Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
Zayden
With the Valentine’s Charity event, The Feast of Gods, only a day away, it’s been nonstop prep.
The annual auction—where students volunteer to be bought for a date—all under the guise of doing something great, is one of the greatest fundraisers of the year.
Ironically, donating the funds to survivors of sexual assaults and underprivileged families.
The finest decorations mask the greatest human trafficking ring right before their eyes.
The volunteers move like clockwork—stringing lights, wrapping vines, adjusting the fake clouds that hover above the stage.
Gold drapes, marble columns, and clouds of vanilla-scented fog fill the gym, as if Olympus itself has descended on Villalargos.
Everyone pretends it’s for a good cause, about love and generosity.
Those of us who know better know this about power.
It’s about who owns whom when the bidding starts.
It’s supposedly consensual, but that word loses meaning when even participation isn’t a choice.
When you’re forced to stand under the lights, displayed like cattle, and given a price, you learn quickly how little agency you actually possess.
I wipe the sweat from my forehead and glance around the gym.
The soft melody coming from the piano as Thiago practices his solo has my nerves settling. It’s not much… My phone buzzes inside my pocket, and I pull it free and look down at the screen. A text message from an unsaved number is front and center.
Greyson:
You around tonight? Let’s go for a ride and finish what we started. ??
I stare at the message for a second, conflicted on what to say. I know exactly who it’s from. Greyson. For a moment, I consider ignoring the message. I don’t care for him, but information is always valuable. After going back and forth, I finally type out a reply.
Me:
Yeah. Tonight.
He sends a thumbs up emoji and a time—7 p.m.
I slip the phone back into my pocket and keep working, hauling boxes to help the girls move more quickly.
We are here for muscle power, not to decorate.
It’s not like I would be much help in that department anyway.
One of the crowned ones looks my way. The pretty brunette with long hair and a thing for women, judging by the way she checks out the girls as they move around.
The one who seems to have sparked a special interest in Safra…
Fabiola. She smiles before sauntering over to me with her arms full of gold vines.
“You’re doing good work,” she says, her eyes roaming over me, as if she’s inspecting a specimen.
I swallow hard, trying to steady my pulse.
I don’t even know why I’m nervous. I guess I should say thank you, anything to break this awkward tension, but I don’t.
I swear the piano keys grow louder, making it impossible to hear anything but the way Thiago’s fingers coax “Baby,” by Ashanti, into something ethereal, almost haunting.
Fabiola glances over her shoulder, tilting her head slightly as she watches him. “He keeps looking at you,” she murmurs to herself, sounding more like she just solved a puzzle. I pretend that I didn’t hear her and bend down to grab another box instead. “You know… I could use a friend.”
I snort at that. The idea of friends in a place like this.
“I know what happens at Velarium.”
Those words come out in a hushed whisper from her lips, but slam into me like a sledgehammer, halting my steps.
Thankfully, one of the teachers calls her over before she can try to make more small talk.
Still, I can’t help but look back, watching as she smiles before walking away.
My eyes drift back to where Safra plays, eyes closed as his fingers move with memory, each note soft and deliberate.
The sound fills the gym, wrapping around us like a confession no one else can hear but me.
And for a moment, everything feels still—the noise, the light, and the lies—all drowned beneath the way he plays. Closing my eyes, I give in to the memory, letting myself fall into the one drunken night.
The alcohol burns through my veins like gasoline, leaving everything hazy and too bright as I stumble past the red door.
Dragging my feet to the sound of the melody that beckons me like light.
The smell of whiskey and smoke lingers heavily in the air, thick enough to taste.
Behind the red doors, everyone’s celebrating, laughing, and fucking—not me.
I’m left wondering why I’m still not good enough.
The thought makes me groan in aggravation, clutching the side of my head, trying to steady the spin. I need air.
I need an escape.
I need anything but the constant loop of never feeling good enough.
The piano grows louder, calling out to me.
The siren’s song cuts through the chaos, promising something that almost feels like peace.
I follow it down the hall, past the velvet curtains and the smell of spilled liquor.
The light that spills from the lounge is soft and golden—almost holy in a hell like this.
I step closer, my breath catching in my throat, my heart slowing down when Thiago comes into view.
He sits at the piano, no shirt, head bowed, and fingers moving like he’s praying.
The R neither of us says anything.
He just plays, and I watch. The world outside this room continues to spin, but here, it’s just us.
When the last note fades, he exhales, hands still on the keys, and his eyes flick towards me again.
This time, I can’t read them; I only know he stands and walks past me, disappearing through the door.
While I stay here, staring at the empty piano, wondering why I’m still not good enough.
“You good, bro?” Wyatt’s voice pulls me away from my mind, and when I blink, the piano stops, and all I can hear is the chatter in the gym. I nod, locking eyes with Wyatt. “You sorta spaced out,” he adds.
My grip tightens around the box, wishing I could disappear inside it. “I was just thinking.”
“Wanna talk about it?” he asks playfully, and I can’t help but snicker at his comment.
Talk about it as if we did such things. Men like Wyatt and me, we use violence instead of words.
What’s even odder is that he’s this upbeat after what happened the other night…
Not that I ask about it, all I say is, “Nah, I’m good. ”
To which he nods and clasps his hand over my shoulder. “Good,” he responds nonchalantly before walking off when his ex-walks into the room and stands beside the rest of the drama club.
The clock hits seven just as I pull into the location where Greyson asked to meet.
He’s there leaning against the guardrails, like he’s been waiting for hours.
Dressed in jeans and leather jacket, helmet sitting above his head.
The smell of rain mixed with gasoline and salt lingers in the air.
The asphalt is wet from the small shower that passed through earlier, reflecting the streetlights in fractured halos. It’s perfect riding weather for me.
Greyson doesn’t move when I get off my bike. He just watches, hands shoved into his pockets, his jaw tight. The wind carries the faint sound of waves crashing against the docks below.
“You came,” he finally says.
I remove my helmet, setting it on the seat. “I said I would.”
He nods once, his eyes flicking towards the horizon before settling back on me. The silence stretches, heavy enough to make me wonder what the hell I’m doing here. When he finally speaks, his voice is low. “You know why I asked you to meet me?”
I shrug. “I don’t know, pretty boy, sex?”
“You got jokes, I see.” He gives me a short and humorless chuckle.
“Only when I’m bored.”
Greyson gives me a small smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.
He’s objectively attractive. He’s the kind of man carved right out of a sports magazine, with cropped brown hair, piercing green eyes, and a jaw that looks like it was designed to clench.
But there’s something about him that’s off.
The glamour sits on the surface, polished and easy on the eyes, but underneath it hides something darker. Something ugly.
“Enlighten me,” I say as I dig into my pocket for my cigarettes.
I pull one out and place it between my lips, wondering why he still hasn’t given me a reason why I am here. And at this point, I’m wondering why the fuck I bothered coming. Greyson smirks, but it fades quickly.
“Have you ever wondered about Thiago?”
The question catches me off guard, and so does the response that sits at the tip of my tongue. That I do. I wonder about him all the time, but I don’t say that. Instead, I respond with a question of my own. “What about him?”
“Everything?” he says flatly. “I guess the proper question would be, do you trust him?”
“Can you really trust anyone in this world?”
He nods at that. “What about the midfielder?”
My eyes narrow; he’s crossing a dangerous line. Safra is one thing, but Nico is entirely different. He’s my family. My brother. Greyson watches me carefully, then pulls his phone from his pocket. “You should see this.”