Chapter 3 — Dinner at the Haydens
Marley
The Hayden mansion looms in the distance as Mom’s car crunches along the gravel driveway, the sound loud enough to feel incriminating. The wrought-iron gates had creaked open with an air of finality, as if announcing that we were officially entering a world where I did not belong. I tug at the hem of my dress—a navy number Mom had picked out because “it’s understated and classy.” Sure, if by “classy” she meant “mildly suffocating.” My sneakers, swapped out for flats, squeak against the leather floor mat, betraying my discomfort.
Mom, of course, is the picture of poise. Her black blazer and tailored slacks scream “competence” in a way that only she can pull off, her every movement purposeful and deliberate. “Marley,” she says, her eyes fixed on the winding driveway ahead, “remember to stay polite and composed. This is an opportunity to make a good impression.”
“Because nothing says ‘good impression’ like pretending I know which fork to use,” I mutter under my breath, my sarcasm barely audible over the crunch of gravel.
“What was that?” she asks sharply, her tone as crisp as her blazer.
“Nothing,” I say, forcing a tight-lipped smile. My fingers instinctively find the pendant at my throat, the small arrow of the compass spinning beneath my thumb. The truth is, I’ve been dreading this dinner ever since Mom told me about it. Something about “getting to know the Haydens”—her words, not mine—set off alarm bells in my head. Mom’s tone had been casual, but the subtext was clear: the Haydens were important, and we were here to play nice.
The mansion comes into full view, all marble columns and sprawling hedges trimmed within an inch of their lives. It’s the kind of place that belongs in a movie—the kind where secrets spill out of locked rooms and chandeliers crash dramatically. Somewhere in the pit of my stomach, a tiny voice whispers that I should’ve stayed home with my laptop and a bowl of popcorn. That voice only gets louder as we pull to a stop in front of the grand staircase leading up to the entrance.
I hesitate as we step out of the car, the mansion towering over us like a monument to everything I don’t understand—legacy, wealth, permanence. Mom strides ahead, her heels clicking confidently against the stone, while I trail behind, clutching my purse like it’s a life raft.
The front door swings open before we even reach it, and a perfectly polished woman steps out, her heels clicking against the marble steps. She’s tall and elegant, her dark hair swept into a neat chignon, with the kind of presence that makes you instinctively straighten your posture. Chase’s mom, I assume. Her smile is warm but practiced, the kind of smile that has hosted countless dinners like this one without faltering.
“Sophia, darling!” she exclaims, pulling my mom into an air kiss. “So lovely to see you.” Her gaze shifts to me, and I brace myself. “And you must be Marley.”
Her eyes sweep over me, appraising but not unkind. I manage a smile. “Hi, Mrs. Hayden. Thank you for having us.”
“Please, call me Eleanor,” she says, waving a manicured hand. “Come inside, both of you. Chase and Robert are in the study, but they’ll join us shortly.”
As we step into the foyer, I can’t help but gape. The place is massive, with ceilings so high they practically vanish into the shadows, and a chandelier that looks like it could crush a small car. The air smells faintly of lemon polish and something floral, and my flats sink into the plush carpet with every step. My eyes land on a row of family portraits lining the walls—stoic, formal images that radiate wealth and control. In one, Chase stands stiffly beside his parents, the faintest shadow of a smirk tugging at his lips, while a man I assume is his father stares straight ahead with an expression carved from stone. A faint pang of curiosity nags at me when I notice an older boy in one of the portraits, his features resembling Chase’s but softer, more earnest. The absence of this boy in the later portraits feels like a missing puzzle piece.
Eleanor leads us into a sitting room that looks like it was ripped from the pages of some designer magazine. I perch on the edge of a cream-colored couch, afraid to lean back in case I smudge it. My fingers find my necklace again, the spinning arrow grounding me.
“So, Marley,” Eleanor begins as she pours tea into delicate porcelain cups, “how are you settling in at Cross High?”
“It’s... an adjustment,” I say carefully. “But everyone’s been nice. Gwen’s been really helpful.”
Eleanor’s smile tightens slightly, her perfectly shaped eyebrows rising just enough to suggest she’s filing away the name Gwen for later. “That’s wonderful. And have you had the chance to meet Chase yet?”
Before I can respond, the man of the hour strolls into the room, his presence commanding attention without even trying. Chase Hayden in a button-up shirt and dark jeans is a sight to behold, though the effect is slightly undercut by the way his sleeves are casually rolled up, as if to say, “Yeah, I’m fancy, but not too fancy.”
Our eyes meet, and for a split second, the ever-present smirk vanishes, replaced by something almost... surprised? It’s fleeting—gone before I can fully register it—but it leaves a strange flutter in its wake.
“Marley,” he says, his voice smooth and infuriatingly confident. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Trust me, it wasn’t on my bingo card either,” I reply, unable to resist. His smirk returns, sharper now, and I can almost feel Mom’s disapproving glance boring into me.
“Chase,” Eleanor says, her tone light but firm, “why don’t you help Marley get a drink? Dinner will be ready shortly.”
Chase raises an eyebrow but doesn’t argue, gesturing for me to follow him. As we wind through the labyrinth of hallways, I catch glimpses of opulent furniture, expensive art, and the occasional family photo. One in particular stops me in my tracks—a framed picture of Chase as a kid, standing next to the same older boy from the portrait in the foyer. Something about the way Chase’s younger self is looking at the camera—half-smiling, half-uncertain—tugs at my chest.
“You coming?” Chase asks, his voice pulling me back. There’s a flicker of something in his eyes as he notices what I’m looking at, but he doesn’t comment. Instead, he leads me into what looks like a private lounge lined with bookshelves and polished wood.
“This place is... impressive,” I say, more to fill the silence than anything else.
“It’s a museum,” Chase replies flatly. “Try not to touch anything. They might charge you.”
I glance at him, surprised by the sharpness in his tone. “You say that like you hate it here.”
He stops in front of a glass cabinet filled with crystal decanters, pulling one out and pouring a dark amber liquid into a couple of glasses. “Let’s just say it’s not my favorite place in the world.” He hands me a glass, and I sniff it cautiously. Apple cider—non-alcoholic, thankfully.
“So, where is your favorite place?” I ask, genuinely curious.
He hesitates, his jaw tightening for a moment before he shrugs. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
Before I can press him, another voice cuts in. “Chase. Quit hogging the guest.”
It’s Zach, entering the room with his easy smile and relaxed posture. His presence feels like a breath of fresh air compared to Chase’s guarded intensity. “Hey, Marley. Glad you could make it.”
“Thanks,” I say, feeling myself relax slightly under his warm gaze. “This place is... overwhelming.”
“You get used to it,” Zach says with a chuckle. “Though I can’t say I ever have.”
Chase rolls his eyes. “Careful, Zach. You’re ruining the mystique.”
The tension between them is subtle but unmistakable, like two magnets forced to coexist despite their opposing poles. Zach keeps his smile, but there’s a flicker of something heavier in his eyes.
Eleanor’s voice floats in from the dining room, calling us to dinner. The massive table is set with surgical precision, every detail meticulously arranged. As we sit and the conversation begins, Eleanor and Mom exchange anecdotes about work and the town. Chase and Zach mostly stay quiet, their interactions limited to brief, loaded glances. I can’t shake the feeling that there’s a story here I’m not privy to.
It’s not until dessert—a decadent chocolate mousse—that Eleanor brings up the elephant in the room. “Chase, didn’t you and Marley know each other as kids? I remember Sophia mentioning something about that.”
My fork freezes mid-air. Chase, to his credit, doesn’t flinch, though his smirk turns razor-sharp. “Yeah,” he says casually. “We used to play at the park when we were, what, seven? Eight?”
“Something like that,” I murmur, the heat creeping up my neck. The memory surfaces in pieces—a boy with messy hair daring me to climb the tallest tree in the park. I’d fallen and scraped my knee, and he’d laughed, calling me “Crash Davidson” for the rest of the afternoon.
“Small world,” Zach says, his tone thoughtful as he glances between us.
“Too small,” Chase mutters under his breath, so quietly I almost think I imagined it.
As the evening winds down, I find myself back in the sitting room, waiting for Mom to finish her goodbyes. Chase leans against the doorway, his expression unreadable.
“So,” he says, his voice low, “what do you think of the Haydens?”
“Complicated,” I reply without thinking.
His lips twitch into something that’s not quite a smile. “You have no idea.”
Before I can ask what he means, Mom reappears, ushering me toward the door. I glance back at Chase one last time, but he’s already walking away, his hands shoved into his pockets as if he’s carrying the weight of the world.
As we drive home, the mansion fades into the distance, but the feeling it leaves behind doesn’t. Chase Hayden, I realize, is as much a puzzle as the house he lives in. And for reasons I can’t yet explain, I want to figure him out.
