Chapter 2 #2
"Everyone keeps saying that." He flicks ash over the railing. It falls, disappearing into the darkness below. "It's boring."
I don't know how to respond to that, so I don't. I just stand there, arms crossed over my chest now, defensive posture I can't quite hide.
We stand in silence for a moment, and I'm acutely aware of how much space he takes up. Not physically—he's not as broad as Atlas—but presence-wise. Like he's daring the world to challenge him.
"Richard seems happy," Zero says eventually. His tone is flat. Unreadable.
"He does."
"Good for him." He drops the cigarette, grinds it under his heel with more force than necessary. The movement is violent. Final.
There's something off in his tone. Not quite bitter, but close.
"You don't approve," I say. Not a question. An observation.
His eyes cut to me. Fast. Sharp. Like a knife. "I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to."
This time, he does smile. It's sharp. Dangerous.
"You're observant. That's useful." He turns to leave, pauses at the doorway, and looks back over his shoulder. He drops the cigarette and crushes it under his shoe. "Word of advice, little brother. Don't get too comfortable. Things change fast in this family."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means what it means."
He turns and walks back inside, his silhouette disappearing into the warm light of the reception hall, leaving me alone on the terrace with more questions than answers. And a chill that has nothing to do with the evening breeze.
The third brother doesn't seek me out.
I find him by accident.
I'm looking for the bathroom—this place is a maze of identical hallways and closed doors that all look the same—when I push open the wrong door and find myself in some kind of library or study.
Leather chairs, worn and comfortable-looking, dark wood, paneling that climbs to the ceiling, walls lined with books.
And a man standing by the window, staring out at the water. Silhouetted against the darkening sky, hands in his pockets, shoulders tense.
He turns when I enter. The movement is quick. Startled.
Younger than the other two. Mid-twenties, maybe.
Golden-brown hair, styled perfectly, not a strand out of place, hazel eyes, classically handsome in a way that probably gets him anything he wants.
Sharp jaw. Straight nose. Full lips. He's dressed like Atlas—expensive suit, charcoal gray like mine but tailored better, fitting him like it was made for him because it probably was, perfect hair—but there's tension in his shoulders.
A tightness. A coiled energy like he's ready to either fight or flee.
"Sorry," I say quickly. I take a step back, hand still on the doorknob. "Wrong room."
"Wait." The word is sharp. A command.
I freeze. My hand tightens on the doorknob.
He crosses the space between us, three long strides that eat up the distance, and I'm struck by how much he looks like Richard. Same bone structure. Same easy confidence.
"You're Max." Not a question. A statement. His eyes rake over me, assessing.
"Yeah." My voice comes out quieter than I want it to.
"Bane." He doesn't offer his hand. Just stands there, close enough that I have to tilt my head back slightly to meet his eyes, close enough that I can smell his cologne—something expensive and woody, studying me like I'm a puzzle he's trying to solve. "Margot's son."
"Yeah."
He nods slowly, like he's confirming something to himself.
"Look," he says, voice flat. "I'm going to be straight with you. This whole thing—" He gestures vaguely toward the reception. One hand rising and falling, dismissive. "—is what it is. Dad's happy. Good for him. But don't get any ideas about us all playing perfect blended family."
"I wasn't—" I start to protest, but he cuts me off with a look.
"You're an outsider, Carter. That's just a fact.” He takes a step closer. Crowding me. “No offense, but we're not looking to add another brother to the mix. So keep your distance, stay out of our way, and we'll all get along fine."
The words are delivered without malice. Just cold, hard honesty.
"Understood," I say quietly. My hands curl into fists at my sides. Nails digging into my palms.
"Good." He moves toward the door, then pauses.His shoulder nearly touches mine. I can feel the heat radiating off him. "Nothing personal. It's just how it is."
He brushes past me, shoulder checking mine just enough to make his point. Hard enough that I stumble slightly. Hard enough that it's deliberate.
I stand there, pulse racing, hammering in my throat, in my ears, hands curled into fists.
Three brothers.
Three walls I'm going to have to climb.
Fuck.
The rest of the reception blurs together.
I dance with Margot because she asks and I can't say no.
She leads because I don't know how, her hand warm in mine, guiding me through steps I barely manage.
Richard makes a toast that's sweet and genuine, and people clap.
The sound echoes, too loud, making me flinch.
The cake is cut. Vanilla with raspberry filling, too sweet on my tongue.
Champagne flows. I drink more than I should.
The bubbles make my head feel light, detached.
I smile when I'm supposed to smile.
I laugh when I'm supposed to laugh. Even though nothing's funny. Even though my face hurts from the effort.
I play the part.
But inside, I'm counting down the minutes until I can leave. Watching the clock on the wall. Watching the sun set. Watching the crowd thin as people make their excuses and slip away into the night.
When Margot and Richard finally say their goodbyes—they're leaving for a honeymoon in Italy tomorrow—Margot pulls me aside. Her hand on my elbow, gentle but insistent, leading me away from the crowd.
"You okay, sweetheart?" She cups my face with both hands, tilting my head so I have to meet her eyes.
"I'm fine." The lie is automatic. Practiced.
She gives me that look. The one that says she knows I'm lying but won't push. Her thumb brushes across my cheekbone. Soft. Sad.
"The boys can be... intense," she says. "Give them time."
"Yeah."
"I love you." Her palms are warm. Her eyes are bright with tears she won't shed. "Nothing changes that."
"I love you too."
She kisses my forehead—her lips soft, lingering, like she's trying to leave some part of herself with me—and lets me go.
I catch a ride back to the apartment with one of Margot's friends—some woman I half-recognize from her work.
Older. Kind eyes. She keeps glancing at me in the rearview mirror like she wants to say something but doesn't. She makes small talk.
About the weather. About the wedding. About how beautiful Margot looked.
I give one-word answers. Yeah. Sure. Mm-hmm.
When I finally get home, I lock the door behind me—deadbolt and chain, muscle memory—and lean against it.
The apartment is quiet. So quiet I can hear the refrigerator humming. The clock ticking. My own breathing.
Empty.
In three days, I'll pack up my life and move it to the Graves estate.
In three days, everything changes.
I pull out my phone and stare at the screen. The light is too bright in the dark apartment. It makes my eyes water.
No messages.
I don't know what I was expecting. Margot's already with Richard. Already starting her new life. Already leaving me behind.
I head to my room, stumbling slightly, the champagne making my steps unsteady, peel off the suit, hanging it carefully on the back of my chair because Margot paid too much for it to crumple on the floor, and collapse onto my bed.
The mattress dips. The springs creak. Familiar sounds that won't be familiar much longer.
Don't get too comfortable, Zero said. Things change fast in this family.
I close my eyes. Press my face into my pillow. Breathe in the scent of home—laundry detergent and old books and safety.
I'm not comfortable.
I don't think I'll ever be comfortable again.