Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
Brandon agreed to be my escort for the debutante ball!!! And Stephen is escorting McCullough! She has no idea I set them up—I knew she liked him, so I casually mentioned it in our logic class, and I think he likes her too. My matchmaking skills are elite.
A faint, involuntary smile pulls at my lips as I keep reading.
We’re going to be the perfect foursome. The ball is only three weeks away… Mom already booked our room at The Pierre, and we’re having brunch on the rooftop that morning. This weekend is going to go down as the most unforgettable of my life.
I exhale softly, the sound almost hollow in the quiet room.
Unforgettable.
She wasn’t wrong—just not in the way she imagined. The debutante ball was unforgettable, but some memories don’t soften with time. They sharpen, turning over and over until the edges cut differently each time you revisit them.
I flip the page, my fingers slower now.
The next entry is shorter, messier, like she wrote it in a rush.
Holy shit. I just got back from rowing practice and found a stranger asleep on our couch.
My brows lift slightly as I keep reading.
At first I thought some drug addict wandered into the wrong dorm. Then I assumed McCullough dragged some loser home from the bar and he passed out. I screamed—and he didn’t even wake up. But then McCullough comes running out and calmly tells me it’s her brother.
A quiet breath escapes me, something softer this time.
Her brother. Since when does she have a brother? How many secrets is this woman hiding from me? She says he just needs a place to crash for a few nights, and I’m not even sure that’s allowed—but if my mother found out, she would absolutely lose her mind.
I can almost hear Whitney’s voice—half scandalized, half delighted.
But honestly… I don’t mind. He’s kind of cute in a rough-around-the-edges way. Same bone structure, same dark hair, same bronze skin as McCullough—but where she’s polished, he looks like trouble. And I do like trouble… especially when it comes with a five o’clock shadow.
A real smile breaks through, brief but undeniable, as the memory settles in.
Maverick showing up that night, unexpected and unannounced, like the past refusing to stay where I left it.
He knocked on my door after getting into another fight with our dad, and through him I learned more than I ever wanted to about the life I might have had—the shouting, the instability, the kind of chaos that never really lets you rest. It was the clearest glimpse I’d ever had of the version of me that didn’t get out.
Maverick is five years younger than me and softer in ways people wouldn’t expect. Where I’m sharp-edged and stubborn, he’s quiet, patient, deliberate. We don’t make sense on paper, but something about us just works anyway.
We don’t see each other often—his life moves in a completely different direction than mine.
He’s still working toward becoming a fully patched member of the local Seminoles motorcycle club, and I think being here, in my world, makes him uncomfortable in a way he doesn’t bother to hide.
The houses, the money, the polished quiet of Tigertail Estates—it all stands in stark contrast to the way his Harley cuts through the neighborhood when he visits, loud and unapologetic, turning heads whether he cares or not.
And he never does.
Maverick has always been exactly who he is, without compromise.
For years I tried to nudge him toward something else—college, stability, a life that made sense in the way mine does—but none of it ever appealed to him.
Bennett even offered him a job once, something steady and respectable, but Maverick turned it down without hesitation.
He didn’t want a life behind a desk, didn’t want to trade freedom for structure.
For a long time, I thought that meant he’d chosen the harder path.
Now, I’m not so sure.
Because when I picture him, I don’t see struggle—I see him on his bike, exactly where he belongs, living a life that doesn’t need polishing to be real.
We only see each other a few times a year and talk even less, but none of that changes what’s there between us. I love him in a way that doesn’t require maintenance or proximity, and I know—without question—that he would do anything for me.
There are only three people I would take a bullet for.
Whitney.
Bennett.
Maverick.
No hesitation. No second thought.
I close the journal slowly, pressing my lips together as the silence settles around me, heavier now than it was before.
For the first time since everything started unraveling, the next step feels clear.
I reach for my phone.
I need my brother.