𝙎𝙩𝙪𝙛𝙛𝙞𝙚 || 𝑩𝒓𝒂𝒉𝒎𝒔 𝑯𝒆𝒆𝒍𝒔𝒉𝒊𝒓𝒆 × 𝑭!𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓

000 | Prologue

''Having a change of scenery might do you good, Y/N. Especially caring for a little boy could help you cope with the trauma you've sadly had to experience. By starting all over, there is a great chance of growing back into a society where your mind will allow males to peacefully exist without hurting you.''

That's what your therapist told you. If you believed it would actually help your horrid situation, that was something else. Ever since those burglars barged into your home and not only took all your belongings but also your sense of worth, confidence, trust, and faith in men, your life has been terrible. Hopping from couch to couch and from family member to family member didn't only cause you more stress next to your PTSD; it also ended with you losing most of your family because they weren't able to deal with everything those men had brought upon you.

Ironically enough, the only one who stayed was the one person you paid to be there: your therapist. And in a way, having her send you away felt like a betrayal in itself, as if even she didn't want to be there for you no matter how much money she gained from it. But deep down, you knew she meant well and was thinking rationally; her theory seemed to make sense when looking at it from a different perspective, but you didn't want to get your hopes up. Many things were already tried—many forms of therapy, many forms of re-introducing men—of which none worked. It was as if that trauma was all that you were—the only thing left, the only thing that stayed.

You didn't really know what to think of the house the first time you saw it, except how gigantic and charming it was—a building like that you would never find in your home town. Being able to see the interior as you went and looked for the parlour made you even more bewitched by the beauty of this house, which you hoped would soon be your temporary home.

You had called out for Mrs and Ms Heelshire, neither of whom seemed to be present. You couldn't help but take a look around, getting used to your surroundings a bit more. As you looked around the building, you took a stop at a beautiful and detailed painting of what seemed to be the couple that wished to hire you and their son, Brahms. Even though the boy looked incredibly charming and cute in the artwork, something made you shiver as you observed his face up close.

You suddenly heard some giggling far away, which made you look up, wondering where it came from. Yet when you called out to whoever had made that noise, it stayed quiet, making you wonder if you hadn't just imagined it. It didn't really matter; that little giggle made your senses heighten, scaring you greatly when a man suddenly stood behind you.

You moved a few steps away from him, asking who he was. ''I'm the grocery boy—the grocery man. I deliver groceries. I own the store, actually. My name is Malcolm.'' He answered, reaching out his hand for you to take. You didn't know this man, and the fact he had snuck up on you made it so you weren't able to breathe from the moment he started talking. Even though he did absolutely nothing, his hand alone seemed threatening to you, and you felt like you were just seconds away from being humiliated, hurt, and possibly even used again. 

So you didn't take his hand, and thankfully, before he could even question you, Ms Heelshire came into the room, introducing herself before taking you with her towards her son and husband. You were absolutely amazed at how identical the woman was compared to the bewitching painting you had seen in the hallway.

''Brahms is very excited to meet you, Miss Y/N. He's never met an [Your Nationality] before.'' The woman stated as she walked you through the house towards a room where you heard her husband talking to what you assumed to be Brahms. ''I feel the same way about Brahms, I'm sure he's lovely.'' 

The moment the doors towards the living room opened, you saw Mr Heelshire bent down on his knee, obscuring the boy he'd been talking to. His wife cleared her throat to make her presence known, making him turn around; he, as well, seemed to have directly stepped out of the painting you couldn't help removing from your mind.