Chapter 3
The Uber driver doesn't say anything when he pulls up to the gates.
Just whistles low under his breath. A long, appreciative sound that makes my stomach churn.
I don't blame him. The Graves estate is.
.. a lot. Too much. Stone pillars. Taller than our old apartment building, topped with iron lanterns that probably cost more than a car.
Wrought iron. Gates so ornate they look like they belong in a museum, all scrollwork and sharp edges.
A driveway that curves through manicured lawns like something out of a movie.
Perfectly trimmed hedges. Flower beds that look painted on.
Not a single blade of grass out of place.
"Nice place," he says. His voice has that careful neutrality people use when they're looking at something they'll never afford.
"Yeah." The word comes out flat. Empty.
I tip him extra—guilt, maybe, or just the need to feel like I'm still the same person I was yesterday—my fingers fumbling with the bills, pressing two twenties into his hand when the ride only cost fifteen, and watch him drive away.
The car disappears down the long driveway, red taillights getting smaller and smaller until they're swallowed by the tree-lined curve.
Then it's just me. Two duffel bags. Both worn, one with a broken zipper I've been meaning to fix for months. A backpack. And a house that looks like it could swallow me whole.
I take a breath. The air smells like cut grass and money. Clean in a way that feels artificial.
You can do this.
I can't do this.
I walk up the front steps anyway. Each one is wide, made of smooth stone that's probably been there for a hundred years. My sneakers look wrong against it—too scuffed, too cheap, too me.
Atlas answers before I can knock. The door swings open just as I'm reaching for the bell, like he was watching from a window. Waiting.
He's different than he was at the wedding.
Still imposing—six-three at least, broad-shouldered in a way that makes doorways look small—but softer somehow.
The suit's gone, replaced by dark jeans and a fitted gray t-shirt that does nothing to hide the muscle underneath.
The fabric clings to his chest, his shoulders, showing off a body that's clearly maintained through more than just genetics.
His hair is still that striking mix of dark brown and premature silver at the temples, slightly mussed like he's been running his hands through it.
Pieces stick up at odd angles. It makes him look almost human. Almost approachable.
But it's his eyes that catch me. Sharp gray. Like polished steel. Like storm clouds. The kind that see too much.
He looks at me like he's been expecting me. Like he's already catalogued my two cheap duffel bags and my uncomfortable posture and filed them away for future reference. Which, I guess, he has.
"Max," he says, voice calm and measured. Even in casual clothes, he sounds like a CEO. "Come in."
I step inside, my sneakers squeaking slightly on the marble, and the foyer is.
.. overwhelming. Marble floors that shine like glass.
I can see my reflection in them—distorted, small, out of place.
A chandelier that probably costs more than I'm worth.
Crystal. Massive. Hanging from a ceiling so high it makes me dizzy to look up at it.
Dual staircases curving up to the second floor.
They meet in the middle, forming a balcony that overlooks the entrance.
It's something out of a movie. Out of a dream.
Out of a life that isn't mine. Too much space. Too much air. Too much everything.
Atlas takes one of my duffel bags without asking, his hand closing around the strap, lifting it like it weighs nothing even though I know it's heavy, and I let him because I don't know how to say no.
"Richard and Margot get back tomorrow," he says, leading me toward the stairs. His stride is long, confident. I have to walk faster to keep up. "Until then, it's just us."
Us.
Me and the three brothers who made it clear I'm not wanted here.
Great.
"Your room's on the second floor," Atlas continues. He doesn't look back at me when he talks, just keeps moving forward like he expects me to follow. Like there's no question I will. "North corner. Margot had it set up for you while they were gone."
I swallow hard. My throat clicks. Dry. Of course she did. Even on her honeymoon, she was thinking about me.
"Okay," I say. My voice sounds too small in this massive space. It doesn't even echo. Just gets swallowed up.
We climb the stairs in silence. My hand trails along the railing—smooth, polished wood that's probably older than I am. I'm hyper-aware of every step, every breath, every small sound. The house is too quiet. Too big.
Atlas stops outside a door and pushes it open. The handle turns with a quiet click. The hinges don't even creak.
"This is you."
I step inside. Cross the threshold into what's supposed to be mine but doesn't feel like it at all.
It's... nice. Really nice. King-sized bed with gray linens. A desk by the window. Dark wood, solid, with a lamp that looks like an antique. A bookshelf that's already half-filled with titles I recognize—Margot's doing, probably. She knows what I like.
There's even a small reading nook in the corner, with a chair that looks like it was made for curling up in. Deep cushions. Soft throw blanket draped over the arm. A side table with a coaster already waiting.
It's perfect.
I hate it.
"Bathroom's through there," Atlas says, nodding toward a door on the left. He sets my duffel bag down on the bed with a soft thump. "You share it with the room next door, but no one's using that one right now, so you'll have it to yourself."
"Okay."
He pulls something from his pocket. A key.
"Front door," he says, handing it to me. His fingers brush mine when I take it. Warm. Brief. "You're free to come and go as you please. No curfew, no rules. Just let someone know if you're going to be gone overnight."
I take the key. It's heavier than it should be.
"The second floor is mostly us," Atlas continues.
He leans against the doorframe now, arms crossed over his chest. The casual posture does nothing to make him less intimidating.
"My room's at the west end. Zero's across the hall from me.
Bane's on the south side. There's a shared lounge in the middle—TV, bar, pool table.
You're welcome to use it, but... fair warning, we're usually in there at night. "
Translation: stay out of our space.
"Got it," I say. I close my fist around the key. The metal digs into my palm.
"Kitchen's on the main floor. Help yourself to whatever.” He pushes off the doorframe, straightening to his full height. “There's a gym in the basement if you use it. Pool's out back." He pauses. "Anything else you need?"
"No. This is—this is great. Thank you."
Atlas nods. Studies me for a moment longer than comfortable. His gaze lingers on my face, drops to the key still clutched in my hand, returns to my eyes. Reading me like a book I didn't want opened.
Then he's gone, closing the door behind him.
I unpack slowly. Methodically. Giving myself a task so I don't have to think about where I am. About what comes next.
Clothes in the dresser. My faded t-shirts and worn jeans look wrong in the pristine drawers, like something from a thrift store mixed in with designer labels.
Laptop on the desk. Old, scratched, held together with hope and a sticker I got from a writing workshop two years ago.
Books on the shelf, next to the ones Margot already put there.
My pill bottle goes in the bottom drawer, hidden under a stack of t-shirts.
I bury it deep, checking twice to make sure it's not visible if someone opens the drawer.
Not that anyone would. Not that anyone should.
Paranoid? Maybe.
But I've learned the hard way that secrets stay secret only if you guard them.
When I'm done, the room still doesn't feel like mine. It's too clean. Too put-together. Like a hotel room instead of a home.
I sit on the edge of the bed and pull out my phone.
No messages. The screen is blank except for the time—3:47 PM—and my wallpaper, a photo of Margot and me from last Christmas.
Margot's in Italy. She doesn't need me bothering her on her honeymoon.
I open my contacts anyway. Scroll to her name. Stare at it. My thumb hovers over the call button. Press. Don't press. Press. Don't press.
Then I close the app and shove the phone in my pocket.
You're fine. You're fine.
I need air.
The house is a maze.
I find the stairs easily enough, but once I'm on the main floor, I get turned around twice trying to find the back door.
Every hallway looks the same—cream walls, expensive art, doors that could lead anywhere.
Eventually, I stumble into a massive kitchen—all granite and stainless steel—countertops so clean they gleam, appliances so new they still have that showroom shine, and spot glass doors leading outside.
I take them. Push through into the late afternoon sun, into air that doesn't smell like leather and money and other people's lives.
The backyard is ridiculous. Pool. Olympic-sized, with a diving board and underwater lights.
Patio. Stone, with furniture that looks like it came from a resort.
Gardens that look like someone's full-time job.
Roses. Hydrangeas. Something purple I don't have a name for.
All perfectly arranged. All perfectly maintained.
And beyond it all, a path leading down to the water.
Wooden planks set into the grass, weathered gray, leading down a gentle slope.
I follow it.
The dock is old—older than the house, maybe. Weathered wood that creaks under my feet. Each plank groans softly, a chorus of age and wear. It juts out into the bay, and the water laps at the posts, rhythmic and soothing. Gentle. Persistent. A sound like breathing.