Naomi
We weave through a labyrinth of corridors, the opulent décor blurring into the background as my pulse pounds in my ears.
Left turn. Another hallway. Finally, Max shoves open the door at the very end of the hall, guiding us into a grand sitting room that feels both intimate and intimidating.
Automatic lights flicker to life, casting a harsh glow over the gilded furniture and heavy velvet drapes, sharpening every edge with cold clarity.
Max drops my wrist like it burns him, turning to face Christian with barely contained rage.
“What the fuck is she doing here, Christian?” he snaps, each word a dagger hurled with precision.
Christian moves toward my brother, his presence a smoldering storm of defiance and control.
“As her husband, I thought it was time to pull back the veil you and your parents have been so delicately keeping over her eyes,” he sneers.
Max’s nostrils flare, his fists clenched at his sides. “You’re not her husband—yet,” he spits, his tone venomous.
“It was my decision to make,” Christian fires back, sharp enough to cut.
“And it just had to be tonight, right?” Max snaps, his accusation hanging heavy in the air. “The night of Shantel’s induction.”
Christian’s expression hardens, his tone icing over. “A slight oversight,” he says coldly, waving a hand in dismissal.
Max’s laugh is bitter, humorless. “I’m sure,” he mutters, the words dripping with disdain.
Their voices climb higher and higher, the tension crackling like a live wire. My patience, already worn thin by confusion and anger, finally snaps.
“Can someone tell me just what the fuck is going on?!” I scream, my voice shooting through their argument like a gunshot.
Both men freeze, their heads snapping toward me as if they’ve only just remembered my presence. Guilt flickers in Max’s eyes before he makes his way over to me, his expression softening. He presses his forehead to mine, his touch grounding and familiar, like we’re back in a simpler time.
I close my eyes, the weight of his sincerity wrapping around me like a childhood blanket. It’s something we’ve always done, a silent way of saying what words couldn’t: I’m sorry. I’m here.
“I’m so sorry, Naomi. So fucking sorry,” Max whispers, his voice breaking on the apology as he squeezes my hand in his.
But sorry doesn’t feel like enough. Not when the world I thought I knew starts crumbling around me as he speaks.
MAX’S POV - NOVEMBER 24, 2009 - 3:30 PM
“Did you see Mariah today?” Tris leans back on the hood of my brand-new BMW, a cocky grin plastered across his face. Dad handed me the keys last week for my birthday—eighteen. Woo-fucking-hoo.
I should care, but all it feels like is another goddamn reminder of the chains I wear.
“Hell yeah! That tiny little cheer uniform was hugging her in all the right places,” Tré says, making some obnoxious hourglass motion with his hands, his shoulder brushing against mine. “I heard her and Nick broke up.”
Tris snickers, oozing with his usual mischievous smirk. “Maybe I can kiss those sweet tears away.” He winks at Tré, who laughs like a hyena, their banter so loud it grates on my nerves.
The bell rang fifteen minutes ago, and Shantel still hasn’t shown up. That girl moves slower than molasses, and I’m about two seconds from blowing a fuse. Tris flicks a piece of red licorice at me, hitting me square in the chest.
“Max, you good, bro?”
“Yeah,” I lie, my tone clipped.
No, I’m not fucking good, far from it actually. My head’s pounding, my patience is shot, and my hands are itching to wrap around someone’s throat—anyone’s throat. The anger’s a steady thrum in my veins, a beast rattling its cage. Tonight, maybe, I’ll let it out.
Finally, fucking finally.
Shantel comes into view, giggling as she runs across the nearly empty parking lot.
Without hesitation, she launches herself into my arms, wrapping her legs tightly around my waist. She knows exactly what kind of effect she has on me—that look in her eyes, that mischievous smile—she knows it will help plead her case.
“Hey, Tris! Hey, Tré!” she chirps, her voice a melody over my shoulder, slipping right into my ear as she rests her chin there.
“Hey, Shantel,” they respond in perfect sync.
“I love when you two do that—it’s adorable,” she says.
“And that’s why they keep doing it,” I grind out, my jaw tight.
She pulls back to look at me, her brows knitting in that faux-innocent way that drives me insane.
“Aw, don’t be mad at me, baby.” Her smile turns me into putty, but the hot anger sizzling through my veins has me craving to fuck her over the hood of my car. Her lips find mine in a teasing kiss, soft enough to make my blood burn hotter. “Mariah broke up with Nicky—she needed me!”
“You know I still have to pick Naomi up, Shan,” I remind her, my tone sharp.
“You’re right, I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.” She pouts, her lips curling just enough to tempt me.
“Yes, it will,” Tré pipes up as I drop her back onto her feet, opening the passenger side door and watching her slide in comfortably.
“Hey, whose side are you—”
I slam the door, cutting her off mid-sentence. “Everybody in,” I bark, rounding the car before the beast inside me decides it’s not waiting for tonight.
“Wonder what’s got his panties in a bunch?” Tré mutters to Tris, low enough to think I won’t hear.
“Probably backed up,” Tris replies, snickering like he’s got jokes.
“Nah,” Tré says, grinding his hips like the idiot he is. “He and Shantel were in the guest house last night. Bet she kept him plenty busy.”
“I SAID GET THE FUCK IN!” I snap, my voice razor-sharp, yanking the driver’s door open with enough force to make it groan. They scramble off the hood, slipping into their seats without another word. I don’t have the patience for their bullshit today.
The Fairmont Academy is thirty minutes away—if we are lucky. But this is LA, where traffic’s a bigger nightmare than anything haunting my nights. It’s going to be forty minutes minimum, with every second making my head ache.
“Baby, is there anything I can—” Shantel starts, her voice soft and sweet, but one look from me cuts her off. The words die on her lips, leaving nothing but silence in their wake.
We finally pull up to Naomi’s school, and she’s standing at the curb with Aisha. They’re both shaking, arms wrapped around themselves, their thin jackets doing nothing to fight off the chill. It’s not even that cold, but they’ve clearly been out here long enough to feel it.
Naomi sees me, and that smile—warm and easy, like nothing in this world could shake her—breaks across her face. Calm as ever. She’s like that most of the time, just like our beautiful mother, unless someone’s dumb enough to cross her. Then they get what they deserve.
“Hello, Pretty Girl. Hop in,” I say, keeping my voice steady as I turn my head to look at her,
“Hello, handsome,” she says, her tone teasing as she dips into a playful curtsey. “Fancy meeting you here.”
Tré slides out to fold the seat down, giving Naomi enough room to climb in. He kisses the top of her head like the annoying big brother he is, but she just beams up at him. “Hey, Beauty.” He grins.
“Hey, Ni.” Tris leans over to hug her before she hops in the back seat, smirking at Aisha like he always does. “Hey, Isha,” he says, his voice noticeably injected with a bit of flirtation.
I narrow my eyes at him. He’s an asshole. He knows that the girl has a stupid crush on him, and he does everything in his power to provoke her. I swear, one day she is going to pounce on him, and not one of us is going to stop her.
“Hey, everyone!” Aisha chirps breathlessly, her cheeks turning red as she climbs in beside Naomi, her energy infectious as always.
With everyone settled, I turn on some music. Naomi’s too perceptive; if I don’t put on a distraction, she’ll sniff out the tension plaguing the air, and that’s the last thing I need right now.
Fall Out Boy’s “Thnks fr th Mmrs” fills the car, and Naomi and Aisha scream the lyrics at the top of their lungs, their laughter bouncing off the windows.
Even as Shantel sings along, her voice is the one making me more and more annoyed by the second, each note—like nails against my skull.
I grip the steering wheel, knuckles cracking as I endure the ride.
It’s not her, not really. It’s tonight. That freight train barreling down the tracks, unstoppable, inevitable.
I should be looking forward to spending the night with Shantel screaming my name.
But instead, I’m heading to The Corinthium—like a lamb to slaughter, though maybe it’s the other way around. ..
When we pull into Shantel’s driveway, I round the car without a word, yanking her door open. She hesitates, waiting for something—what, I don’t know—but I just lean against the back door, hands buried deep in my jacket pockets, waiting for her to get out.
“Tell me what’s going on, Max. Is it me?
” Sliding out of the car, she wraps her arms around herself, not because she is cold, but because the arctic breeze that has been rolling off me has been downright deplorable; my mother would tear into me if she could see me now.
“Maximilien Blaine, a suh mi raise yuh? ” I can hear her now. “Is that how I raised you?”
Wrapping Shantel in my arms, I lower my lips to her forehead, breathing in her scent. “Everything is fine, my diamond.” The autumn sun kisses her deep brown skin, and for a second, I forget to breathe. She’s stunning—achingly beautiful, like the universe carved her just for me.
“Do you want to come over later?” she whispers, pressing her soft curves against me, her warm brown eyes locked on mine.
The radiating heaviness of guilt in my chest makes me regret making her feel as though it was her.
She doesn’t remind me of a diamond just because she’s beautiful, but because under pressure, she still sparkles.
Shan is just like that. “Okay,” I concede, unable to say no to her. “I’ll come by at eleven.”