Chapter 5
I don't leave my room all day.
Margot knocks twice. The sound echoes through my room like a gunshot every time—three soft raps that make my chest tighten.
Once in the morning with coffee I don't answer for.
I can smell it through the door—rich, dark, the way she makes it with cream and sugar because she knows I won't drink it black.
The scent lingers in the hallway for minutes after her footsteps fade.
Once around noon, asking if I want lunch.
Her voice is muffled through the wood but I can hear the worry in it. The pleading.
I stay silent both times.
Eventually, she stops trying. The hallway stays quiet. No more footsteps. No more knocking. Just silence that feels heavier than her concern.
The thing about hiding is that it gives you too much time to think. Too much time to replay every word, every look, every moment where you proved Bane right. Every syllable. Every facial expression. Every second of that dinner playing on loop in my head like a horror movie I can't turn off.
You don't want to be part of this family.
I press my palms against my eyes until I see stars. White bursts of light behind my eyelids. Pressure building. Building. Almost pain.
He's wrong. I do want to belong somewhere. I just don't know how. Don't know the rules. Don't know the steps. Don't know how to be the person they want me to be.
The light shifts across my floor as the day drags on. I watch it move. Slow. Inevitable. A sundial marking time I'm wasting. Golden. Then orange. Then purple. Shadows stretching. Lengthening. Swallowing the room inch by inch.
I have class at eight.
I should shower. Get ready. Pretend yesterday didn't happen.
At six, I finally move. My body protests—stiff from lying in bed all day, muscles cramped, joints aching. I have to push myself up with my arms. Have to force my legs to swing over the side of the mattress.
The bathroom is ridiculous.
All white marble and brushed nickel, with a rainfall shower that probably costs more than my entire tuition. There are expensive-looking bottles lined up on the counter—hair products, cologne, face wash I'll never use.
I strip—pulling my shirt over my head, kicking off my jeans, letting everything fall to the floor in a heap—and turn on the water. The pipes groan. Water sputters. Then streams. I hold my hand under the spray, adjusting the temperature until it's almost too hot. Almost burning.
The mirror fogs as steam fills the room, and I catch my reflection before it disappears completely.
I look the same as I always do. Too pale. Washed out. Ghostly in the harsh bathroom light. Dark hair that needs cutting. Shadows under my eyes that never quite fade no matter how much I sleep. Purple-gray crescents that make me look sick. Exhausted. Haunted.
Five-seven. Short. Always the shortest in any group.
Always looking up at everyone else. Slim build that Margot calls "lithe" when she's being nice and everyone else just calls small.
Skinny. Scrawny. The kind of build that reads as weak.
As vulnerable. As prey. I'm not built like the brothers—no broad shoulders or imposing height. Just... compact. Unassuming.
Easy to overlook.
The scars are harder to ignore.
There's one on my collarbone—thin, white, faded to almost nothing.
I trace it with my fingertip. The tissue is smooth.
Raised just slightly. A line that shouldn't be there.
I got that one when I was twelve. Linda threw a glass at me for talking back.
It shattered against the wall, and a shard caught me on the rebound.
Sliced clean through skin. Blood everywhere.
She'd been more upset about the mess than the wound.
You made me do that, she'd said while bandaging it. Her hands rough. Impatient. Pressing too hard on purpose. You need to learn to keep your mouth shut.
I learned.
There's another on my ribs. Lower. Hidden.
I have to twist to see it in the mirror.
Longer. Darker. Four inches. Angry red that never quite faded to white.
It catches the light wrong. Puckers. I was thirteen, didn't take my suppressant on time because I'd forgotten the bottle at school. She found out when I came home and—
I stop. My hand drops from my ribs. Falls to my side. Fists.
Turn away from the mirror. Can't look anymore. Can't see what she made me.
I don't need to catalog every scar. Don't need to remember how I got each one. Don't need to relive every moment. Every hit. Every punishment.
They're just marks. That's all. Proof that I survived something that should've killed me.
The water's hot now. I step under the spray and let it burn.
I'm dressed and ready by six-forty. Hair still damp. Dripping onto my shoulders. I don't bother drying it.
Jeans. A hoodie. Black. Oversized. Something I can hide in. My backpack slung over one shoulder. The outfit of someone who definitely doesn't live in a mansion with marble floors and chandeliers.
I grab my laptop, my notebook, the textbook I haven't opened in two weeks. My diary—the worn one with the soft pages—goes into my backpack too. I zip it into the inner pocket. Safe. Hidden.
Then I take a breath and unlock my door.
Atlas is standing in the hallway.
I freeze. Every muscle locks. My hand still on the doorknob. My breath caught in my throat.
He's still in work clothes—dark slacks, white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up.
The fabric is crisp despite the late hour.
Expensive. The kind that doesn't wrinkle.
Tie loosened. Hanging around his neck, the knot pulled down several inches, the silk gleaming in the hallway light.
He looks like he just got home. His hair is slightly mussed.
There's tension in his jaw. Exhaustion in the set of his shoulders.
And he's right outside my door. Blocking my path. Waiting.
"Max," he says evenly. "I was just about to knock."
"I have class."
"At eight. Margot mentioned it." He doesn't move from blocking the hallway. His body takes up the width of the corridor. There's no way past him without touching. Without getting close. "Dinner's in twenty minutes. You have time to sit down and eat with your family."
Not a request. An expectation. A command dressed up as an invitation.
My jaw tightens. I feel my teeth grind. The muscle jumps in my cheek. "I need to leave early."
"For what?" He crosses his arms. The movement makes him look bigger. Broader. More imposing.
"Does it matter?"
Something flashes in his eyes.Quick. Dark. Gone before I can name it. Irritation, maybe. Or disappointment.
"Yes," he says, voice still measured but with an edge now. "It matters when you've locked yourself in your room for twenty-four hours and your mother is downstairs worried sick about you."
"She knows where I am." I shift my backpack. The weight digs into my shoulder.
"That's not the point." He takes a step forward. Just one. But it feels like he's invaded my space. Like he's too close. Like I can't breathe.
"Then what is the point?" The words come out sharper than I mean them to. Louder. Angrier than I want to sound. "That I'm supposed to sit at a table and play happy family after your brother made it clear I'm not welcome here?"
"Bane was out of line—" His voice rises slightly. Just a fraction. The control slipping.
"But not wrong."
I cut him off. Meet his eyes. Hold his gaze even though it makes my stomach churn.
Atlas's jaw tightens. "You're being difficult."
"I'm being honest."
"No. You're being defensive. There's a difference." He crosses his arms, and somehow he looks even bigger. More imposing. "We're trying here, Max. Richard is trying. Your mother is trying. I'm trying. But you have to meet us halfway."
"I didn't ask for any of this."
"Neither did we."
The words land like a slap.
I take a step back. Stumble slightly. Catch myself against the doorframe.
"Right," I say quietly. The fight drains out of me. Leaves me hollow. "Got it."
"Max—" He reaches out. One hand extending toward me. Like he wants to take it back. Like he wants to fix it.
"No, you're right.” I step away from his hand. From his reach. “You didn't ask for me to move in and fuck up your perfect family dynamic. I'll stay out of your way."
"That's not what I—" His hand drops. Fists at his side.
But I'm already moving past him, shoulder checking his arm as I go.
"Max."
I don't stop.
I take the stairs fast, not looking back. Not giving him the satisfaction. Not giving him another chance to tell me I don't belong.
Behind me, I hear him mutter something under his breath. It sounds like "Christ."
Good.
Let him be frustrated. Let him think I'm difficult. Let him think I'm an asshole.
I don't care. I do care. I care too much. But I can't let him see that.
I just need to get out of this fucking house.
Margot's car is a silver hybrid that still smells new.
She left the keys on the counter with a note. Written on the back of a grocery receipt in her neat handwriting: Take my car tonight, honey. Drive safe. Love you.
I pocket the keys and don't look back at the house. Don't look at the windows. Don't check if anyone's watching. Just go. Just leave.
The drive to campus takes twenty minutes.
I take the back roads. Avoid the highway.
Give myself time to breathe. Time to think.
Time to pull myself together. Cascade Community College sits on the edge of the city, all concrete buildings and parking lots that never have enough spaces.
It's not prestigious. It's not impressive.
It's mine. The only place that still feels like it belongs to me.
I park near the humanities building—third row, under a flickering streetlight that buzzes when I turn off the engine— and sit in the car for a minute, staring at the steering wheel. My hands are still gripping it. White-knuckled. I have to consciously unclench my fingers.
It's barely seven. I have an hour before class.