Chapter 10
TEN
LUCAS
Alexander’s eyes find mine.
Sharp, unblinking, arresting. My chest tightens like he’s reached across the distance and clenched it in his fist. Of course, he’s here. Why am I even surprised?
Ashley doesn’t wait for me to catch up. She walks forward, efficient as always, and dips her head politely. Alex’s gaze slides to her, a flicker of command in those glacial eyes.
“Go on,” he says, tone clipped.
She doesn’t argue. She just turns and walks off toward the other car. But I stay rooted where I am. He tilts his head, studying me like I’m a puzzle he’s already solved.
“Get in the car, Lucas.”
That voice—low, steady, and threaded with something I can’t name—scrapes down my spine. It’s been days since I last heard it, yet the sound of it unravels me instantly.
I hesitate.
I should say no. I should tell him that I don’t need his help, that I don’t like how his presence slips under my skin and leaves me raw. I should demand space, demand distance, before I lose myself in whatever this is, but my throat stays tight.
His voice doesn’t waver, doesn’t rise. Patient, but firm enough that resistance feels useless.
“Get in.”
Something in me falters. My fingers curl tighter around the book I’m holding, the one anchor I have left. I exhale slowly, trying to steady the tremor in my chest. Then, before I can talk myself out of it, I move.
The car door opens with a muted click. I slide inside, and the sound of it shutting behind me feels like a lock turning.
A decision sealed, and I know, without a single doubt, that I’ve just stepped into something I won’t be able to walk away from.
The car hums to life, the quiet engine filling the silence between us.
I hear everything now with the new hearing aid: the steady drone of the motor, the subtle click of the turn signal, the faint, rhythmic tap of Alex’s fingers against the wheel.
Each sound is sharper, more intrusive than I’m used to, making the silence feel even heavier.
I steal glances at him as he drives, his profile is unreadable as always, jaw sharp, eyes fixed on the road like nothing else exists. He doesn’t acknowledge me, doesn’t so much as shift in his seat.
I should thank him. I should at least say something.
But the words knot in my throat, tangled up with the anger simmering low in my chest, because I am angry.
Angry that he’s inserting himself into my life.
Furious that he has this pull on me when he shouldn’t.
I should be scared of him, too, especially after the things I saw on the news this morning.
Any sane person would be, but I’m not. And that scares me the most. I have no idea where he’s taking me, but I already know I’ll follow.
When the car slows and glides up to a sleek, glass-walled building, my stomach knots, and the valet rushes forward before the car has even stopped, all polished shoes and white gloves.
A restaurant, not just any restaurant—a fancy one. The kind of place people like me only see on TV.
I clutch the strap of my bag until my knuckles ache, already shaking my head when Alex puts the car in park. His eyes shift to me, steady, unbothered, like he knew I’d react this way.
“We’ll be in a private area,” he says, voice low, deliberate. “Quiet. Almost no one there.”
I chew the inside of my cheek, the taste of metal blooming where I’ve bitten too hard. I don’t want this. Not the stares, not the reminders of how I don’t fit into this kind of world. But I can’t just bolt. I don’t even know where we are.
With a reluctant exhale, I open my book and scribble: Why are we here?
Alex barely glances at the words before answering.
“Because you have questions. I’d rather eat while you ask them. And you’re hungry.”
The way he says it, so certain and casual, makes heat creep up the back of my neck. I want to deny it, but my empty stomach betrays me. I haven’t eaten since morning, and it had already been twisting in protest back at the clinic.
I glance at the glass entrance, at the staff in tailored uniforms, at the people stepping inside with their perfect hair and expensive shoes. They belong here. Alex does too; he wears confidence like a second skin, like every space he walks into was built for him.
I don’t. I never will.
But when he opens his door, stepping out with the kind of finality that leaves no room for argument, I know I don’t have a choice, and with a quiet sigh, I follow.
The moment we enter, a host is already waiting. She’s beautiful in that sharp, effortless way—hair twisted into something flawless, dress simple but expensive. Her smile blooms the instant she sees Alex.
“Mr. Petrov, welcome. Everything is ready.”
Her eyes flick over me only for a breath, an afterthought, before she gestures for us to follow.
“Your space in the VIP is ready for you, sir.”
We’re led past the main dining hall, where polished silverware glints under warm light, where soft laughter and clinking glasses echo like a reminder: you don’t belong here. My chest tightens, and I rub at my wrist, trying to ground myself as the host ushers us toward a private elevator.
As the doors close and the elevator begins to ascend, I stare at my reflection in the mirrored wall. I’m dressed in my usual soft boy style— Tyler calls it that, but whatever. We both love thrifting, so I get a lot of pants, cardigans, and hoodies for cheap prices.
This place is too polished, too expensive, too not me. I press myself back against the wall, wishing I could shrink. Alex, though, stands tall beside me, his hands tucked in his coat pocket, radiating calm authority. He looks carved from a different world entirely—effortless, untouchable.
And somehow, the closer I stand to him, the smaller I feel… and yet, the harder it is to pull away.
The elevator doors glide open, and we step into a dining room that looks like it belongs in a dream or a nightmare, depending on how you see it. Glass walls stretch floor to ceiling, gilded in the soft wash of golden light. The city sprawls below us, glittering like it exists only to be consumed.
The air itself feels expensive: polished leather, aged wine, something faintly spiced. Money has a scent. And here, it’s thick enough to choke on.
The host leads us to a corner table pressed against the window. The kind of seat meant for privacy. My chest tightens, but as I sit, I can’t deny the relief of being shielded from curious eyes. The second the hostess leaves, I yank out my book and pen and my hand moves before my nerves can stop it.
I saw the news.
I push the notebook across the table. Alex doesn’t react right away. His expression doesn’t shift, not even a flicker. He just reads, then lifts his gaze back to me, one brow raised.
I wait.
And wait.
But he says nothing.
My grip on the pen tightens. My jaw aches. I scrawl again:
You’re not gonna reply?
Finally, he speaks, his voice calm and casual, almost bored. “You’re not asking anything, Lucas.”
I stare at him.
He knows what I’m asking. He knows exactly what I want: an explanation. A crack in the mask. Something real. But he just sits there, unreadable, as if I hadn’t flung something heavy between us.
Before I can write again, two waiters sweep in, moving in perfect sync. Plates are set in front of us, one after another, like choreography.
I blink.
When did he even order?
There wasn’t a menu. No one asked us what we wanted. Yet here it is: dishes straight out of a luxury magazine. French toast thick enough to drown in, eggs gleaming under a drizzle of sauce, fruit arranged like a work of art.
My brows knit.
“Dig in,” Alex says, leaning back in his chair, utterly at ease.
I don’t want to. I want answers. I want his voice explaining why the world insists on writing him in blood and headlines.
But my stomach betrays me.
The first bite of French toast melts against my tongue—thick, soft bread, soaked in vanilla, syrup warm and golden. A soft moan slips out before I can stop it..
A low chuckle breaks the silence.
My head jerks up. Alex is watching me, mouth curved, something amused—and dangerous—lurking in his gaze. Heat rushes to my neck, and I grab my coffee too quickly, nearly spilling it just for the excuse to look away.
We eat in silence after that. Or rather, he eats like a man who has the world at his fingertips, and I try not to crumble under the weight of his gaze. My head stays bowed, my heart hammering far too loud for the quiet of this room.
Eventually, I force myself to look up. My chest feels raw, like I’ve scraped the words against it before pushing them out.
“Thank you…” The word rasps, cracked and jagged, but it’s mine. “…for the hearing aids.”
The sound is wrong in my mouth, always wrong. I hate it. I hate how broken it is, how foreign my own voice feels. I never want to use it. Never with anyone.
But with him…
My throat burns. Why him? Why does my body betray me and my brain wire itself to want to give him this part of me I’ve hidden from everyone else? I want to resent him for it. I want to hate him for the way my voice crawls out like a secret I can’t contain.
Alex doesn’t answer right away.
He just watches. Still. Sharp. Silent. As if he’s peeling me open layer by layer, studying the pieces, deciding if he wants to keep them.
And God help me—I want him to.
“How are they?” he finally asks.
For a second, I just blink at him. The question feels too ordinary, too soft in his mouth. I reach for my pen, ready to scribble an answer, safer that way. But halfway through the motion, I freeze. My chest tightens. I don’t want to hide behind paper right now. Not with him.
I drop my hands into my lap, clasping them until my knuckles ache. My throat feels raw, but I force the words out anyway.
“It’s… nice,” I say, my voice unsteady, thin. “So much better than the last. I… like them.”
Silence stretches. It shouldn’t feel this heavy, but it does.
Then—
“Look at me, Lucas.”