It's funny yet refreshing at the same time, to think of how hard it is to let go of the things that calmed us down in our past, even if you know bygones are bygones and you've moved on and achieved something bigger and better than that. The scent of nostalgia is hard to ignore, however much you might have grown- there would never be things that'd replace your way of feeling at home. The nostalgia of those times are like a dream that keeps returning to kiss greater life into your soul.

The church of rock and pillars has been my safe haven and cocoon since long. Father Caemith stands as the service goes on, the typical Sunday Service. There aren't many people- a few pews are empty. I stand towards the middle of the row of pews. The sermon has been over for about forty minutes- the service is winding up. People turn around, wishing each other for peace to be with them.

The people begin to exit the church, a few standing back for the confessions and some to talk to Father for advice. I sit down, as I do, like always.

"You still come here."

I recognize the familiar voice and look up at the figure towering over me. I nod and he sits down beside me, leaning back on his seat. "I didn't expect you to come here as well."

"Nothing has changed, Isa," he sighs. "Theodore and Co won't change anything. The status of a billionaire won't change anything. And you know it."

"Maybe," I shrug, "But I supposed you'd be having work to do, even on Sundays. It's nice to see you here."

"Well, a little someone licked my palm last time I slacked," he smiles. I grin a little at the little memory that knocks on the doors of my mind.

I am skipping on my new white sneakers in the church as I see a mass of onyx hair a few rows in front of me. I jog over to him once Service is over.

"Hi," I mutter and then bow at his parents. Theros Theodore towers over my small, lean figure and ruffles my hair. "Are you here alone?" He asks me.

"Yeah," I nod. He doesn't ask me the reason why, and I am suddenly relieved he doesn't. Theros Theodore has been a hard man to lie to. Layla kisses my forehead, and pinches the frowning boy beside her to say 'Hello'.

"Yo," he mutters, squinting his eyes and scrunching his nose up as his parents go to the front to talk to Father Caemith. Father Caemith is a good man- he listens to me and also blesses me. "You're acting like the church is a drag to come to," I frown.

"I believe in loving God in my heart," he mutters and rolls his eyes, "I've more sleep to get on Sunday mornings."

"Don't be ri-di-cu-lous!" I tug a strand of his hair and pinch his cheek slightly and pat him, but a bit harder. He frowns, "You're smaller than me and you don't have the rights to lecture me, Mom," he stretches out 'Mom' in a mocking way and I step on his foot. He cocks his head and laughs softly and then grins, "You're light as a feather. You can dance on me and I'll sleep without a bother."

"Why do I think that'd really not happen, superhero?" I stretch the 'superhero' like he did- in a tauntingly annoyed voice. "I'd like to try that and see you not beat me up, pro."

"I don't beat 'little girls'. They CRY." He mocks me further and I slap him, this time harder. He rolls his eyes. "Pseudofeminist, try to accept the truth."

"Don't be an ass!" I whisper scream at him as a few people exiting the church eye us amusedly.

"Hey, you're barely nine, firecracker!" He bellows, "You shouldn't swear- and CERTAINLY NOT in a church! You were lecturing me not a minute ago!"

"Shut up, moron," I roll my eyes, "You must attend the Sunday Service. And must absolutely prevent being an ass and try to volunteer during the Free Food thing."

"I'm not thirteen yet," he groans, "I'd help out for sure, once I turn thirteen," he says, putting his hands in his pockets. "I wonder what's taking them so long. I wonder how Father isn't annoyed. I want breakfast."

"Pathetic," I tsk at him and he scrunches his nose at me, and taps my nose. "Run home, little Isa."

"I'M NOT SMALL, YOU JERK." I almost shout, attracting the people about us in a one metre radius. He slaps his palm on my mouth to prevent me from swearing loudly. Not backing down, I lick his palm clean. He widens his eyes but manages to keep his palm on my mouth. Once the amused bystanders have stopped gawking at my disobedience, he takes his palm off my mouth and looks at the wetness and groans. As his eyes travel towards me and then my white dress, I realize his motives and before I know, my instincts have made my feet carry me away fast.

"You're getting it, ISA!" He whisper-shouts after me and I stick my tongue, before I run down home.

I laugh at the little piece of memory. Still detailed and distinct- fresh and unforgotten. He laughs as well, probably remembering it. "You owe me one, Isa," he shakes his head, "You licked my palm. GROSS."

"I'm having second thoughts as well. Late realization. YOUR PALMS? GROSS."

"Oh, you sure licked it passionately back then," he eyes me out of the corner of his eyes and winks. I shift my eyes to the pews in the front, unable to look at him. Eyes have always been my weak point- staring makes me creepy, and not looking at them makes me shy. I guess, with Wolfe, the latter is better.

"You still look the same, plain and boring," he groans looking at my simple navy blue dress with leafy patterns and a sash around the waist. The dress is modest yet pretty- coming down to my collarbones in a rounded collar and absolutely free of ruffles. My feet are clad in dark green sneakers, matching the color of the leaves all over my dress.

"You don't look much better," I shrug halfheartedly- yet we both know he does. With his hair styled in the most casual of ways- the silky strands slicked back just casually, as if he'd just run his fingers a number of times and bleh- his hair was done with. His charcoal eyes stand out even with his dark hair, and defined cheekbones that are sharp as fuck. His beard is a short stubble, not more than worth three days or so. He wears an obviously designer version of clothes- my guess says it's Gucci- like the bags under my eyes. HAH. A grey colored crew-neck sweater, navy blue chinos and grey Jimmy Choos.

We walk out of the church, me skipping on my shoes, my wrists clasped at my back. "You're blithe today, hmm?" He mumbles, "Maybe I'm not allocating enough work? Maybe Nico is being too easy?" I jab him slightly, "Sometimes human beings just need to forget," I close my eyes.

"Yeah, ant, I can see you," he rolls his eyes, "You're too sunny today. That aside, have breakfast with me."

"Do I get to choose?" I pipe up from his side and he looks at me, his eyes narrowed to slits. "I thought you said we shouldn't pick when it comes to food," he shrugs.

"I make rules to break them, it's funny you can rant on about my toxic ambitions and taciturnity yet miss out this vital detail."

"I'm not as good at analysis as you," he shrugs with a genuinely thoughtful look on his face, "While your analysis is short, accurate and to the point, I have quite a few number of points that I expand and a few that are simply hypotheses. For example, one can never be accurate about you. Similarly, Nico might be my best friend and a brother to me, but sometimes I feel as if he still has parts of him he doesn't show me. And for starters, don't start about 'private parts' and do not make absolutely dirty sexual innuendos- trust me, the things you make me imagine can make me puke even if my stomach is empty."

I laugh and throw my head back. "I wasn't going to- I never do it, y'all just keep provoking my reactions," I pout and rub the back of my hair in a half-confused and half-amused way. "Accurate about me, huh?" I smile at him, "One can never be accurate about someone else- it's so very hard to make the correct assumptions- there's nobody who doesn't live like it was a facade. The billionaire you are- it's a facade. Your power- it's a shield. Your money, it's a weapon. Your confidence and allies- they're the soldiers. Life, is war."

"And Isa, is a psychologist."

"May-haps," I repeat a word that we chanted about in school, a mixture of Maybe and Perhaps.

As we come out of the church, I notice the several bodyguards- it's not hard to realize they're bodyguards even if they're wearing black suits and black sunglasses- because their outfit, and their number combines to the factor that gives their identity away.

"Is that a shield to your fear, Wolfe?" I question him curiously. As far as my knowledge goes, Wolfe is super skilled in martial arts, trains an hour at the gym everyday without fail, hits bullseye and occasionally frequents a few of the fight clubs he owns.

We were taught how to shoot when we were in middle school. Then, it was just an yearly course, but after that, a few of us decided to pursue it as a hobby. For all I know, Wolfe has never failed to hit bullseye, has won a couple of shooting competitions and also is a skilled shooter. While I had to work hard, he was like a natural.

"Do you not know the answer to that, Isa?" He lets out an ironic sigh, "Yes, you do. You're currently rolling the facts over and over in your mind. Yet you ask, trying to break through and shatter my confidence- it never works though. You know I have enemies who would spare no chance trying to kill me."

"Yeah, and I can't believe that you're the same stupid idiot who would pull stink bomb pranks on Jose."

"Jose was an ass."

"One negligible enough when compared with your royal bullshitting ass."

"I wasn't an ass, I was cool."

"You were trying to be a smartass but you weren't smart, so that made you just an ass."

He turns towards me, and out of the blue, places his fingertips on my parted lips, and again, presses them together, "You should introduce your upper lip to your lip sometime and shut up, little girl," he whispers in a warning-like voice. I slap his hands off my face and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. "Gross, did you even wash your hands, WOLFE?"

"To the girl who ate paper," he chants in a sing-song voice, "There isn't a standard of cleanliness."

"You weren't too great either, you ox," I squint my eyes at him, "You- you-"

"I didn't eat paper, nor did I chew the ends of pens and pencils, and I absolutely didn't bite my thumb. Ever heard of the biting thumb factor? I've heard of cringy women trying to bite their lips to appear seductive, but there's nothing nastier than a thumb biter. I know a person who does that. She's called Achelois Cillin Crimson."

I groan. "My middle name is boring," I roll my eyes.

"Like person, like name," he shrugs.

"If I were a bird, I'd know who I had to shit on."

"YOU'RE A BIRD ALL RIGHT."

"We're taking my car."

"Well, no."

"I didn't ask you."

"I didn't answer you. I ordered you."

"If I was meant to be controlled, I'd have come with a remote."

"WE ARE TAKING MY CAR- I won't allow any of them to drive my car. It'll get to their head."

"Like boss, LIKE EMPLOYEES."

"You dare use my own spells against me, Potter?" He taps my head and crosses his arms.

"YEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH," I stretch the a's.

"Giving off all the wrong ideas again, little warrior."

"DON'T USE MY MIDDLE NAME!"

"It's a church, not your bedroom."

"You're an ass."

"Get in my car."

"No."

"You can driv-"

"Where are the keys? Yeah, let's take yours!" My eyes light up at the mention of me driving his car. He gives off a sly grin. "I see you, I see what you're doing, monkey," he shakes his head, rolls his eyes and pulls out a set of keys from his pocket and tosses them in the air. I catch them deftly, but not-so-much. They get stuck between my fingers. A save.

Wolfe's black Bugatti Divo is exceptionally crafted, striking in character, strictly limited and with completely different driving dynamics. Athletic, sharp, with distinctive handling properties, stunning lateral acceleration and a unique design language- it is something I might consider saving up for. With its futuristic and ferocious design and its completely different personality and driving performance, Bugatti has created a true masterpiece of automotive craftsmanship.

"Bruh, this is....this is awesome," I breathe in, as I sit down in the driver's seat and Wolfe looks at me through the window on my side. He leans inside the car through the window, with a successful grin on his face as he latches the seatbelt on me. "Kindly drive keeping in mind that we need to be alive in order to have breakfast."

"Oh," I brush him off, "I'm in control."

He slides inside the passenger seat with a doubtful, amused look on his face. "You never are," he rolls his eyes.

The car is a real adventure, as if our surroundings were liquid magic and we were a solid being paced with an amazing speed into it, sinking and flowing like everything else was melting away. Wolfe grimly reminds me to slow down because it's a Sunday Morning and nobody would want an accident happening that soon, but I'm giddy with pleasure. Cars have always had amazing mechanisms and flow, something you could pirouette along to. The city is a fleeting motion picture running backwards in the periphery of my eyesight. Through the windows of the car came a verdant panorama to expand the heart and soul.

"This is amazing!" I whisper breathlessly. Wolfe just grins at my side. "Take it easy, pig," he mumbles.

Wolfe gives me the directions to be at his house- he doesn't set the GPS. How old fashioned? But what's jaw dropping?

It's his house. Much more like, his manor.

The mansion was all concrete and tall glass windows that gave a view of the city from afar, a chance to relax and take in the changing of the day to the night from the comfort of an easy chair, yet I wondered if he had ever been able to afford the luxury of relaxing- he could, but he won't- that was just like Wolfe. He appeared as if he were quite laid back, but he worked hard to be who he was.

"That's like a dreamscape straight out of my imaginations- it's breathtaking."

"Others would say I was flaunting power. I like the simplicity in you that makes you admit what you really like," he mumbles. We stop at the gates and the guards check inside the car. "Sir," they chorus together and let us in. The interior of the mansion is even more awe-inspiring than what it looks like. In the middle of the garden stands a spectacular fountain, looking like crystals dropping from thin air. Along the sides of the driveway are neatly arranged flower beds and pots that have been taken care of. Though I've never been a flower-loving person, the miscellany of bright colors among the greens is an astounding thing to look at.

"That's something my mom arranges," he rolls his eyes, "If that were up to me, I'd rather make the entire place a showroom of all the cars I own."

"Sure you would and I'd still be stupefied," I suck in breath as I park the car among almost hundreds others- all of them black, metallic blue or silver- limited editions that'd cost an arm and a leg. Wolfe insists I leave it in front of the mansion and the valet boy would take care of that, but I assure him it's okay.

As we walk up the stairs to the entrance, there stand a man and a woman- both easily in their forties, wearing neat uniforms of black, their hair neatly combed and their looks loving as well as professional all the same.

"Welcome back, Sire," they bow down to him and then look at me, "Welcome to Master Theodore's Mansion, Miss Crimson,. I'm Faye Abernathy, the caretaker of the mansion, and this is Magnus Abernathy, my husband and the butler of the mansion" the lady says with a warm smile on her face that I can't help grinning at, yet I'm confused as to how they know me. They sense it and I don't know how a look from them towards Wolfe makes him say the answer. That level of understanding is magical.

"I asked Roger to call home as well," he mutters.

"Also, Sire, Mrs. Theodore is here," Faye says. My ears prick up at the mention of her name, my heart skips a beat. The memories of the previous week hit me hard, drowning me in melancholy and anxiety for a moment before Wolfe's voice is a cold reminder of the present.

"Come in," he urges.

My steps are unsure, my heartbeat uneven, yet I mask them with an interested smile, that soon conquers me, making me forget the slight flashbacks of the past.

In the center of the ceiling is the most exquisite chandelier I've seen, like dripping diamonds alight with the moonlight. The furniture is expensive, and so is the coffee table. The room is huge, the windows made of glass- obviously bullet proof. From here, the guards posted on the periphery of the property are visible, and so are parts of the backyard and the tennis court towards the side.

"I own a couple of soccer, basketball and golf fields, if you're wondering," he says, and I turn around to find him snug in the middle of the ten-seater sofa. I raise a brow at him and he chuckles. "Yeah, we use them. The weekends, usually- we're doing soccer today at five in the evening. Also, I own a couple of restaurants, one-too-many bars and clubs, and property beyond you can enlist here in California, in Texas, New York, Las Vegas and other parts of the States. A few down in Europe and Asia too."

"Yeah, enough," I shake my head.

"Back, my son?"

Mama Theodore's voice is strong and deep, for she is more baritone than most. When she feels a rush of joy it raises several octaves and becomes more girlish, more young, but I love it all the time. The sound of her words anchors me and, regardless of where I am, brings a sense of safety I've craved.

"What a surprise, why, Isa?" A smile lights her face up and she comes forth, pulling me into her arms and kissing my hair. The gesture is motherly- I'm touched. She pulls away, but not quite out of the hug, and tucks a strand of my hair behind my hair, another palm resting on the opposite cheek, fondling me.

"Oh my, how you've grown, little girl," she chuckles and closes her eyes, "You were so tiny when you came here. And slapped cake on Wolfe's cheek," she laughs and the sound of her laughter is the kind that raises your hope, making you feel optimistic for a few minutes. "You've become so beautiful, my child," she rubs my nose the way she always does, "-and quite tall. Though you'd already crossed me when you were fifteen."

"Aunty Lay," I smile, "Thank you."

"You forgot your son, Mama?" Wolfe's shrewd voice pierces our girl-time from behind. I make a face at him, turning my nose. He raises his middle finger at me.

"Aunty Lay!" I scream, being dramatic, "Look at him!"

"WOLFE! WHAT DID I TELL YOU ABOUT TROUBLING THAT CHILD!" The Mama Theodore growls and saunters over to him. "Where are your manners, boy? Is that what I taught you!" She growls and Wolfe mutters something inaudible under his breath, standing up and hugging her.

I look away from them, allowing them to have their mama's son moment. The room is well-furnished and posh. The next thing I know, Mama Theodore has wrapped an arm around my waist. "You're thinning by day, my child," she frowns, "I'll make breakfast for us, what do you say?"

"Oh yeah," I nod, "Mama Theodore's special breakfast, that sounds fun-tastic."

She laughs. "Sit down, both of you."

It was a grand space, to say the least. The dining-room was exquisite. The walls were covered with a shimmering gold paper and in the middle of the ceiling above the carved oak table was a candelabra. Down the center of the table was a runner with Celtic design woven in gold and green into the fabric itself. At the end of the table were floor to ceiling french doors, left slightly ajar to let in the scented summer air. The polished silver cutlery was heavy to the hand and shone brightly in the early evening light. At each place stood a tall empty wine glass and there were beautifully folded napkins to match the runner.

"Belgian Waffles and omelettes. And mulled hot chocolate coming up," Aunty Lay shouts from the kitchen.

"She doesn't take add-ons with her omelette, Mama," Wolfe grumpily responds, "She's still fussy with food. Some people just don't grow up." He shakes his head at me. I slump in my chair and kick Wolfe under the table. He glares at me and pokes my cheek with the back of a fork.

"I know, son. Daren't teach me about my elder daughter," she shouts back. Wolfe rolls his eyes.

"Keep rolling them, you'll find a brain back there,"I leer at him and he flips the bird.

"Pardon me, Sir, Ma'am," Faye stands near the table, "I came to ask what kind of salad Ma'am would like."

Wolfe's eyes train to mine, and I'm staring at him blankly. The next second, we both break into fits of laughter, me clutching my stomach as it hurts we're laughing so hard.

"Faye, I-" he laughs, his speech interrupted by rolls of laughter and his fist on the table, patting the wood as if that just made his day. "Faye, don't you see it? This girl here is the kind who eats like a dog yet doesn't fatten up."

"DID YOU JUST- I-" I can't even glare at him because I'm laughing at him. Layla enters the room with plates of food in her hand and waves Faye off. "She's not even the vegetable kind, salad is far from her entire range of choices, Faye," she chuckles, "You may leave."

Faye blushes and bows. "I'm so-"

"Wha- no," I shake my head frantically, "It's fine. I know I'm a pig when it comes to food," I grin big and wide at her.

Faye exits the room as Layla begins to set the plates in front of us. The vivid colours of the food spoke to its freshness and the bold flavours to come. Layla sat down beside me and picked up a fork. "So, eat up."

The waffle is thick, and holy, it's crispy, unlike the shitty ones that are the results of my failed cooking experiments. They have bigger, deeper indentations- my lovely beautiful pools of syrruuuuup! They're super crispy on the the outside, light as a feather inside and oh-so-scrumptious, a gorgeous golden-brown.

"How're they?" She asks us with the soft motherly glint to her tone.

"YAM," I repeat my signature word and she chuckles. "Speaking of Isa, eh, how did you visit Wolfe today? Wait, no- are you-"

"NO!"

Both Wolfe and I screech together at the gross idea of what she was going to say. She's frozen in place by our cooperated screech. "He's gross, Aunty Lay."

"Sure is," she says amusedly.

"And I can guarantee you were born on the highway, cause that's where most accidents happen."

"Shut up."

"BOTH OF YOU, STOP TALKING. EAT."

The omelette is yam-my. It's soft and crispy at the edges and thin like I prefer it, and absolutely absent of any cringy add-ons, unlike the asparagus and bell pepper and leeks in their omelettes. Ugh.

I help myself to another waffle from the plate in the middle. "Mind if I help myself to another?" I mutter.

Aunty Lay suddenly places her left palm on my forehead. "Are you ill, my love?" She asks me. "Since when do you ask?"

"Eh," I grin, "Just a formality."

"Since when has my little chicken grown so much," she makes the emotional mom decoy, "-brownie points much? No M&Ms with me, love."

I pout at her. "That's just to satisfy assholes like the one sitting in front of me," my eyes flit to Wolfe who's drinking his cocoa without another care, "You know what, Aunty Lay? He's mean to me in office."

"In office?" She asks, surprised. "You're working at Theodore and Co.?" She asks me incredulously.

"Yeah," I mumble, "Which reminds me, I shifted back here not a month back. I tried-"

I stop halfway, deciding to stow that one away.

"That's nice. Wolfe's being mean to you? Call me. I'll whoop his ass."

"Sure you will," I chuckle.

"MAMA!" He groans, "She's just being dramatic."

"Oh ple-"

Faye's clearing of voice halts my taunt, "We have another visitor, Mr. Theodore."

"Who's it?" he asks, his voice hardening.

"Miss Simpson, sire," she repeats, "Delilah Simpson."

Holy Mother of Jesus.

A/N:-

Bro! I must have  a thing for extremely long chapters! This one broke my previous record and counts up to 4243 words minus my rant that's gonna be a huge, long rant.

Firstly, thank you for 300+ votes and 800+ reads. That's awesome to me. Also, thank you to my special Wattpad friends- Vicky, Mishthi, Anushka, Michelle and Chinmayi! Also, love to all my readers out there- y'all are awesome!

Secondly, I'm quite upset about how our world is getting into a bad shape. I'm seriously sad. (Makes sed noises to match) When will this tragedy end?  There's no end to thousands of people who've probably been loved and cared for, now having to end up as one out of many dead people in body bags, people who can't be paid respects to after their unfortunate deaths because there looms a bigger danger.

Thirdly, I want icecream and my Mom says n0.

Fourthly, I hate online classes. They're just bland, and boring and it's hard to pull each other's legs. (both literally and figuratively)

Fifth, Imma say Ta-Ta.

Sixth,

Yours lobhingly,
Disha😍👊