Page 8 of Burn Bright (Cobalt Empire #1)

My checking account is zero.

I’ll have to wait almost a whole year for that number to grow. All I really have are some credit cards, and I’m not too eager to use them when I can’t afford to pay them off anytime soon.

I tune in as Eliot says to me, “You can use our bathroom.” He’s referring to his bathroom with Tom, even though I had no intention of using Beckett’s.

I’m not really messy, but Beckett has a particular way in which he keeps his things.

Product labels facing outward, bath towels symmetrical and aligned on the rod, Q-tips lying flat in a container.

And those are just the ones I know about.

“Or I can just use the powder bath,” I suggest.

“There’s no shower,” Tom says, which derails us into banter about sponge-bathing and maybe I’m the one with a stink. I don’t fucking stink. Eliot sniffs under my armpits. Confirms I smell like cedar and pine.

Then they talk about demoing the powder bath. Making it bigger.

“HOA won’t allow it,” Charlie says. “I’ve already tried.”

“We own the apartment,” Tom complains. “They can’t just tell us no .”

“They can actually.”

“We could buy the apartment complex,” Eliot considers. “What do you say, let’s each chip in?”

“What do you think it’d go for?” Beckett asks Charlie, as if this is a plausible option.

Blood tries to drain out of my face. For once, I don’t like that we’re rich rich.

“With financing, a hundred mil, easily,” Charlie says.

“Twenty million apiece,” Eliot nods. “Cough it up, boys.”

“Fuck no,” Tom gapes.

“ Brother .”

“Do you know what else I could buy with that? For what—a bathroom?”

I keep my mouth shut.

Beckett tells Charlie, “We could just buy a bigger condo in the same complex.”

“Bigger with a worse view.”

I rub at my face. Uprooting them is the last thing I wanted to happen.

Eliot motions to the floor. “Let’s have Luna and Xander go in on it.

They’re living in the apartment complex too.

” Our obscenely wealthy cousins are three levels below us on the 18 th floor.

Our moms are the Calloway sisters, and our Grandfather Calloway (may he rest in peace) was the one who created Fizzle, one of the most popular sodas in the world.

It’s where the majority of our fortune comes from.

Though, our families all have a shit ton of companies beyond the soda dynasty.

I rub my face harder at the mention of the Hales.

Luna Hale.

Xander Hale.

The two of them moved in during the summer. They’re also going to MVU this semester, and Xander will be a freshman. Luna is best friends with Tom and Eliot, so I always figured I’d see her here, but I’ve been hoping Xander and I don’t cross paths anywhere.

An arctic freeze exists every time we share the same air as we’ve gotten older. It’s like being naked in the Tundra and I can’t melt the snow.

“I’ll call Luna,” Tom says, about to pose the idea.

I’m on my feet. “No one needs to fork over twenty million.”

“Could be fourteen million,” Eliot points to Tom’s phone. “We just need two more takers.”

“I’ll use your bathroom,” I announce. “Like right now.” I show them that I am happy with this outcome. I even smile on my route there. “Thanks for sharing!”

“Always!” Eliot calls out. As he lowers his voice to our brothers, I just barely hear him say, “I think he’s going to be fine.”

My chest tightens, and I shut the door.

The spacious bathroom has a massive glass shower. Black tile, black grout, and a humongous rainfall showerhead with LED lighting. Eliot already told me to download the app so I can shower in any hue of choice. I imagine he chooses the hues of hell. Bathing in red.

None of their hair products or razors are out on the counter.

The stone sink is squeaky clean, and I smell sandalwood from incense.

My brothers keep a tidy bathroom. Definitely not tidier than Beckett, but this is a habit from having very put-together parents who didn’t always let housekeepers clean our shit for us.

They were probably afraid of raising spoiled, nepo brats, and in a life surrounded by private jets, yachts, magazine covers, unimaginable wealth—they had to humble us somewhere.

Eliot and Tom were also consistently grounded in their youth, and our mom preferred to dole out chores as punishment. They’d joke about being well-acquainted with the Scrub Daddy.

I take a seat on the toilet lid.

My leg jostles while I scroll through the forty new text messages I received in the last half hour from various people. My eyes slow on several.

Mom

Did your move go well, gremlin? If ANY of your brothers gave you grief, I will personally smite them with receding hairlines.

A warm smile inches up my face, and we text back and forth for a second.

Ben Cobalt

I’m not sure you have the power to cause hair loss.

Mom

I’m your mother. My powers are limitless.

Ben Cobalt

They can probably be put to better use than on me.

Mom

I disagree. The greatest force of my power will always be reserved for my children. And that includes you.

“I know,” I whisper to the phone. She’s so scared I don’t feel included since I’m the least “intellectual” of our very academic, creative-minded brood. I’m the athlete who dislikes Shakespeare and has never read Austen and don’t get me started on Faulkner. It’s migraine-inducing.

All the things the great and mighty Rose and Connor love, I just don’t click with.

But my parents have never treated me like I’m inadequate for not reaching the perfect Cobalt standard. They’ve valued our uniqueness and have even fostered it. I’ve never felt pressure to achieve more or be more than I am. At least not from them.

I scroll to another message.

Dad

While you’re in New York, would you want to see Frederick?

His life-long therapist? He hasn’t even let Charlie see Dr. Frederick Cothrell.

From what I’ve gathered, our dad is afraid Charlie would mind-fuck Frederick into giving details about his own sessions.

We’re all in therapy, by the way. To either vent or make sense of our strange place in this world or for unknown personal reasons that we don’t openly share. The latter, being me.

All seven of us have gone at various points. Some more than others. As far as I’m aware, Tom and Charlie go the most.

With maybe me at third place.

I reread the text about twenty times, my leg bouncing again.

I trust my dad.

But I also trust that his concern for me has reached Mount Everest elevations. I trust that my parents would do anything to ensure my safety and well-being. Even if it means secretly prying without my knowledge.

Is it still an invasion of privacy if the intent is pure?

Yeah, probably.

But it’s more difficult not to love how deeply they care about me. I’d never choose their apathy. Which just makes me think of Charlie. I can’t even imagine him as a father. I fucking fear for that child.

And Frederick—would he break doctor-patient confidentiality and tell my parents about our sessions? I want to say no. My dad has only ever said Frederick is unbiased and reasonable. But I do know that my dad is smart enough to also mind-fuck Frederick, so no…I don’t want to see his therapist.

At times, being in my family feels like one ginormous game of chess.

Thing is, I also hate chess.

I lose nearly every time. But that’s not why I play the least of everyone. I’d just rather be stretching my legs than stretching my mind.

Ben Cobalt

I prefer to continue seeing Dr. Wheeler. He said he’d take video calls.

I wait a second after I send the text, my hand clamped over my mouth, and I hope my dad doesn’t suspect anything amiss. Like, maybe, Dr. Wheeler isn’t good for me. Like, maybe, it’s because I haven’t been treating therapy like I should be. With honesty.

It takes him a few seconds to reply.

Dad

If you reconsider, just let me know. I’m always here for you.

Yeah.

I know that too.

When I drop my hand off my mouth, I thumb through more messages and come up to the old thread with Harriet. I stop on her name.

Harriet Fisher.

She shouldn’t stick out to me, but our one run-in at Penn has played on a loop in my head for so long.

I’d been hightailing it to an Intro to Biology class and chugging a blue Ziff sports drink.

I had my gym bag on my shoulder since hockey practice was right after.

It should’ve been a typical, ordinary day at college.

Nothing special.

Nothing monumental.

Average.

I peered into a science lab as I strode past, but I caught a glimpse of a girl staking a glare at an older professor. It jerked me backward. Because they were alone.

The lab was nearly empty with untouched beakers and vials and clean black desks.

It felt…wrong.

Doors down the hall began to slam. Footsteps faded away. Class was about to start. The building went hushed, and I was going to be late.

I cared about my grades. Failing Bio meant the coach would never let me touch the ice. But my relationship with hockey was… is complicated.

I didn’t head to class. I heard the steam off her words. I saw him encroaching her space with similar aggravated heat. They were disagreeing. Not civil enough to be about a poor exam or grading dispute. It was personal.

I entered the lab on instinct. The professor hadn’t seen me yet. Not until he grabbed her elbow, and I shot forward, yelling at him, scaring him off too easily.

When he was gone, she breathed so hard, I wondered if she was on the verge of a panic attack. I was about to ask if she needed some water, but her scowl narrowed her dark ocean-blue eyes into furious waves. I didn’t move, and it felt like even a single sound would cause her to lash out.

But I wasn’t going to flee.

I wasn’t even afraid of her.

If anything, her silent hostility drew me closer.

She was short enough that I could feel the muscles strain in my neck as I looked down. Five-foot, five-one, maybe? She righted her slipping bookbag—a blink-182 patch sewn in the canvas fabric, plus a laughing skull and a coffin that said are you dead yet tho?