew louder, full of pride and hope—Midwestern hospitality on full display.

“You’re too kind.”

Caleb’s voice was as familiar as my own. Polite, measured, just a touch reserved.

I looked over and saw my outstanding brother, Caleb Foster.

He looked like he belonged in a magazine—blue button-down crisp, hair perfectly in place, the kind of jawline that made people trust him on sight. He moved through the crowd with an easy grace that made me feel like a clumsy extra in my own life.

He wore a blue button-down, elegant and refined, speaking gently to those around him. But the moment he saw me, his face turned ice-cold.

I caught the quick flicker of disappointment in his eyes before the mask settled back in place. It was a look I’d seen before—back when we were kids and I’d tracked mud across his freshly vacuumed room.

I forced a smile and quickly tried to slip away.

No point in lingering. I slouched lower on my barstool and pretended to read the menu, even though I’d already memorized every special.

But before long, Caleb caught up to me.

He moved fast for someone so poised, weaving through the crowd like he owned the place.

He spoke first: “I heard you’re working as a guard in Governor Lane’s mansion. It’s a decent job. Not long ago, I attended a fundraiser at the mansion and caught the governor’s eye. I mentioned you to him. If you’re summoned, be smart—you might have a bright future.”

He spoke with that big-brother confidence, like he could solve my life if I’d only listen. The kind of advice that sounds good on paper but never quite fits real life.

I didn’t expect him to say this.

We hadn’t spoken in months. The last time, he’d barely looked at me across the Thanksgiving table.

After all, two years ago, before he left for college, we’d had an ugly falling out.

The kind of fight that leaves a scar, even if nobody else can see it.

He’d held my sketches, face dark as thunder, and scolded, “Alex! What are these—how indecent!”

His voice had shaken with anger, the sketches slipping from his hands and scattering across the hardwood floor.

All the sketches were of Caleb. My secret crush was exposed.

I’d spent months hiding that part of myself, only to have it thrown into the harshest possible light.

Caleb pretended nothing happened, which suited me just fine.

He’d never mentioned it again, and I was grateful. Some things were easier left buried.

I quickly said, “Thanks, bro.”

My voice cracked. I fidgeted with my beer bottle, eyes fixed on the label.

Caleb raised a hand to straighten my collar, saying lightly, “Come home for a while. Mom and Dad miss you.”

His touch was gentle, but the words were loaded. Home was a two-hour drive away, but it might as well have been another planet.

I awkwardly stepped back and honestly replied, “I’m planning to get married. It’s more convenient to live on my own.”

The lie tasted bitter, but some things were safer left buried—especially on nights like this.

The last thing I needed was Caleb poking around in the mess I called a personal life.