- thirty two - alex
. . .
Her head's on my chest, right over my heartbeat.
God knows how this wild, fiesty, smart, beautiful, perfect, doe-eyed little thing managed to knock the air out of me just by existing. And now she's curled up like I'm her safe place or something.
It's fucking ironic. If she knew how deep the rot goes, she'd probably never touch me again.
I don't sleep much, but when she's like this-soft breath against my skin, hand resting right over the ink on my ribs-I get why people chase peace.
Problem is, mine's always been bought in grams.
And I built this life. From nothing. No trust funds, no daddy's company bullshit-I built this empire with bruised knuckles and fucked-up morals.
Every deal, every risk, every night I didn't know if I'd make it back... that was me.
And now I'm supposed to just let it go?
For 'myself'?
It doesn't entirely make sense.
She stirs a little, mumbling something in her sleep. I glance down and, fuck me, she's beautiful. Lips slightly parted, cheek smushed against my chest like I'm the softest place she knows.
Me.
The human red flag.
I could do it. Walk away. Burn the whole thing down.
I should.
There's something about her-
Something that makes the noise in my head go quiet.
And for the first time in my life, I think maybe I don't have to be the monster everyone pegged me as.
Maybe I could just be hers.
It all sounds so simple. Easy. Uncomplicated.
Natural.
I let my fingers drift through her hair, slow, careful. I memorize the shape of her. I let myself have this one moment. Just her and me. Just quiet. She smiles softly in her sleep and I hold my breath.
I think I-
BANG. BANG. BANG.
The door bursts open, and suddenly there's a dozen voices shouting over each other.
"POLICE! HANDS WHERE I CAN SEE THEM!"
My body goes ice cold, but my head turns fast-
"Dana," I breathe.
She jerks awake, disoriented as fuck, blinking at the armed chaos spilling into our room. Her wide eyes find me, confused, scared.
A cop grabs my arm and yanks me up. My chest leaves hers. The bed shifts. Cold metal closes around my wrists.
The click of the handcuffs is louder than the shouting.
I don't fight it. I don't say a word.
I just look at her.
And that's what fucking kills me-
Not the arrest.
Not the cops.
Her.
Her face. Her expression. The look she's giving me right now.
Not fear of them.
Fear of me.
Fuck.
. . .
The cell is cold, sterile and smells like piss with a touch of old regret.
They threw me in here like I was some fucking animal. Maybe I am.
I lean my head back against the wall, metal cuffs biting into my wrists behind me. The cot beneath me's thin, hard. Doesn't matter. I'm not sleeping.
Fifteen.
The girl was fifteen.
They told me when they booked me. Didn't even look at me like I was human. Didn't have to. I didn't feel human either.
Sold her a tab. Thought she was just another rich girl playing rebel for the night. I didn't even blink. Just took the cash, gave her the poison, moved on.
Now she's in a coma.
And I'm sitting in this cell, the weight of her unconscious body pressing on my chest like a goddamn boulder.
I didn't mean for this. I never meant for this.
But that doesn't matter, does it? Intent doesn't change the outcome.
I picture Dana again. Her mouth parted in shock, eyes wide, hands gripping the sheets like they were the only thing keeping her grounded.
I didn't even get to say anything. Just a flash of her face before they dragged me out.
What the fuck have I done?
The door opens with a buzz. Heavy boots echo down the hall. I don't lift my head until the lock on my cell clinks open.
"Lancaster," a cop barks. "You're out."
I blink. "What?"
"Charges are dropped. You can go."
I laugh. It's hollow, ugly. Of course. Mother dearest must've made a call.
Rich people don't go to jail. Not really. Not when their mother's got senators and judges on speed dial.
They take the cuffs off my wrists. My wrists are raw, red rings digging into skin. I rub them, stand up, and walk out.
But I don't feel free.
I feel like a fucking ghost.
Because the girl is still in a coma.
Because Dana saw everything. She probably knows what I did by now.
Because when I close my eyes, all I see is blood that isn't even there.
What am I, without this empire?
Without the drugs, the deals, the control?
Just a scared, hollow kid in a hoodie. Just a disappointment.
And now I can't even hide behind the high. Now I have to sit in it. Feel it. Fucking drown in it.
The worst part? I still want to talk to Dana. Like she'd even want to see me.
I want to tell her I'm sorry.
I want to ask her if she still sees something worth saving in me.
But even I know that'd be selfish. And I've already done enough of that for a lifetime.
. . .
I tear through the room like a fucking maniac.
Drawers open. Clothes gone. Sketchbooks missing. Her jacket-the one she always left slung over the back of the chair-nowhere.
Her side of the room is too damn empty. Too damn quiet.
She left.
The fairy lights are still up. Still glowing that soft, golden hue. Like a cruel little nightlight mocking me.
She's gone.
My chest feels like it's been carved open and left to rot in the sun. I slump down on her bed, which smells like her-warm and earthy and soft-and press my hands into my face.
What the fuck.
She didn't say a word.
She didn't leave a note.
She just left.
And I deserve it. I know I do. But that doesn't stop the way my lungs are clawing for air.
If I'd known...
If she'd just told me that's what this was-that this was a fucking choice between her and this fucked-up life-I would've chosen her. Without blinking.
But she didn't say that.
She made it sound like I had to choose between me and the drug life. Like it was about who I am.
And I didn't know how to do that. I still don't.
I didn't realize she was the choice.
And now she's fucking gone.
I kick the edge of the desk, hard. The leg splinters. Something falls to the floor with a soft thud.
I look down. And there it is. Her sketchbook.
I blink. Pick it up slowly, like it's some ancient artifact.
It's the soft brown one she carries everywhere, worn at the corners. The pages whisper as I flip through, until-
There. Me. Drawn in ink. My back turned. A hoodie half-slipped off my shoulder. Head tilted slightly, eyes unreadable even in black and white.
It's the kind of sketch someone draws when they're looking at you like you're something worth knowing.
Like you matter.
And it fucking breaks me.
I press the book to my chest, slump to the floor, and let my head fall back against the bed.
I don't cry. But my throat burns.
I sit like that for-I don't know how long-until I hear heels click against the hardwood outside. The door creaks open.
And then her voice. Smooth as always, with that perfect Upper East Side disgust woven through it.
Mother.
"Alexander. What on Earth have you done to this place?"
I lift my head. And there she is.
Silk blouse, tailored coat, hair in a sleek chignon. The kind of woman who treats emotions like secondhand smoke-offensive and unnecessary.
She doesn't even look at the mess. She looks at me, disappointment radiating off of her in waves.
And all I can think is: you're not the one I wanted to walk through that door.
But she steps in like she owns the place, glancing around with her usual disdain. "You're coming home," she says, like it's already been decided. "You need a break. Time away from all this."
My lips twitch. "What, back to the marble palace where we all pretend nothing's wrong?"
She arches a brow. "Exactly. You'll be safe there. Managed."
Controlled, she means.
"I don't want-"
"You clearly don't know what you want, darling. That's the problem."
She walks over, brushes invisible lint off my shoulder. And I let her. Because for a moment, I don't have the energy to fight.
But I still grip the sketchbook tight in my hand.
She eyes the sketchbook in my hand like it's something diseased.
"You're still clinging to her?" she says, voice dipped in venomous disbelief. "Please, Alexander. Girls like that don't stay. They can't. Not when things get ugly."
I say nothing.
"Honestly," she continues, circling the room like a hawk picking through a carcass, "you're lucky she left before things got worse. Before she saw everything. You were never going to be enough for her."
That makes me look up. Just a flick of the eyes, but it's enough for her to smile-tight-lipped and cruel.
"She probably saw what the rest of us already know," she says, adjusting the diamond-studded watch on her wrist. "You are not built for real connection, Alex. You ruin things. You always have. Even as a child you used to."
It stings.
And she knows it. She always knows where to stick the knife and twist.
"This isn't a tragedy," she adds, heel tapping against the floor like a metronome for her monologue. "It's a wake-up call. One that's long overdue."
She turns, eyes raking over the mess again like it personally offends her.
"You need to find someone from our part of the world," she says smoothly, like she's offering career advice. "Someone who understands who you are. What you come from. Someone who won't flinch at what you do-or pretend you can be anything else."
My jaw ticks.
She steps closer, voice dropping just enough to feel like a secret laced in threat.
"Someone with poise. Grace. Family money. A reputation that can handle the weight of yours. Not some starving artist with dirt under her nails and feelings scribbled in the margins of a sketchbook."
The grip on the sketchbook tightens further, my jaws clenched painfully tight. It's difficult to even breathe.
"Oh, come now," she coos, like she's speaking to a child throwing a tantrum. "You really thought that girl could love you? She wouldn't last. She probably couldn't even tell a Bordeaux from a Merlot."
"Your father and I already have someone in mind," she adds, crisp and final. "She's perfect. Elegant. Discreet. And unlike her, she won't fall apart when things get dark."
She leans in, lips close to my ear like she's sealing a deal.
"She won't try to fix you, darling. She'll know better."
She then stands tall, walking away, expecting me to follow.
"Angelica Wallace."