Chapter 4
Lucian
Living in a house full of perfect people was fucking exhausting.
Cameron was the perfect dad: patient, understanding, and always on top of everything. Sophia had an important job and never had a single hair out of place. Sebastian was the family’s golden boy, and even my boyfriend liked my brother more than he liked me.
And Mason… Mason Albright was a saint. No, like a literal fucking saint.
Our house couldn’t function without her.
She kept the kids fed. Kept me from falling apart, and never made it feel like she was babysitting me.
She took in Jasper and Juniper like they were hers, and they adored her.
She handled my bad days with a tired smile and zero judgment—like she wasn’t being crushed under the weight of her own shit, too.
And if that wasn’t enough, she somehow juggled her music career and mine without missing a beat.
She’d disappear to California for two days, come back with a flash drive full of new vocals, instructions from our managers, and some random story about being offered a private jet ride by a country artist she couldn’t legally name.
And me?
I was here.
In the bathroom.
Being the fuck-up everyone knew I was.
My hands pressed against the white counter as I forced my reflection to hold my gaze. A dull ashen tone stole the golden highlights from my skin, and sweat glistened on my forehead. I swallowed hard, fighting off the nausea curled deep in my stomach.
Eight months. That’s how long, approximately, it had been since I took that bag of pills from Sera.
In that time, I survived Mason’s hospital ordeal, a new baby, and every other change life threw at me.
But more than that—no one had noticed I’d relapsed, and in my head, that meant I had everything under control.
Sober me couldn’t keep up with the saints and superheroes, but high me could. When I was high, I wasn’t nervous, self-conscious, or overbearing.
I was fucking invincible.
And that little boost in morale? That was what kept me on the same level as everyone else in this house. Which meant there was no way I could get sober—not without disappointing everyone.
Standing on my tiptoes, I patted around above the mirror. There was a small gap between the top of the medicine cabinet and the molding above—too small for normal storage, but it made an excellent hiding place.
After a few swipes through the spongy cobwebs, I found my plastic ziplock bag and wasted no time pulling it out.
With shaking hands, I tore it open. Two white pills tumbled onto the counter, and I crushed them with my thumb.
Once I had a mess of white powder, I sucked the remainder off my skin.
The dust was unbelievably bitter, but the slight warmth that swept through me was worth the unpleasant taste.
I stuffed the remaining pills back into my hidey-hole and snatched my wallet from my pocket. My fingers found the cool plastic of my driver’s license, and I dragged the edge across the counter to split the powder into two thin lines.
I pressed one nostril shut, lowered my head, and inhaled the first line with one greedy sniff. The dust shot straight to my brain, leaving fire in my sinuses. My eyes watered, and I fought the urge to cough. If I coughed, I’d waste half my shit.
I hit the second line just as hard, then stood up straight, choking on the chemical taste. My eyes burned as I cleared my throat. Waiting for relief, I tilted my head back and gritted my teeth.
A moment later, warmth settled deep in my bones. One by one, my muscles relaxed, leaving me able to breathe. A pleasant dizziness filled my head. I splashed water on the edge of the sink, wiped it with toilet paper, and flushed any evidence of what I’d just done.
I ran a finger along my nose, making sure there wasn’t any lingering powder before checking my phone. Mason had left twenty minutes ago to take the kids to daycare. I should have five minutes before she got home—ten if she stopped for coffee.
That meant I didn’t have a minute left to waste.
My feet moved faster than my mind as I darted toward the kitchen. Mason kept her medication in the small cabinet near the stove. She took her antidepressants in the morning and her birth control right before lunch. When she remembered, that is.
But, lovingly, Mason had more to remember than just her birth control. A supportive husband might've reminded her—maybe even handed her the pill with a bottle of water.
But I wasn’t supportive.
I was scared.
I knew she was out of my league—had always been out of my league.
She was the sun, and I was a random chunk of detritus, lucky enough to be pulled into her orbit.
And now that I’d relapsed? We were one bad day away from her finding out, packing her shit, and leaving—just like she'd done when her mom died.
I needed to keep her, and she couldn't leave if she was pregnant. So I did what I had to.
I hid her birth control. Turned off her alarms. Poked holes in every single condom that came into this house.
Admittedly, my last attempt at forced domestic bliss didn’t exactly work out.
In my defense, though, things may have worked out if my baby mama, Ashley, hadn't been a massive fucking bitch.
Mason was different. Mason wanted to be a mom.
She already was a mom. She loved it. She loved Rosie. She loved my kids. And she loved me.
And she was my wife.
So if an accident were to happen? We’d shrug our shoulders, promise to be more careful next time, and figure it out.
We always did.
With that in mind, I snatched the plastic blister pack from the cabinet, popped out her Thursday pill, and tossed it in the sink. Just as I put the medication back, a key rattled in the door.
Nearly jumping out of my skin, I slammed the cabinet shut and bolted to the sink, viciously scrubbing my hands like they were covered in murder blood. Water splashed everywhere.
The front door opened, and a second later, someone’s keys clattered into the crystal bowl by the entryway.
“I’m home!” Mason called.
Fuck.
Try not to look guilty. Try not to look guilty. Try not to look guilty.
“Lucian? What are you doing?” she asked. Her voice was soft but curious.
I turned to see her standing in the archway between the kitchen and the living room, one eyebrow raised.
My mouth was dry as sand. Still, I swallowed.
“What’s it look like?” I muttered, turning off the water and holding up my dripping hands like a dumbass before running them down the front of my shirt.
She arched a brow higher and tilted her head.
She's suspicious. Find a way to misdirect.
“I thought you were going to get coffee. Or see your girlfriend. Or something.”
“I did get coffee.” She held up a clear plastic cup filled with something vaguely green and frothy. I knew her well enough to know she was holding a Banana Bread Matcha from the café near the daycare.
Shit. That meant I did have more time. I'd just completely fucking lost track of it.
“Plus, I’m seeing Mattie at the gym in—” Mason glanced around the room, her eyes landing on the tacky cat clock in the corner “—about two hours.”
Slowly, she walked toward me, her bare feet padding across the wooden floor.
“Why are you here?” I asked, trying not to sound defensive.
Mason took a drink of her matcha latte before placing it on the counter and grabbing a pot from the rack.
“With everything going on this morning, I ended up throwing away like half my breakfast.” She placed the pot on the cast iron grate and twisted the knob. The sound of the gas igniter filled the air.
Click. Click. Click. WHOOSH!
A blue flame jumped to life. Mason absentmindedly hummed a familiar melody as she used the pot filler to add a bit of water. She moved slowly, like she had nothing better to do. And that made me so fucking nervous I could barely stand it.
“This probably sounds stupid, but it feels like I haven’t eaten in days,” she continued, going to the dry goods cabinet.
I thought for sure she’d pull out oatmeal, or maybe grits. My expression creased the second I saw the pack of instant ramen.
“Can you show me how to make these like you did the other night?” she asked.
Her expectant stare let me know I’d been silent for far too long.
My tongue felt glued to the roof of my mouth as I forced a smile I hoped looked less terrified than it felt.
“Of course.” I took the plastic from her hands and placed it near the stove, waiting for the water to boil before doing anything.
Mason didn’t like instant noodles. She’d once called them “unsuitable for human consumption.” But Tuesday night? I came home late, tossed a pack in the pot, and she’d asked for a bite. Gave some excuse about them smelling good.
One bite. That’s all she wanted.
Then she finished the bowl and asked for more.
It was the most I’d seen Mason eat in one sitting since having Rosie. While I teased her and blamed it on breastfeeding, I had a feeling something else was going on.
I tore the pack open, not yet dumping it into the pot, and leaned against the counter. Arms crossed, I did my best to act casual, but just as I tried to strike up conversation, her gaze landed on the small cabinet above me.
Shit.
“Hey, can you hand me my birth control? I think I forgot to take it yesterday.”
Her question washed over me like a bucket of ice water had been dumped on my head.
“Uh, no you didn’t,” I scoffed. “I watched you take it before I went to work.”
Her brows drew together in a look of consternation.
“Did I?”
I nodded. Maybe a little too fast to look genuine.
And Mason knew me too well to let that slide.
“Oh, well... Can you give it to me now? I should probably take it while I’m thinking about it.”
My heart skipped a beat. Fuck. But I pushed through the discomfort.
Forcing a tight-lipped smile, I opened the cupboard. Could I gaslight her into thinking she’d taken it this morning? Probably not.
But… I could distract her.