Chapter 11
Two days after Zero pinned me to the pool table, I finally leave my room for more than a few minutes.
Not by choice.
Margot corners me.
I'm in the kitchen, filling a glass of water—the tap runs too cold, makes my teeth ache—with shaking hands, when she appears in the doorway.
My fingers are still tender where the scars pull tight across my knuckles. The glass nearly slips from my grip twice before I get it to my mouth.
"Max." Her voice is gentle. Careful. Like she's talking to something wounded. Something that might bolt. "Do you have a minute?"
I want to say no.
"Sure."
She leads me to the living room—the formal one with the cream-colored sofas and the fireplace that probably cost more than a year of my tuition.
Everything in here is pristine. Untouched.
The kind of room that exists to be looked at, not lived in.
I've never sat in here. It feels wrong. Like I'm contaminating it just by being present.
The air smells like expensive candles and furniture polish. Clean. Cold. Uninviting.
Margot sits and pats the cushion beside her.
I sit.
The cushion barely dips under my weight. I've lost more than I thought.
The headache that's been building behind my eyes for the past day sharpens. I ignore it.
"I'm worried about you," Margot says.
"I'm fine."
"Max." She takes my hand. Her palm is warm. Steady. "You're not fine. You've barely left your room in two weeks. You're not eating. You won't talk to me."
"I've been busy. Schoolwork."
"Don't lie to me."
The words are soft. Not accusatory. Just... sad.
It makes something twist in my chest. Sharp. Painful.
My chest tightens.
"I'm not lying," I say. "I have two papers due and a midterm next week. I'm just stressed."
She studies me. Those kind eyes that see too much. They track over my face like she's cataloging every change. The shadows under my eyes. The hollow of my cheeks. The way my clothes hang looser than they should.
"Is it the boys? Did something happen?"
Zero pinned me down and smelled me and got hard and I'm terrified he knows.
"No. They're fine. I'm fine."
"Because if they're giving you a hard time—"
"They're not." I squeeze her hand. "Really, Margot. I'm okay. I promise."
She doesn't believe me.
But she wants to.
I can see it in her face. The way she's trying to balance worry with hope. The way her mouth tightens at the corners. The way she blinks a little too fast, like she's fighting tears. Trying to believe that her new marriage and her son can coexist without destroying each other.
"I just—" She pauses. Looks down at our joined hands. "I know this has been an adjustment. For everyone. And I know Richard's sons can be... intense."
That's one word for it.
"I'm happy for you," I say, and I mean it. "You deserve this. You deserve Richard and this house and everything that comes with it."
"So do you."
I don't respond.
Because we both know that's not true.
The headache pulses. Sharp. Insistent. Like something is pressing against the inside of my skull, trying to break through.
I ignore it.
"I'm just glad you haven't gotten tired of me yet," I say, trying for humor.
Her face crumples. "Max—"
"I'm kidding." I force a smile. "Bad joke."
"I will never get tired of you. Do you hear me?
Never." She cups my face. Her palms are warm against my too-hot cheeks.
Am I running a fever? When did that start?
"You're my son. That doesn't change because I married Richard.
That doesn't change because we live in a different house. Nothing changes that."
My throat tightens.
"Okay," I whisper.
"Okay?"
"Okay."
She pulls me into a hug, and I let her. Hold on maybe a little too tight. My fingers dig into her shoulder blades. I can smell her perfume—something floral and soft and familiar. Home. She smells like home.
I'm twenty years old. Too old to need my mom like this.
But I do.
God, I do.
We sit like that for a long moment. Her hand stroking my hair. The touch is soothing. Grounding. For a second, the headache dulls. My face pressed against her shoulder.
The headache dulls. Just slightly.
"I love you," she says.
"I love you too."
She pulls back and wipes at her eyes. Her mascara has smudged slightly. She's been crying. Because of me. Because I can't get my shit together long enough to convince her I'm fine. "Okay. Enough of that. You said you have a midterm?"
"Yeah. Wednesday."
"Then you should study. But eat something first. Please?"
"I will."
Another lie.
She knows it. But she lets it slide.
I stand, and the room tilts.
The floor shifts under my feet. The walls blur. I grab the arm of the sofa—leather warm and smooth under my palm—and hold on while the world rights itself.
Just slightly. Just enough that I have to grab the arm of the sofa to steady myself.
"Max?"
"I'm fine. Just stood up too fast."
My vision swims. Doubles. Two Margots staring at me with identical worried expressions. I blink hard and they merge back into one.
The headache sharpens into something vicious. White-hot. Blinding. Like someone's driving an ice pick through my temple. I blink through it.
"Go study," Margot says. "But if you need anything—"
"I'll let you know."
I head for the stairs.
Each step feels like wading through quicksand. My legs are heavy. Uncooperative.
The headache follows.
I make it halfway up before I hear footsteps behind me.
"Max."
I stop. Turn. The movement makes my head swim. I grip the railing harder.
Bane stands at the bottom of the stairs, hands in his pockets, jaw tight. He's dressed casually—jeans and a fitted henley that shows off his build—but there's nothing casual about the tension in his shoulders. The way he's looking at me.
Like I'm a problem he needs to solve.
"Can we talk?"
No.
"About what?"
"Just—" He glances toward the living room where Margot is. "Come back down. Please."
The please sounds like it costs him.
I descend slowly. Each step makes my head pound harder.
Bane leads me to the foyer. Away from the living room. Away from Margot.
He crosses his arms. The movement makes his biceps flex. He's bigger than I am. Stronger. Could break me without trying. "I wanted to apologize."
I wait.
"For what I said at dinner. The first night." He doesn't look at me. His eyes are fixed somewhere over my left shoulder. Coward. "It was out of line."
The words are right. The tone is wrong.
"Okay," I say.
"Okay?"
"You apologized. I heard you. Is that all?"
His jaw tightens. A muscle jumps in his cheek. His hands curl into fists at his sides. "You're not going to say anything?"
"What do you want me to say?"
"I don't know. Thank you? It's fine? Something?"
I stare at him.
He doesn't mean it. The apology. It's performative. Probably something Richard or Margot asked him to do.
Just like Atlas's careful politeness. Just like Zero's—
The headache spikes. So sudden and vicious I gasp. My hand flies to my temple, fingers digging into the spot where the pain is worst.
"Are you even listening to me?" Bane asks.
"Yeah."
"You don't look like you're listening."
"I'm listening."
"Then what did I just say?"
I blink. Try to focus. But his face keeps sliding in and out of clarity. Sharp, then blurred, then sharp again.
"You... apologized."
"Before that."
I don't remember.
The words are gone. Lost in the static filling my head.
The room tilts. Just slightly. My vision blurs at the edges. Everything's too bright. Too loud. The chandelier above us is like staring into the sun.
"Forget it," Bane says, voice tight. "This was a waste of time."
"You think?" The words come out sharper than I mean them to. But I'm too tired to care. Too sick to filter. "Your apology is as fake as you are."
His eyes narrow. Hazel going hard and cold. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me." I'm dizzy now. Unsteady. I lean against the wall—cool plaster against my shoulder blade—and try to stay upright. But I can't stop. "You don't mean it. None of you do. You're all the same. Fake. Used to getting whatever the hell you want."
"You don't know anything about me."
"I know enough." I lean against the wall. The headache is splitting my skull open. Each word I speak makes it worse. Makes the pressure build until I think my head might actually explode. "You and Zero are both insufferable. Your brother is only slightly better."
Something shifts in Bane's expression.
Cold. Furious. His whole body goes rigid. Dangerous.
"You want to talk about insufferable?" He takes a step closer. Close enough that I can smell him—amber and sandalwood and barely restrained rage. "Let's talk about you. You walk into this house—our house—acting like you're too good for us. Like we're the problem."
"I never said—"
"You didn't have to. It's written all over your face every time you look at us.
" Another step. He towers over me now. I have to tilt my head back to see his face and the movement makes the room spin.
"You think you're special because Margot chose you?
Because she adopted some charity case out of pity? "
The words hit like a punch. Physical. Brutal. I feel them land in my chest, knock the air from my lungs.
"You're nothing," Bane continues. His voice drops lower. Colder. Each word precisely aimed to hurt "You're nobody. And you don't mean shit to anyone here."
My chest tightens. I can't breathe. Can't think past the words burrowing under my skin like parasites.
"Margot?" He laughs. Bitter. "She's going to get sick of you now that she has a new family. You? You're going to be alone and miserable because you are so unlikeable even your parents didn't want you."
I can't breathe.
The air won't come. My lungs are frozen. My vision narrows to a pinpoint—just Bane's face, twisted with contempt, and nothing else.
"Guess what?" Bane leans in. So close I can see the gold flecks in his hazel eyes.
Can feel his breath hot against my face.
"My dad doesn't want you either. He's just too polite to say it.
So either shut the fuck up and stay out of everyone's way, or leave on your own before I have the pleasure of kicking you out myself. "
The headache explodes.
White-hot pain lances through my skull. So intense I see stars. Bright bursts of light that bloom behind my eyes and fade to black. The room spins. I grab the wall to keep from falling. My fingers scrabble against smooth plaster. No purchase. Nothing to hold onto.
"Are you—" Bane starts.
But I'm already moving. Away from him. Away from the words that are burrowing into my chest like knives. Away from his face and his voice and the truth I don't want to hear.
I make it to the stairs.
Start climbing.
My hand grips the railing so hard my healing knuckles scream. Each step is a battle. Lift one foot. Plant it. Shift weight. Repeat.
Each step is agony.
Behind me, I hear Bane mutter something. Indistinct. Maybe an apology. Maybe a curse. Footsteps. Then nothing.
I lock my door and sink onto my bed. The mattress dips under my weight. The room tilts and keeps tilting, even when I close my eyes.
My hands are shaking.
I press them against my thighs to make them stop. It doesn't work. The tremors just move up my arms, into my shoulders, until my whole body is vibrating with it.
You're nothing. You're nobody.
Even your parents didn't want you.
Margot's going to get sick of you.
The pain in my head is unbearable now. Not just pain anymore. Something else. Something deeper. Something wrong. Pulsing. Throbbing. Like something inside is trying to claw its way out.
I press my palms against my eyes and try to breathe. The pressure helps. Just barely. Just enough to keep me from screaming.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
It doesn't help.
Nothing helps.
I'm alone.
I've always been alone.
And Bane's right.
I'm going to stay that way.