Killian’s arms cross over his chest as he watches me down the shot, forearm muscles bulging. Unlike Rath, Killer’s good at taking care of his body. Honing it. Making it efficient and useful. I used to envy his frame and how his muscles could get so big. Few people are aware of it, but I was a tad scrawny when I first began having growth spurts. I filled in, of course, after many mornings spent going through a trainer-designed body resistance routine. But I’ve long come to terms with the fact I can never be that. Hulking. Looming. Making people twitchy with my mere physical presence. There was a time in our teens when I tried to bench whatever Killer was benching at the time, and it damn near killed me. Gave up on that shit real quick.
“Tristian,” he starts, and from the sound of his voice, he’s got a lot to say about what’s going down tonight. I watch him start and stop, visibly piecing together all his grievances with this. In the end, all he says is, “What are you doing?”
“Pre-gaming.” I swallow the spicy liquid, catching his gaze in the mirror over the bar. He’s in a t-shirt and sweats, but I’m in a three-thousand dollar tuxedo, handpicked by the biggest Karen in town, my mother. I’d much rather be him for the night. “The Mercer Christmas party is a subtle form of torture. It’s best if I’m loosened up before I go.”
“And you’ve decided to drag Story into it?”
I place the glass on the bar and run my fingers through my hair—arranging it into the perfect mix of messy and styled. “She can handle it.”
“And your parents?”
He knows the answer to that. We all do. Although my mother played nice at the football game when they first met, that was just societal niceties. It’s the same way she pretends to accept Posey. It’s surface deep, artificial. At the game, Killian is the star, and it’s worth pretending the Paynes are acceptable company. But outside of that, their status drops. Significantly. The truth is that our blood and money are bluer than a priest’s balls. There are expectations and Story Austin doesn’t meet the criteria.
“They’ll survive,” I reply, not exactly believing it, but there’s a reason I’m bringing Story home with me. I’m making a point. One they’ll have to accept. When all he does is glare back at me, I try, “Jesus, Killer. I thought if anyone could understand the need to blow your life up a little, it’d be you.”
“She’s not a bomb, she’s our Lady.” He walks around the back of the bar and fixes me with a firm stare. “Don’t send her into your twisted family bullshit just to prove a point.”
I take in his narrowed eyes, the way that tendon in his neck is starting to pulse, and arch an eyebrow. “So only you’re allowed to do that?”
His brows crouch low. “Fuck you.”
“This would be so much easier if we could just have our Christmas party.” Rath pulls the earbuds out one at a time and looks up from his phone. “You could make whatever grand gesture you have planned there without sullying your perfect son status.”
“You think I’d declare my intentions for Story at the Lord’s Christmas party?”
It’s like these people don’t even know me.
Usually, the LDZ party is held on Christmas Eve and consumes a two-block radius around the brownstone. Since the Lords are South Side royalty, the two worlds often collide, making it wild enough that people are still talking about it come St. Patty’s Day. I barely even remember last year’s party, aside from absolutely demolishing the Barons in Jingle Bell Pong and Killian nailing a petite little brunette on the pool table downstairs. She had bells on her pigtails that jingled every time he thrusted inside. The year before that featured a casualty count; nine citations for indecent exposure, four cases of alcohol poisoning, three contributions to the delinquency of minors, two assaults with deadly weapons, and a partridge in a pear tree. The Lords’ Christmas bash is infamous enough to draw half the presence of the local police force.
But not this year.
Ted has forced us to lock the doors and shut ourselves up. We still have big things planned, but it’ll be smaller. Just the four of us. I refuse to let Ted take Christmas from us, too. The bastard has ruined enough this year.
“I think you’re a glutton for punishment,” Rath says, re-plugging his ears and going back to his phone. We may have downsized the party, but he’s still going to make a kick-ass playlist.
“This isn’t just about making a statement to them,” I tell Killer, straightening my bowtie. “She needs to know what she is.” Giving him a pointed look, I stress, “To us, and to me.”
I know he understands when he drops his arms, losing that bullying posture of his. “Christ, Tris.” He runs his fingers through his hair, for once looking at a loss. “If that’s what you want, can’t you just buy her fucking flowers or something?”
I bring my hand down on his shoulder, giving him a little shake. “Brother, you give me so little credit.”
We’re interrupted by the click-clack of heels approaching down the hall. I swallow the last bit of my drink just as Story enters the den, sweeping through the arched doorway like something out of a movie. A ball of fire burns in my chest and I know it’s not the whiskey. “Goddamn,” I mutter under my breath, abandoning the glass.
Rath’s eyes lazily go to the door, then he straightens. “Fuck me,” he mutters.
Even Killian is stunned, face going slack as he takes her in. It’s not often we get to see our Lady dressed like this, which is probably a good thing. We’d get absolutely nothing accomplished.
“What?” she says, looking down at her gown. It’s made out of a clingy green satin that sticks to her bodice like a second skin. It accentuates every slender curve of her womanly figure, and it doesn’t matter that the neck isn’t low enough to show her cleavage. Killer and I both know what’s under there. Panic ignites in her eyes. “Is this wrong? I went to the boutique you suggested. The woman that helped me said it would be appropriate for a fancy party. Is it too much? Too little?” When we continue staring, her shoulders fall. “Give me something here, guys.”
“Oh, I can think of a couple things we want to give you.” I cross the room, pretending I’m not calculating how to get this dress off of her. Will the tight skirt push over her hips? Is there a zipper? God, please tell me she’s not wearing a bra. “We’re just speechless on account of the awe.”
Killian clears his throat behind me. “Yeah, little sister. You clean up… sufficiently.”
She shoots him a glare, because Killian always lives in that vague spot in and around ‘asshole’, but I know he means it.
She’s stunning.
Before I approach her, I veer off toward the armchair in the corner, reaching behind it to retrieve the very thing I’d gone out earlier to buy. Paper crinkling in my hand, I extend the bouquet to her. “For my escort.” I shoot Killian a sly smirk over my shoulder.
She blinks at the flowers, her impeccable red lips spreading into a shocked grin. “Oh my god, these are gorgeous, Tristian!” She’s visibly flustered as she gathers the bouquet into her arms, cheeks flushing. There are fifty of them, which took some time to find, given the season. After fingering a couple of the petals, she finally meets my gaze, eyes curious. “Why do you always get me daisies?” After a beat, she rushes to add, “Not that I don’t love daisies.”
“Don’t you remember?” I point to the doorway. “The first day you came here, you were wearing a little sundress, and it—”
“—had daisies on it,” she finishes, head snapping back in shock. “You remembered that?”
Oh, I remember everything. I remember her letting the straps fall down her shoulders, putting her full tits on display for us. I remember thinking how badly I wanted to bend her over and stuff her full of my cock. I remember noting the way she looked among the backdrop of the dark brownstone, soft and sweet, like a warm ray of sunshine.
Like the daisies on her dress.
“How could I forget?” I say, reaching out to run my knuckle along her jaw.
“Shoot me,” Killian mutters.
“Don’t mind him.” I slip into my jacket, giving her a roguish grin. “Some men know how to treat a Lady.” But before I can tuck her hand in my arm, she jumps back.
“I need to put these in a vase! I’ll just be one second.” And with that, the click-clack of heels races into the kitchen. I wait obediently, hands clasped behind my back, until she comes clicking back, a vase clutched to her chest. Killian and I watch mutely as she fusses with it, arranging the flowers just-so.
She sets it on the mantle, up among the mounted buck and skulls, and sends us a sunny smile. “Brightens the place up, don’t you think?”
Nodding, I pretend I wasn’t just staring at her ass. “Absolutely.”
Dimitri stands to approach her then, trying to steal her attention away from the flowers. “Baby, look at me.” She does, turning to him with a quizzical expression. He answers by touching her chin, boring into her with his eyes. “Rich people—people who are Mercer-rich—they’re dicks.”
“Hey!” I glower at him, but it’s half-hearted. “I resemble that remark.”
Dimitri ignores me. “They’re stuck-up snobs, and if someone treats you like shit, you’re completely free to tell them what they can do with their opinion. Understood?”
Story gives him a slow nod. “I understand.”
“Good.” With that, he leans down to press a kiss to her lips, and I roll my eyes as it goes on. And on. And on.
I check my watch. “Lift your leg and piss on her already. The car’s waiting out front.”
He finally lets her go, leaving her glassy-eyed and dazed, eyelashes flicking as she blinks it away. “Good luck,” he says, turning her toward me.
And then Killian brings his hand down on her ass, giving it a nice, loud smack.
She stumbles, voice full out of outrage when she squeals, “Asshole!”
Killian gives her an expressionless wink.
I press my hand into the small of her back, ushering her out of the den. “Don’t wait up for us!”
In the foyer, she asks, “When’s the last time you brought a date to one of these things? My mom made it sound like it was a big deal.” She frowns contemplatively. “I have no idea what I’m expected to do.”
Helping her into her jacket, I pointedly ignore her question. “You’re expected to look stunning and listen to me complain about the hors d’oeuvres. The first one, you’ve already got in the bag.” I turn her around, stroking a finger down her exposed neck. “Seriously, Story, you look amazing. If my mother wouldn’t hunt me down like a dog in the street for being any later than I already am,” I lean in to brush my lips against the shell of her ear, “I’d fuck that dress straight off you right now.”
She throws me an exasperated glance, but it’s quickly overtaken by an anxious look. “Tristian, I’m serious. Are you sure this is a good idea? I barely know how to act like a normal woman.”
“Sweetheart.” I cup her cheek, thumb stroking over the soft skin. “You’re not a normal woman.” She’s the woman who shot a man to protect us. She’s the woman who took the brunt of my darkness at a time when I couldn’t find the light, and then she was the woman who forgave me for it. She was the woman who walked through this door and shone so brightly that I haven’t been able to see anything else since. In a moment of unutterable weakness, I quietly confess, “A normal woman wouldn’t make me feel this way.”
She stares back at me, lips parting as if she’s hypnotized. “What way?”
I try to answer. I genuinely do. It’s just the words get caught somewhere in my chest, wound tightly around a fear I can scarcely put a name to. Clearing my throat, I open the door to the chill and the darkness, knowing that she’ll light the way.
“Right now, you’re making me feel late,” I say, rushing her out of the house.
“Wow,” she says, peering owlishly out the window as we approach. “This place is amazing! Do your parents rent it out every year, or do they change venues?” When I don’t answer, she turns to me, taking in my even stare. “Wait.” She whips around to get another look at the manor, jaw dropping. “No way. This isn’t your house.”
The sheer terror on her face as we step out of the car is the only thing that stops me from boasting, which is absolutely something I’m used to doing. It’s not a house. It’s a sprawling property, complete with the mansion and all its trappings. Mercer Manor makes the garish enormity of The Velvet Hideaway look microscopic in comparison.
“Story,” I begin, but she shakes her head.
“I’m not sure I can do this.”
“Hey, no,” I say, sliding my arm around her waist, “I know this party must be intimidating, but you’ve already met my mother at the game earlier this year. And Dad is a sucker for a beautiful woman, so you’ve already got him on board.” I kiss her on the forehead. “Plus, the girls will be there, and they’ll be so excited to see you.”
The mention of the twins makes some of that hard panic in her eyes soften. “It’s just… I’m sure your parents have heard the gossip and rumors about me from high school. And your dad, at the very least, has a mortifyingly good idea of what goes on between the Lords and their Lady.” She twists the cuff on her wrist. “I don’t want to draw any attention.”
She’s not wrong. My parents have heard the gossip. Hell, my mother has her entire bridge club on speed dial for just this reason, and my father definitely knows the role of a Lady. Intimately. And that doesn’t even go into their thoughts about her mother or the shady side of Daniel’s business.
“They’ll behave.” Because that’s what they do. “You’re my guest. You’re my date.”
She grabs my arm, stopping me. “You’ve never brought a proper date to this party before, have you?”
That’s a minefield, right there. If I tell her truth—that twice in high school, I’d brought my ex, Gen, as a date—then it’d be giving her the wrong idea. Our parents were friends, and it was less of an invitation than a solid expectation. But Genevieve is dead to me, as is that memory.
Likewise, if I tell her she’s right—that I’ve never brought a proper, intentional, declarations-to-made-about date—then it’s going to make her even more nervous. That’s a lose-lose situation.
So I deflect, nudging her up the enormous, red-carpeted front steps. “If it gets to be too much, just let me know. There are plenty of hiding spots in the house. You know,” I snake my arm around her waist, “hidden passageways and secret pantries.”
She glances up at the house with this look on her face, like it’s looming over her. “Seriously?”
Shrugging, I confirm, “What’s the point of having a house like this if there aren’t various hidey-holes to fuck your hand-picked staff in?”
The look she gives me is incredulous, and a touch bothered at the possibility I’m telling the truth. Which I am. Completely. It’s too late to ask any more questions, though, because the front door opens and a figure fills the entrance. “Master Tristian.” The man nods. “Pleasure to see you, sir.”
His face is stone, absent of any emotion, but I grin widely. “Benedict! How are you?”
“Very well, sir.”
“Benedict, this is my Lady, Story Austin. Story, this is Benedict. He’s been with our family since before I was born.”
“Nice to meet you,” she says, demurely holding out her hand.
Old Benny disregards it, assessing her with a cold eye. That gossip Story worried about? It starts with the servants. He turns his gaze to me. “Your mother is in the ballroom. She’ll be thrilled to know you’ve arrived.” His eyebrow lifts. “With a guest. And through the front door even.”
The word ‘guest’ is accentuated, but I ignore the old man. He’s almost as cantankerous as Ms. Crane. I usher Story past him and help her out of her coat. “I may have a history of sneaking tail into the house. But I promise you’ll only ever enter this house through the front door.” I give her ass a nice, firm squeeze. “I, on the other hand, am definitely down for a little backdoor action.”
“Tristian!” Her cheeks burn a delicious shade of red as she glances at Benedict to see if he heard. The servant stares straight ahead, seemingly unaware.
“Don’t worry. He’s paid to ignore us.” I toss her coat at him and then mine.
“Well, don’t pull that in front of your mother.” She shoos my hand away from her backside. “Jesus.”
“God, I love it when you’re all flustered and red-faced.” I wind her fingers in mine. “Come on, my mom hired this new chef that specializes in vegan farm-to-table cuisine and I’ve been dying to see if she lives up to the hype.”
Story takes in the elaborate decorations, and I take in her reaction, eyes alight at all the garland and baubles. I keep her close as we pass the grand staircase, down the marble-floored corridor that’s lined with Christmas trees.
“I guess blue and silver is the theme this year,” I note as she slows to inspect the trees. “Much better than the red plaid from last year. We looked like a fucking lumberjack convention.”
Story gently fingers an ornament, wide-eyed and hushed. “There must be like twenty trees! And they’re all decorated so… so…”
“Professionally?” I bite back a laugh at her childlike wonder. “Yeah, mother hires interior designers to put these up. Then she hires tailors, and stylists, and caterers—all to make sure everything flawlessly matches the theme.” We pass an elderly couple I don’t remember the name of, but luckily, a manly nod at the husband suffices. “Sometimes I think she wanted twins because it gave her more opportunities to color-coordinate.”
She seems to shake off some of the awe. “I suppose the girls were rather matching the last time I saw them.”
Snorting, I correct. “No, she gave up on that years ago. I meant me and my twin.”
Her head snaps up. “You have a twin?!”
Now I really do have to laugh. She sounds both horrified and intrigued at the prospect of me having a clone. “I did, for a hot second. Twins run in the family. He was stillborn, though.”
“Oh.” Her face falls. “God, Tristian, I’m so sorry. That’s terrible.”
I give an easy shrug. There are times I wonder if things would be different if my father had a spare heir apparent. Maybe it’d be less pressure. Maybe he’d have a favorite and the other could just do whatever he wanted. Maybe I’m carrying the expectations of two sons in the disappointment of only having one. But this is all I’ve ever known. It’s hard to miss something you never had. “I was only an infant. It’s not a big deal to me.” Before she can voice the question I’m used to hearing, I groan. “Please don’t ask if I feel like half of myself is missing. I hate that woo-woo twin bullshit. The whole name thing is bad enough without people reading into it.”
“The name thing?” she asks, head cocked.
Wearily, I explain, “I was supposed to be named Tristan, and he was supposed to be named Christian.” I flop out a hand. “Ergo, Tristian. And if you want my opinion on the stupidity of coordinated twin names, we’ll be here all night.”
She squeezes my arm, sending me a soft grin. “Then I won’t ask.”
The ballroom is filled with people my parents know, from family, to friends, to business partners, social acquaintances and anyone my mother thinks will improve her and my father’s position on the social ladder. It’s so crowded and loud that our arrival doesn’t make much of a ripple. I pull Story into my side and whisper little details in her ear. “That group of men? They’re in my father’s social club. Combined, they’re worth about a hundred billion.”
“Dollars?” she squeaks.
I nod, pointing to another man. “That’s Robert Wilson, president of Wilson Tech.”
“The guy building a rocket ship that looks like a dick?”
“That’s him.” I grin and tilt my head at the redhead standing nearby. “The woman with him is his third wife, Lacey. She was the Baroness when I was a freshman.”
Lacey gives me a small smile as we pass, and Story twists to get a better glance. “You’re messing with me.”
I give her a sober look. “Not in the slightest.”
“Tristian!” My name lifts over the party noises in a high-pitched squeal. A moment later, Izzy and Lizzy are pushing insistently between a woman in a beaded dress and a man in a gray suit. “You’re here!”
“Told you I was coming,” I say, dropping Story’s hand to reach for Lizzy. I pick her up and give her a big hug, then do the same for Izzy. The two of them then bombard Story, grabbing her by the waist and hugging her tight.
“He didn’t tell us you were coming,” Lizzy says, giving me the stink eye.
“It was a surprise,” I insist, patting her on the head. “I was just telling Story that the woo-woo twin stuff is fake.”
Lizzy looks at Story, nodding. “When Izzy hurt her ankle, I didn’t feel anything but annoyed. Because she complains a lot.”
“Hey!” Izzy says, giving her sister a playful shove. “You’d complain too if you had to walk around with a crutch for two weeks.”
Story laughs. “When was this?”
“Last year.” Izzy tugs at the collar of her frilly blue dress.
As nice as it is to see Story and the girls get along, I know that wherever they are, my mother will be sure to follow. Having the girls wasn’t easy. She went through hell to get pregnant a second time, which turned her into a bit of an overbearing parent.
Sure enough, a moment later she’s found us.
“Tristian, darling,” she says with a smile, swooping in. I lean in to kiss her cheek, pausing at the tense, aggressively cheerful comment she whispers into my ear. “Tell me you didn’t bring your frat house sex toy to our Christmas party?”
The comment doesn’t come as a surprise. No, I’d been waiting for it, but it still raises my defenses. I plaster on a matching smile and say, “Mother, you remember Story, Killian’s stepsister?”
“Of course, yes.” She instantly looks down at the twins, apparently unwilling to give Story more face time than that. “I think it’s time for you two to head upstairs.”
“But—”
“You know the rules,” my mother says, face stern. “You can be here for an hour. After that, it’s just adults. It’s already half past ten, which means you’ve swindled me enough.”
Izzy opens her mouth to protest again, but I drop down to their eye level. “You really want to hang out down here with a bunch of boring adults?” Lizzy nods. She’s no fool. “Look, I’ll have Benedict send you up a surprise. It’ll be worth it.”
Izzy eyes me skeptically. “A good surprise? Not your gross, healthy stuff?”
Story snorts next to me, earning an alarmed look from my mother. She bends, cupping her hand beside her mouth to fake-whisper, “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure it’s the good stuff.”
Lizzy’s face lights up. “Thanks, Story!” They both give her another hug before conceding the night to the stuffy old people.
As they disappear upstairs, my mother says, “They seem to have taken to you, Miss Payne.”
Story’s gaze snaps up at the name. “Oh! My last name is Austin, actually. And they’re such sweet girls.”
Mother pats me on the cheek. “Just like their brother.”
“Oh, yes, he’s the sweetest,” Story says, but I see the dark flicker run through her eyes. It’s brief, but I know how to read it. I’ve been anything but sweet to this girl. I forced her to deep throat my cock. I defiled her in public. I held her down while Rath fucked her with a knife. I carved my initial in her chest. “I’m a lucky girl.”
I’ve tried making it up to her. I turned off the cameras. I’ve kept my hands to myself when we’re in public. I doted on her during her period, not even making a fuss out of all the processed carbs she ate. I even agreed she should do the wrestling match. I know better than anyone the urge to make your own way and get out from under the thumb of expected constraints. But even though we’ve made some progress, I don’t know how to prove to her that I’m in. That I’m really, truly, fully, all-in.
Except maybe to bring her here.
I wind my arm around her waist, pulling her close. “I know what you’re thinking, mother, but I’ve been brushing up on my waltzing skills, and I’m about eighty percent sure I won’t fall flat on my face out there.”
I can’t remember my mother ever being speechless before. She is, as a rule, unable to keep her mouth shut at any given moment. But right now, she’s staring at me and nothing is coming out. It’s not that she doesn’t try. Her lips keep parting, chest swelling with an inhale, but then it just floats out of her nostrils like a phantom.
Story is stiff against my side, and the only reason I look away from my mother’s alarmed expression is to give her a reassuring smile.
“Don’t worry, sweetheart, I know how to lead.”
“The Carters!” my mother suddenly bursts, gaze fixed somewhere over my shoulder. I’m immediately suspicious of the relief in her eyes, which is smart of me. She’s gathered herself back up into the proper hostess, beaming as she adds, “I didn’t think Holden would be able to attend, considering how sick he’s been. But there they are, see?” She waves, gesturing to me to follow her gaze.
Stupidly, I do.
All the color drains from my face.
Genevieve is across the room, dressed in scarlet and black, and she’s staring straight at me. Smiling, she raises her hand to give me a little wave.
My arm falls away from Story as I grab my mother’s wrist, hissing, “What the fuck is she doing here?”
“Tristian!” she scolds, shaking free. “Watch your language! The Carters are our oldest friends, and they’re going through a dreadful time right now.”
My jaw locks as I fight to contain the rage thrashing within my chest. “That doesn’t answer my question.”
My mother gives me a weary look. “Gen is their daughter, and the invitation was to the family. You can put two and two together.”
Oh, I sure as hell can.
This is a set-up.
Story looks almost as blindsided as I feel, whipping around to glance at the object of my eternal bitterness. I could achieve immortality, stand on the edge of the world a million years from now, watching the heat death of the universe, and it’d still be in the back of my thoughts.
That bitch.
“I didn’t know.” I bite the words out, said more to Story than my own conniving mother, but that’s who answers.
“Well, you might have,” my mother says, giving me a pointed look, “if you were more involved in the family’s affairs and less distracted with your other…” She presses her lips into a flat smile, cutting her eyes at Story. “… activities.”
I mirror her barbed smile. “You’re being so fucking rude, I don’t even know where to start.” Her smile falls, but before she can chide me, I demand, “Don’t organize an ambush and expect me to watch my fucking language.” I turn to Story, grazing my fingertips over the cuff on her wrist. “Sweetheart,” I say, in a voice as calm as possible. “Will you go to the kitchen and make sure they send up something extra sugary for the twins?” I stare across the room. “I need to talk to my mother for a moment.”
“We can leave,” she says quietly. “I know—”
I cut my eyes at her. “Now, Story.”
She recoils, and I know why. There are few things that can bring out this icy sharpness in me, and one of them is standing across the room. I can’t explain to her why Gen has this hold over me. From Story’s vantage, it probably looks wrong, because hating someone—true, chaotic, red-hot hatred—means you still feel something for them. It means they can cut you, because you’d let them. It means they live rent-free inside your head, taking up space and driving you crazy.
That’s not the reality.
Probably unsure what to do about my darkness when it’s not directed at her, Story gives me a slow nod. I jerk my chin in the kitchen’s direction and she takes a hesitant step forward, giving me one last worried look before she slips through the crowd.
“Let’s go say hello,” Mother says, ignoring my obvious rage. “Doesn’t she look radiant?”
“Stop,” I tell her. “Go get father. We need to talk.”
She pauses, giving me a long look. “Tristian, we’re in the middle of a party. We can’t just walk off.”
“We can do it in private, or we can do it right here.” My voice is low, dangerous, full of threat. “Which do you prefer?”
She holds my eye for a long moment until understanding takes hold. Defiance isn’t my thing. Mostly because they let me do what I want. But things are changing. Rapidly. I’m not a little kid staying out late, drinking until I puke, and having threesomes with debutantes. I’m part of something bigger, and the stakes are higher. The little box they thought I’d grow up to live in will no longer hold me.
“I’ll get your father and meet you in the library.”
Good. That gives me time to get a drink.
She grabs my lapel, her perfectly manicured nails digging into the fabric. “But don’t think just because I’m giving you an opportunity to speak that it means I’m backing down on this,” she says quietly. “I’ve put up with a lot of your nonsense over the years, but coming in here and declaring your intentions with that,” her face twists, “trash, isn’t in the cards.”
She walks off, leaving me in the middle of the room, lines having been drawn. I came here tonight to make a point. To blow my life up a little, burn it down and see what survives in the midst of the ashes. Genevieve being here doesn’t change a thing.
If anything, it just makes the fire burn hotter.
