CHAPTER 22
MIA
Narcolepsy is a bitch.
I hate how it sneaks up on me at the worst moments, how it takes away time I’ll never get back.
I wanted to explore things with Zane—figure out what’s really between us.
Maybe I’ll try again today. Maybe I’ll just let it go.
What if I hate sex with him, the way I’ve hated it with everyone before?
It was never about fun for me.
It was about survival. About getting through whatever circumstance I was trapped in at the time.
Dr. Giggles would tilt his head at me, that same damn expression he always wears when I talk about my past. Like he’s waiting for me to crumble. But I don’t feel sorry for it. People expect… something from me when I bring it up—guilt? Sadness? Anger? I don’t have any of that.
I hated my life before. Now it’s better. End of story.
The only thing I know for sure is that if I ever go back to my father, it won’t just be bad—it’ll be different.
And not in a way I’ll survive.
I think about watching my show, but it feels wrong to do it without Zane.
So instead, I sink deeper into bed, my limbs too heavy, my thoughts too restless.
My brain skips between TikToks, each one blending into the next until I don’t even register what I’m watching anymore.
The heat presses against the walls, thick and suffocating. It makes my skin feel wrong, like it’s too tight, like it belongs to someone else.
At some point, my stomach starts growling, loud enough that I can’t ignore it. I drag myself out of bed, the floor too cold against my bare feet, and wander to the kitchen. The fridge hums.
I get this weird thought that maybe it’s talking to me, trying to say something just on the edge of hearing. I blink, shake my head. I’m just tired. Or hungry. Or both.
I don’t feel like going outside. The sun looks too bright, almost artificial, like someone cranked the saturation up too high.
The heat always makes me a little sad, or maybe just... off. Like I’m standing slightly to the left of myself. Like if I turn too fast, I’ll catch a glimpse of the version of me that isn’t real.
Some days, life feels like that—like I’m slightly out of sync with reality, like the world moves a second ahead of me, and I’m left grasping at echoes of things that have already happened.
The heat doesn’t help. It sticks to my skin, settles in my chest, makes my thoughts slow and syrupy.
It turns the walls into something else—too soft, like they might melt if I touch them, or maybe they’re just breathing when I’m not looking.
I blink hard. Once. Twice. My vision snaps back into place, but the sensation lingers.
I open the fridge, but for a second, it doesn’t feel like mine. Like I’ve stepped into someone else’s kitchen. I hesitate before grabbing the juice carton, half expecting to see a name written on it in someone else's handwriting. You’re just tired. I shake off the thought, but it sticks like cobwebs.
The air buzzes.
Not loud, but constant, like a radio just out of tune.
I used to think it was the sound of silence, but I know better now.
My head gets like this sometimes—filled with static, with whispers that aren’t quite voices. I try not to listen too hard. Sometimes, if I do, I hear something I don’t want to.
I pour the juice into a glass, watching the liquid swirl. The color looks off for a moment, too thick, too dark, like blood under fluorescent lights. My stomach clenches. I squeeze my eyes shut. Open them. It’s fine. It’s normal. You know this happens.
Some days, I feel okay. Other days, I feel like a glitch in my own story.
How can I explain that to people?
Like if I press too hard on the edges of reality, it might crumble away, and I’ll see what’s underneath.
Well, life isn’t all about glitter and sunshine—even the brightest girl has her dim days.
At least it’s been a while since I’ve conjured up animated characters that don’t exist—or my dead brother.
Sometimes, I can tell they’re just in my head, especially when they’re fictional, like echoes of a dream I haven’t fully shaken off. Other times… not so much.
Reality blurs at the edges, and I have to pick apart what’s real and what’s just my mind filling in the gaps. But being with Zane is different. It’s like a heavy fog lifts, like some kind of quiet magic wraps around my senses, grounding me.
When I’m with him, people are just people—not warped figures, not shifting shapes or things pretending to be human. Just themselves.
He quiets all the noises.
Zane’s home in Dallas is comforting in a way—not quite freedom, but better than Los Angeles, for sure. Still, I’m not leaving. I can’t.
The thought of running into my father makes my chest tighten, makes my stomach knot itself into something sharp. The chances of that happening here are so much higher, and I don’t want to risk it.
I don’t want to cause trouble. There’s still so much about me that Zane doesn’t know, and I’m not sure I’m ready to tell him.
The doorbell rings.
My pulse stumbles.
Maybe coming back to Texas was a mistake. Maybe my father has already found me. Shit.
Part of me is relieved that Zane isn’t home—something about Charlie needing him.
I didn’t pay much attention when he explained—I was too busy stuffing my face with popcorn and getting lost in the K-drama he’d recommended, about a girl who swapped lives with her doppelg?nger.
I started binging it yesterday, and now I can't stop watching.
Zane knows good stuff.
He had been sketching beside me, like he always did whenever I put something on—a quiet, easy rhythm. I didn’t think much of it then. But now, I miss it. I had gotten used to having him next to me, even when we were lost in our own worlds.
I should text him.
The doorbell rings again, harder this time.
I exhale slowly and grab the knife I used to cut an apple, then make my way to the door. Peeking through the crack, I open it just enough to see her.
A blonde woman stands there, and everything about her screams danger.
Her hair hangs in greasy strands, dark roots long overdue for a touch-up.
Her skin has that sickly, yellowed hue—dry, dull, lifeless. Her sunken, bloodshot eyes blink slow, like she’s halfway gone already. And then the smell hits me—cheap cigarettes, sweat, something stale underneath.
“Who are you?” I ask, keeping the door ajar.
She licks her chapped lips, her gaze sweeping over me with an interest I don’t like.
“Who are you?” she echoes, her voice rasping. Then she gives me a crooked grin, yellowed teeth peeking through. “You don’t look like one of Zane’s bitches.”
I go still.
She knows Zane. From where?
My grip tightens around the knife handle.
“I’m his wife.”
If she was expecting any answer, it wasn’t that. Her eyes widen for a second before she lets out a short, hoarse laugh—one filled with disbelief.
“Oh, so little Zane finally found himself a woman?” She crosses her arms, shaking her head. “Always thought he was the sissy of my kids. Never would’ve guessed he’d have the balls to get married.”
The words land like poison, twisting something deep in my chest. Zane isn’t weak. He never has been. And then it clicks. The comment doesn’t just sting—it curdles, goes sour like spoiled milk.
This is his mother.
She doesn’t look much like him. Maybe Zane takes after his father. Either way, I don’t loosen my grip on the knife.
She studies me, her expression daring me to do something about the anger humming under my skin.
This woman.
She is the reason Zane hates coming home.
The reason he spent so many years thinking he was disposable, unwanted. The reason he looks at me like I’m something he’s waiting to wake up from.
And now she’s standing here, breathing the same air, polluting it.
The anger rolls through me, hot and slow, creeping into my fingertips.
I think about all the times Zane’s told me pieces of his past, all the times I wanted to wrap my hands around the throat of the woman who left those invisible bruises on him.
I never thought I’d actually get the chance.
She rolls her eyes, flicking her hand impatiently. “Where is he? I need to talk to him.”
“He’s not here.”
“I know he is back in Texas.”
“But he is not here.”
She huffs, muttering something under her breath, then turns on her heel and heads down the porch steps.
Her fingers tremble as she pulls out a cigarette, lighting it with the kind of ease that only comes from routine.
I watch her for a moment, my heart still pounding, but now there’s something else curling inside me.
I know what it’s like to be treated like a burden.
I know what it’s like to have someone who’s supposed to love you look at you like you’re disposable.
And I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that this woman should never have spoken about Zane like that.
Without thinking twice, I step outside and follow her.
The bar is a dump. Sticky floors, flickering neon lights, and the stale stench of sweat mixed with cheap whiskey. It reminds me of places I’ve been before—places where people like me aren’t seen, just used. The kind of place where people disappear, and no one asks questions.
Zane’s mother moves through the crowd like a parasite, slinking from one man to the next, flashing a yellowed smile, whispering poison into eager ears.
I watch as her fingers brush against arms, pockets, lingering just long enough to seal the deal. A transaction, a promise of something that will make their reality easier to swallow.
She doesn’t notice me at first.
I lean against the bar, taking my time. Watching. It doesn’t take long before she makes her way over, looking for another desperate soul to sink her claws into.
But I’m not desperate.
And I’m not here for what she’s selling.
Before she realizes what’s happening, I press the cold edge of my knife against her side. Not enough to break the skin, just enough to make her shut up and listen.
“Time to go.”
She stiffens, her eyes darting around the room, but no one is paying attention. No one ever does.
I steer her toward the back hallway, a dimly lit corridor that leads to a door with a rusted lock. She struggles a little, mumbling curses under her breath, but she knows better than to make a scene.
Smart woman.
Too bad I don’t care.
Inside the room, the air is thick with dust, the only furniture a rickety wooden chair and an old metal sink with a rusted faucet.
I shove her down onto the chair, grabbing some rope I found earlier, wrapping it tight around her wrists. She thrashes, but she’s weak. Strung out. Easy.
“You little bitch,” she spits, eyes wild. “I knew you weren’t just some slut. Paulina sent you, didn’t she? I told her she could have what we agreed on. She doesn’t need this.”
Paulina?
My stomach twists.
Shit.
If Zane’s mother knows my stepmother, I might’ve just made a huge mistake.
“I’m not the type to gossip,” I say, masking my unease, turning toward the sink, grabbing the bucket resting beside it. I fill it with water, the sound echoing in the small room.
When I turn back to her, she’s eyeing me with something close to amusement.
“What are you gonna do?” she asks, voice shaking just a little.
I tilt my head, letting the silence stretch. Then I smile sweetly. “Isn’t it obvious?”
I don’t give her time to react. I grip her hair and shove her face into the bucket.
She thrashes, body convulsing as she struggles, but I don’t let go.
Her muffled screams bubble through the water, turning into frantic gurgles. I hold her there, long enough for her lungs to burn, for panic to take over. Then I yank her back up.
She gasps for air, choking, water dripping from her face.
“Why are you doing this?” she coughs. “I don’t even know you.”
“Oh, don’t worry, mother-in-law,” I hum, wiping my wet hands on my jeans. “By the end of tonight, we’ll have plenty of time to bond.”
Her eyes dart around, desperate, but there’s no one to save her.
“Let’s start with Paulina,” I continue, crouching in front of her. “How do you know her?”
She sputters, still catching her breath. “I’ll tell you,” she rushes out, voice hoarse. “Just don’t do that again.”
Boring.
“We went to high school together,” she says, chest heaving. “I moved to town, and she had a thing with Zane’s father. We hated each other.”
That doesn’t surprise me.
“She brought me drugs after Peter died,” she continues, her voice turning bitter. “At first, just to try the things her husband did.”
My blood runs cold.
“You know who her husband is?”
She scoffs. “How could I not? That bastard’s soldiers killed Peter.”
And yet she took the drugs.
She really is despicable. I can’t believe she’s the one who gave birth to Zane.
He deserved better.
So did you.
“Paulina brought it to me herself,” she adds. “She has a complicated relationship with him. She’s one of Nico’s victims.”
Victim?
I let out a sharp laugh. Paulina isn’t a victim. She’s one of my father’s most dangerous soldiers.
But that’s her game. Pretending to be weak. Pretending to be nothing.
And then I see it—the moment realization flickers in her eyes.
She studies me now, differently.
“How do you know so much about them?”
I just smile.
Her face twists. “You work for them, don’t you? That’s why you’re with Zane.” Her voice lifts, triumphant. “You’re trying to find out more about that little society he’s involved in.” She pauses, then grins. “I’m right, aren’t I? You’re just pretending to like him. The cartel is weak because of the TSOC.. You’re just another spy.”
My fingers twitch.
These are things I never cared to pay attention to.
But I remember Paulina’s words.
“The Rivieras are founding families, and we were robbed. The Society of Crow is nothing more than a group of disgusting rats. One day, you will be strong enough to kill them all.”
Well.
I have killed plenty of them before.
When my father wanted to give those men a fate worse than death, he’d lock them in the cage with me.
I tilt my head, meeting her stare.
And then, without another word, I grab her hair and shove her face back into the water.
"You can take Zane. No one would miss him—he's always missing. I bet he's healthy, and his organs would be good for something. That should pay for the next three years of drugs, right?"
Her voice drips with desperation, as if I’m torturing her because of Paulina, not because she’s a worthless excuse for a mother.
She doesn’t even acknowledge the pain she’s caused Zane, doesn’t care that she’s the reason he flinches at affection, the reason he walks through life like he’s never been wanted. That’s what pisses me off the most.
For a moment, all I can think about is Zane living the life I lived. Zane being strapped down, violated, experimented on, carved open like a puppet just to see what makes him scream.
Zane being treated like nothing more than flesh to be broken. And all because his mother sees him as something disposable, something she can trade for a fix.
I've never been afraid for myself. But the thought of that happening to him? That terrifies me.
And with her words, I see red.
"You want drugs, right? That’s what you need," I say, and she smiles like I’ve promised her the world.
I glance over at the spot where I know the briefcase with the drugs is hidden, remembering the bartender slipping it into the cabinet earlier. I step up and easily pick the lock, the familiar click of the mechanism giving way to my touch. Inside, I find exactly what I need—the supplies I’ll use on his mother.
I can even call this a mother. She is nothing to him.
The needle pierces the sagging skin of her arm with ease, slipping through old puncture marks. The plunger descends, amber liquid pushing into her bloodstream. Her eyelids flutter, her mouth parting in a sigh as the heroin wraps around her mind like a lover.
But I don't stop.
I reach for another vial, drawing a larger dose this time. The syringe fills again, the needle sinking into her vein before she even registers the first high. Her body stiffens.
Her eyes snap open.
Her breathing hitches.
And I’m just getting started.
My hands move with focused curiosity, picking up vials and syringes like pieces of a puzzle. A little heroin, a dash of fentanyl—I wonder how they’ll mix. Oh, morphine! That seems important.
Careful measurements? Well, close enough.
The third injection slides into her arm like liquid fire. The false euphoria on her face begins to crack. Her fingers twitch, her lips trembling as her nervous system struggles to process the poison flooding through her veins.
Her breaths come in shallow, wet gasps.
The plunger descends.
Her smile falters.
For an instant, there is ecstasy—her body shudders as the final reward washes over her, muscles trembling in pleasure before ruin. But I know it won’t last.
And I’m right.
Her eyes widen, a shadow of panic crossing her face before her brain can even register what’s happening. Her chest heaves, her heart pounding erratically, hammering against her ribs like a caged animal desperate to escape.
Her fingers curl. Her muscles tense, pulling so tight it looks like she might tear herself apart from the inside out.
Sweat beads on her skin, but she’s already growing cold.
Her face turns purple.
Her lips tremble, forming silent words that will never be spoken. When the vomit rises, she tries to cough, but all that escapes is a wet, gurgling noise. The thick, yellowish bile dribbles down her chin, mixing with strings of saliva, dripping onto her lap. Her body jerks, spasms racking her frame as if an electric current is tearing through her nerves.
Then—
Her heart skips.
I feel it. The precise moment her body begins to fail her, the second her chest rises one last time, desperate, like a drowning victim fighting for air. Her glazed eyes roll back, her nails digging into her own flesh deep enough to break skin, to bleed.
Her mouth stretches wide, a silent scream.
And then—
She collapses.
The body slumps, limbs twitching with the last desperate sparks of life. But I wait. I watch. I want to feel every single moment as the last of her struggles drain away. The small spasms slow, her diaphragm seizing, until finally, there is nothing but silence.
I stare at her.
Let the adrenaline settle.
Let the blood still pumping through my veins keep me warm.
My smile grows as I discard the syringe, listening to the soft sound of the remaining liquid spilling onto the floor. She’ll never need it again.
I crouch beside her, brushing my fingers over her eyelids to close them. "Don't worry, mother-in-law," I whisper. "Everyone will think you overdosed. That’s what you wanted, right? The drugs? You can drown in them."
I take my time staging the scene, making it look like the pathetic, hopeless death she deserved.
I wait until the police arrive. I watch as an officer mutters into his radio, calling it in as another junkie overdose.
They won’t investigate much. It’s not like she was someone worthy of it.
But I believe in an honest marriage.
So I take out my phone and call Zane.
It barely rings before he answers, his voice tense. "Mia? I’m worried. Why aren’t you answering me?"
I press the phone to my ear, smiling as I watch the police bag her body.
"Because I killed your mother."
I would love to blame the voices for this, to pretend they whispered wicked things into my ear and made me do it. But the truth is, the voices had nothing to do with it.
The monster I’ve become?
That credit belongs solely to my father.