6. Maxwell
6
MAXWELL
W hen we step into the grand hall, we’re the last ones to arrive. Fashionably late, as always.
We split from Isabel and Valeria and head to the far end of the room, where Lionel is already basking in his own glory.
I roll my eyes—dramatically, of course—as his spine straightens and his “showtime” smile takes center stage. It’s almost insulting how much he enjoys this pretense. The man loves a spotlight more than I do, and I’m the one born to entertain.
As I let my gaze sweep the room, I catch sight of the group of women I was charming earlier. The one with lips that look like they’ve been pumped full of helium winks at me. My skin crawls. She probably thinks I’m interested.
Not tonight, sweetheart. I’m selective about where I place my cock.
My gaze continues its leisurely journey until it lands on Isabel , looking both out of place and entirely magnetic. She’s wearing a skimpy white top and a purple mini skirt that cling in all the right places. For a second— just a second— I forget how to breathe. Damn . She looks… fucking edible.
There’s a stiffness to her posture, though, like she doesn’t belong here. And she doesn’t. Not really. But there’s something about the way she holds herself—head high, shoulders back—that makes it impossible to look away. It’s like she’s daring me to underestimate her, and I suddenly want to uncover everything about her. I momentarily think about the gleaming blade of my knife nipping at her skin, goosebumps erupting as she begs for mercy.
Fuck .
My chest tightens, this unfamiliar pull tugging at me. What is this? It’s sharp, intrusive, like an itch I can’t scratch. I’ve felt anger, hatred, bitterness—all the good, toxic emotions. But this? This is different. Unwelcome . Dangerous .
I shouldn’t want her. She’s Theodore’s little obsession, a pawn in the Whitmore game. A piece to be moved, used, and discarded. But as I watch her trace the rim of her glass with her fingers, I feel a dark, primal urge rise in me.
Then , she takes a sip, tilting her head back just slightly, and the way her throat moves when she swallows is enough to push me to the edge of madness.
“ Stop drooling.”
Julian’s voice cuts through my thoughts, his tone almost teasing and a little unimpressed. He’s standing beside me, arms crossed, his ever-judgmental stare locked in place.
I don’t answer him right away. I scoop a glass of champagne from a passing waiter’s tray and down it in one swift gulp, letting the burn settle in my stomach before I turn to him with a slow, knowing grin.
I twirl on my heel, feigning amusement. “ And you’re not? Please , Juju . I see the sparkle in your eye.”
Julian stiffens, his jaw ticking.
Got you.
“ Don’t start with me,” he grunts. “ And stop calling me that.”
I smirk, shifting closer, just enough for my shoulder to brush his. “ I’ll call you whatever I like, little brother.”
“ Maldito pendejo,” he mutters under his breath.
He exhales sharply, his lips parting like he has something biting to throw back at me, but then— she laughs.
Isabel , radiant under the golden glow of the chandeliers, smiles at something Valeria says. The sound cuts through the air like a blade, straight to the center of my chest. I don’t even realize my grip is tightening around the empty champagne flute until Julian moves, his fingers ghosting over my wrist in the subtlest of warnings.
I turn my head just enough to catch the side of his face. His gaze isn’t on me, though. It’s on her.
A slow, wicked smile stretches across my lips. “ Ah , I see how it is.” I lean in just a little more, my voice nothing but a whisper between us now. “ Jealous , Julian ?”
Finally , his eyes snap to mine, dark and brimming. I can’t help but let my smirk deepen, relishing the way his breath hitches for just a second—barely noticeable, but I know him. I know every tell, every hidden glance, every little crack in his perfect control.
“ Of her?” he scoffs, recovering fast, but I catch the way his throat bobs, the slight pink at the tips of his ears. “ Don’t flatter yourself.”
I chuckle, turning back toward the room, but I don’t miss the way his gaze lingers on me before he looks away.
But I let it go—for now.
Instead , I set my sights on a new distraction. Matteo , one of Madhouse’s more colorful regulars, is lingering near the buffet, stuffing his face with some overpriced canapé.
Perfect .
“ Matteo !” I call out, throwing my arms wide as I stride toward him, forcing the tension out of my body and into my usual charm. “ You glorious bastard! How are you?”
I clap him on the back harder than necessary, grinning like I don’t have a care in the world. It’s a lie, of course, but lying is practically my second language.
* * *
The room is filled with the low murmur of conversation and the occasional clink of glassware, a symphony of shallow pleasantries that makes my teeth itch. Lionel stands at the center of it all, his theatrical gestures and saccharine smiles on full display as he schmoozes his audience. Watching him is like observing a poorly written play—the kind where the actors are so desperate for applause, they drown in their own melodrama.
Sigh .
I lean against the wall, swirling the clear liquid in my glass as I half-listen to one of the Whitmore lackeys drone on about some business merger. Lionel’s voice rises above the rest as he recounts one of his embellished tales. His favorite kind, where he’s both the hero and the genius.
Theatrics run in the family, I suppose. The difference is, I don’t pretend my act is anything more than smoke and mirrors. Father believes in his own bullshit, and that’s what makes him dangerous. It’s also what makes dethroning him more enticing.
I picture it sometimes—ripping that crown right off his head, watching his carefully constructed empire crumble under the weight of his own arrogance. Soon . But for now, I play along, the dutiful son with a charming smile and just enough mischief to keep things interesting.
Boredom creeps in. My fingers drum against the side of my glass as I glance toward Julian , who stands stiffly nearby, his expression carved from stone. When our eyes meet, the tension from our earlier exchange lingers.
His gaze flickers, and I know he’s still thinking about what I said.
I grin, just slightly, just enough to let him know I haven’t forgotten either. His jaw tightens, his fingers flexing at his sides, but he doesn’t look away.
It’s a game we’ve played for years—this push and pull.
Father’s voice rises above the rest, commanding attention as he steps into his role as the night’s master of ceremonies.
“ Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” Lionel begins, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. “ Welcome to tonight’s gathering. As always, it’s a pleasure to see so many familiar faces… and a few new ones.” His eyes sweep over Isabel and Valeria briefly, and though I can’t see their faces from here, I don’t miss the way Valeria stiffens, her posture going rigid.
“ For tonight’s entertainment,” Lionel continues, his tone growing darker, “we have chosen a game both thrilling and exhilarating. I’m sure many of you are familiar with it.” He pauses, milking the silence, his gaze sweeping the room as if he’s a puppeteer tugging on invisible strings. The air grows heavy, anticipation buzzing like static electricity. “ We will be playing… hide and seek.”
The words land like a thunderclap, the room collectively holding its breath. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Isabel tense, her earlier calm vanishing. The way her fingers tighten around her glass doesn’t escape me, and I can almost feel the nervous energy radiating from her even from across the room.
Lionel’s smile widens, as if feeding off the unease. He lives for this—reveling in the power he holds over everyone here. “ The rules are simple. You hide, and when the clock strikes midnight, we seek. But be warned—those who are found… Well , let’s just say that’s when the real fun begins.”
I clench my jaw, the glass in my hand growing warm against my palm. If I didn’t know better, I’d think Lionel believed he was some kind of God , his word law, his games gospel. It’s nauseating, really. And yet, here we are, playing along like good little pawns.
A memory pulls me back, unbidden and unwelcome. I was fifteen when Lionel came for us—me, Theo , and Julian , three boys plucked from a building that reeked of despair. Theo was the golden boy, the one everyone liked. Julian was the quiet one, always observing, calculating. And me? I was the odd one out.
The other kids didn’t know what to do with me. I was too loud, too unpredictable, too… different. They called me weird, unhinged, a freak. I didn’t fit their mold, and it pissed them off. At first, it pissed me off too. Then , I learned something: if they wanted me to be the villain, I could be the best damn villain they’d ever seen. I leaned into chaos, made it my armor.
But Julian saw something in me no one else did.
At first, I thought he was just like the others—passing judgment. However , Julian wasn’t watching to mock or tear me down. He was studying me, trying to understand me in a way no one else ever had. Somehow , he did.
We got closer in ways I never expected. Where Theo was always half a step ahead, trying to please, Julian was there beside me, matching my pace. He didn’t shy away from the edges of me that scared others; he met them head-on, challenging me in ways I didn’t know I needed.
Late at night, when the world outside our shared room felt too heavy, we would lie side by side, whispering about the future.
I would feel his breath on my skin, close enough to touch but never quite crossing that invisible line.
There were moments when the lines blurred. Our hands would brush and linger, his gaze would hold mine a second too long.
I swore I could feel the hesitation in him, the same hesitation clawing its way up my throat.
Eventually , we stopped hesitating.
One night, Julian closed the distance. His lips ghosted over mine, uncertain, like he was giving me a chance to pull away, but I didn’t.
That night, we crossed the line we’d spent a while toeing. There was no grand declaration, just hands gripping, mouths colliding.
Maybe we were always meant to unravel together. Maybe we were always meant to be more than just brothers in name.
A sharp nudge to my shoulder pulls me out of my thoughts. Theo stands beside me. “ You good, Madcap ?”
I take a long sip of my drink before answering. “ Peachy . Just savoring the delightful company.”
Theo doesn’t smile, but the corner of his mouth twitches. “ We need to be ready.”
I scan the room, spotting Isabel near the far side with Valeria . She’s trying to look comfortable, but her eyes give her away. She’s nervous. Good . Nervous people make mistakes.
For a brief second, she glances toward us, but the moment our gazes meet, she quickly looks away, feigning interest in her drink. She knows we’re watching.
“ What’s the game plan?” I ask under my breath, leaning slightly toward him.
His voice drops even lower, barely audible over the noise. “ We play along until midnight. Lionel loves his theatrics, so let him have his show. When the clock strikes twelve, we go for Isabel .”
I nod, a grin tugging at my lips. Midnight . It has a certain flair to it, doesn’t it?
Julian joins us then, his expression unreadable as always.
Turning to Theo again, I quip, “ And what happens if Lionel’s “fun” gets in the way?”
His jaw tightens. “ We won’t let it.”
“ Stop talking. Focus ,” Julian says, irritated.
I shrug, tossing my empty glass onto a passing waiter’s tray. “ Relax , hermano. I’m always focused.”
Theo doesn’t dignify the comment with a response, and I stifle a laugh, turning to Julian instead. “ Ready to play?”
He nods once, curt and businesslike, and I can’t help but roll my eyes. Always so serious, my Juju .
With that, we fall into step, walking deeper into the mansion.