32. Tobias
Chapter 32
Tobias
T he only way I get through these moments with my dad is by not caring. I've numbed myself to it because this is just how it goes.
Every. Single. Time.
We fight, I tell him to fuck off, and then we rinse and repeat at the next family event. It's a predictable, broken record I've learned to live with because I know it will never change.
Not until he's six feet under, or I stop showing up at these things entirely.
I'm only here for Mills. She doesn't have the best relationship with her mom, and being stuck here can't be easy. Maybe that's why we've always gravitated toward each other in this house. It's like we carve out a little space where all the family bullshit doesn't matter. She gets me in a way no one else here does—probably because she's fighting her own war with a parent who thinks love means control.
Kayla's fine, I guess. She's not my dad, which is a point in her favor, but she's still got her issues. She tries to run Amelia's life like my dad tries to run mine, but it's different. Where my dad couldn't care less about my personal life, Kayla's the opposite. She wants to know Amelia's every move—part control freak, part helicopter parent. It's like she's trying to sculpt Amelia into a perfect little version of herself, whether Amelia wants it or not.
And it's not that Amelia and I talk about it openly. We don't have to. There's an unspoken understanding between us, a shared frustration with the roles we're expected to play. Maybe that's why, when everything else about these gatherings feels suffocating, she's the one person who makes it bearable.
Tonight, I'm dressed in a navy suit with a crisp white shirt, a far cry from my usual wardrobe of black jeans and a T-shirt that's seen better days. But I'd rather endure a wardrobe change than Kayla's inevitable passive-aggressive comments about "presentation" and "respecting the occasion."
The first couple of buttons on my shirt are undone, just enough to reveal a glimpse of the ink that crawls up my chest and onto my neck. It's a subtle rebellion—a quiet fuck-you to this entire house and a reminder that no matter how much they try to polish me up, I'm still me underneath.
Satisfied I've done enough to meet the bare minimum without completely selling my soul, I step out of my room and knock on Amelia's door, waiting until I hear her voice from the other side.
"Come in," she calls, and the sound sends a small tug through me before I push the door open and step inside.
Mistake.
Huge fucking error.
Amelia's dark-brown hair cascades down her exposed back, shimmering with subtle golden highlights. Her skintight black dress is pure devastation—falling effortlessly to the floor and clinging to her body like it was made for her.
She looks fucking phenomenal.
It's more than beautiful.
It's more than pretty.
She's the kind of stunning that makes a grown-ass man forget how to function.
Absolute. Fucking. Fire.
She lifts her arm to adjust her earring, the movement so effortless yet so captivating. When she finally turns to face me, my eyes greedily take her in, finding the dip at her waist that shows me exactly how perfectly my hands would fit there if only I had the right to touch her.
It's not just the dress. It's her—the way she moves, like she owns the room—owns me—and doesn't even realize it. She's breathtaking in a way that's almost unfair, and suddenly, I'm questioning every decision I've ever made that led me to this exact moment of torture.
Stepping in here was a mistake because every single primal, filthy desire I've ever had for her just came roaring back to life in the last five seconds.
Five. Damn. Seconds.
That's all it took for my self-control to take one look at the situation and fuck right off without so much as a warning.
"You look nice," she says with a soft smile, unaware that I'm standing here completely wrecked.
I want to drop to my knees, grip her thighs, hike up that dress, and bury my face between her legs until she's shaking… until she's moaning my name. My hands are already itching, fists clenched at my sides, desperate to slide over the fabric hugging her curves, to feel the heat of her skin beneath my fingers.
How the hell did I never look at her like this before?
She's always been beautiful—even when she tried to downplay it. But now I see her beauty in a way I never have before. It's not just her body, though fuck, her body is sinful. It's her. She's fire, light, and shadows, all wrapped up in a package so tempting that it feels like she was made to destroy me. And fuck me, I want her.
"Well, you look like I'm going to end the night fighting."
She takes a small step closer, her eyes finding mine in a way that makes looking away impossible."My mom had like ten dresses sent over in every color imaginable, but this one just felt…"
"Perfect."
Amelia's dark eyes snap to mine, and for a moment, everything around us feels like it's standing still. My heart slams against my ribs, pounding so hard I'm sure she can hear it.
"The dress is perfect on you."
My stomach twists, gnawing at me in a way that feels dangerously close to anxiety—or maybe it's butterflies. Jesus, I sound like a fucking teenager. Whatever it is, it's Amelia's doing, and I'm a slave to it.
"Are you ready to get stupidly drunk?" I ask.
"God, yes. Give me all the champagne."
I step forward, pulling the door open for her, and as she walks past, my eyes close for the briefest second, completely involuntary, as I breathe her in like a goddamn addict chasing his next fix.
"I can already hear how many people are here," I mutter, following behind her as we make our way down the stairs, my gaze unashamedly fixed on her ass with every single step she takes.
"You know this place is going to be full of entitled fuckwits tonight, don't you?" she says as she glances back at me.
"All the usual ones, I expect." My tone is dry, dripping with sarcasm because it's always the same crowd—overdressed, overprivileged, and unbearably self-important. The kind of people who think discussing yachts over champagne flutes counts as deep conversation.
The celebration below us is already in full swing, a cacophony of wealth and pretense. It's the kind of party designed to show off wealth and remind everyone just how far removed this world is from anything resembling normal human behavior.
As we step into the room, all eyes snap to Amelia first. She's stunning, the kind of beauty that commands attention without trying. But then their gazes slide to me, and the air shifts. The reactions are instant and predictable. Some look at me with an almost palpable hunger, their eyes dragging over me like they want to sink their teeth in and devour whatever it is they think they see. Others glare like my very presence disrupts the carefully curated perfection of this world.
There's no in-between. No safe middle ground where a guy like me can hide. I don't fit here, and they know it. Hell, I want them to know it. I don't look like the clean-cut son of a millionaire. I might be rough around the edges, but hell, I put on a damn suit. What more do they want from me?
"There you both are!" Kayla's voice pierces through the room, waving us over as if we're lost puppies instead of two people actively trying to avoid this whole champagne-soaked shitshow.
"Come on, mingle!" she urges.
"I'm not mingling, Mom. Just let me sit by the bar, and if you need to show me off like some prize pony, you can point, and I'll wave."
"Absolutely not, Amelia. There are people here who haven't seen you since last year and will want to talk to you."
"Awesome," she mouths at me sarcastically before following her mom into the thick of the crowd.
I, on the other hand, do exactly what Amelia said—I head straight for the bar.
They've gone all out again this year, transforming the mansion into something out of a magazine. A full bar sits inside the house, staffed like we're in some swanky hotel lounge rather than a private estate. It's excessive, but that's the Sinclair way.
The bartender slides me a drink without a word. Maybe my face says everything he needs to know.
After finishing another glass of whiskey, my gazecatches on Amelia.
She's a goddess dressed like a fallen angel, wrapped in black satin that fits like it was poured over her body, talking to some guy who looks like my polar opposite. Clean-cut, polished, the kind of guy your parents dream about you bringing home. Even I can admit he's a good-looking bastard, but that's not the problem.
It's the way his hand brushes her arm, casual but familiar, like he's used to touching her. Like he has any fucking right to. Then he leans in, pressing a kiss to her cheek, and something inside me snaps.
Jealousy doesn't just hit—it detonates.
I don't like it.
But I don't move.
Instead, I sit there, my grip tightening around the glass in my hand, watching her like a man starved.
My mind races with thoughts that shouldn't even exist. Thoughts of how that dress would feel bunched in my fists, how her skin would taste under my lips, all the filthy promises I'd whisper in her ear with all these rich, oblivious assholes standing around pretending they matter more than they do
The whiskey burns as it slides down my throat, but it's a dull whisper compared to the fire crawling under my skin.