Page 16

Chapter Sixteen

Maggie

I check Xavier's room first, bracing myself for whatever scene might greet me.

Empty.

The massive bed's still made, no sign of any hookups happening here. Color me shocked as a jack-o-lantern. I peek into a few other upstairs rooms—nothing but gold and canopy beds and expensive claw-footed furniture.

Back downstairs, low music thrums through the Smoking Room, where a few people lounge on velvet couches and a couple of guys shoot pool, their laughter echoing off the mirrored walls. Still no Xavier.

I head back upstairs, frustration building with each step. That's when I notice it—a sliver of light spilling from a door I hadn't noticed before. Pushing it wider reveals a narrow hallway, dimmer than the main ones, then two flights of stairs that creak under my feet. Music drifts from somewhere up ahead. Soft. Melancholy. I follow the sound until I reach another slightly open door. Through the gap, I see Xavier.

He's sitting on a pile of cushions against a curved wood-panelled wall, acoustic guitar in his lap. Moonlight streams through a glass dome overhead, catching in his messy waves and turning them into tarnished bronze. The shadows play across his sharp cheekbones, softening the usual edge of his aristocratic features as his full lips move almost lazily, mouthing words that mingle with the soft strumming.

I’m spellbound by the lyrics because there’s something so unique about the way the words are strung together. Like they’re rough and haven’t been polished, and that’s exactly what makes the meaning beneath them feel real—like footsteps in the dirt. Fresh and gritty and unapologetic.

It’s a song about standing in the middle of nowhere and realizing the world doesn’t owe you anything, and the push and pull between wanting and letting go. About solitude—someone who’s rarely alone but is lonely.

And somehow I just know, in my gut, that he wrote this. These are Xavier's words.

I could kind of tell, the other night when he was messing around on the guitar with Finn, that he had a good voice. But I never imagined anything like this—a voice that is the total opposite of the polished marble and curled gold that surrounds him in this place. It’s raw and cracked around the edges. Grit in every syllable, like he’s scraping the words out of himself. Not unlike the lyrics I'm almost positive he wrote.

I press back against the doorframe, not daring to move; mesmerized by the quiet, stripped bare honesty of the words. The mix of coarseness and warmth of the melody. By him. The way he looks right now. The moonlight reveals tiny details I never noticed before: a small scar near his temple, the slight furrow between his brows, the way his lashes cast feathered shadows on his cheeks. And it's jarring to see him like this—unguarded and vulnerable. Stripped of his signature smirk and calculated indifference, he seems younger somehow.

His head is resting against the dark paneling, throat exposed, his usually guarded eyes unfocused and distant, lost in the words of the song. The silvery light transforms him from untouchable rich boy to something altogether more human. And while I try to remind myself that this is still Xavier Rockwell—entitled jerk extraordinaire who's currently letting his five-year-old brother run wild at a party downstairs—illuminated by moonlight in this hidden room at the top of his ridiculous mansion, it feels like maybe that isn’t all he is. Like that's just the tiniest sliver of him, and the real Xavier is so much more. Messier and rougher and more scratched up—but also more insightful, possibly even self-aware, and definitely insanely talented.

But I almost prefer the Xavier who drives me crazy with his entitled attitude and calculated jabs. That Xavier I know how to handle. This one… this one ma kes my chest feel tight in a way I don't want to examine too closely. Makes me forget why I came up here ready for a fight. The version of Xavier Rockwell who sings about solitude and emptiness, and whose voice cracks on the high notes in a way that makes my throat tight, I don't know what to do with him.

The music suddenly stops.

" What the fuck ?" Xavier's words are sharp, laced with both anger and alarm.

I flinch and my body straightens; my cheeks no doubt flushing pink.

"How long have you been standing there?"

I push off the doorframe, more disappointed than I should be that I won't get to hear the rest of the song. "You've got an amazing voice."

Xavier looks surprised by my comment. Or maybe by my lack of reaction to the harshness of his words. "Wasn't actually asking for your opinion."

God. Why does he have to be a dick about everything with me? Even in response to a freaking compliment.

"The song you were playing—what was it?"

His eyes narrow slightly, then dip to the guitar. He starts strumming again. "Nothing. Just messing around." He plays a few more chords then stops. Looks up at me. "Did you need something?" His words are clipped and annoyed.

"You should start a band or something. Or play at a coffee house." I take a step into the room. "Seriously… You're really good."

He stops suddenly, right palm flattening against the strings to halt the sound. "Did you. Need something," he repeats, more pointedly.

I scrounge my emotions to muster up my anger. God knows I had it in spades a few minutes ago.

"Yes," I tell him. "I do. I want to talk about your brother."

His eyebrows lift like a challenge.

"He's downstairs right now, refusing to go to bed because you told him he could stay up." I push my hands in my pockets, worried if I don't, they'll end up on my hips, or crossed against my chest, making me look exactly like the strict, judgmental, bossy shrew he believes me to be.

He sighs, attention straying to the guitar in his lap. "This again?" His long fingers resume their dance across the strings, creating a louder melody that makes it feel like he's trying to dismiss me.

"Yeah," I confirm, speaking up so he'll hear me over the strumming. " This again . Because I'm such an evil witch—trying to get a five-year-old to bed before midnight."

He doesn't deny my words. Just keeps playing and says, "So stop being such a dictator about bedtime. He's having fun. Let him be a kid… When he's tired, he'll fall asleep."

Sure. Because that's a brilliant sleep schedule for a kindergartener.

My eyes dip lower. Bare feet peek out from beneath the frayed hem of his worn jeans. Something about that makes him seem vulnerable again; reminds me of the stripped bare, hauntingly lonely boy I walked in on five minutes ago.

And it makes me lower my voice in an effort to not sound accusing when I say, "He's falling asleep in class, Xavier… You need to start backing me up on the bedtime thing."

"I don't need to do anything."

"Obviously you don't need to do anything," I agree, wandering over to a built-in glass cabinet along the curved wall. "Trust me, it's been made pretty clear these past few weeks that there literally isn't a thing you need to do." I lean in to examine some kind of shiny black rock with indents that look like thumb prints. "I guess I'm asking you… to back me up on an earlier, more regular bedtime with Finn."

"Pass." He keeps playing, loud enough now that there's no doubt I'm being dismissed.

I turn and face him. "I hate how you do this—with everything. Like your biggest goal in life is to make my job extra difficult." And I know I’m failing big time in my effort to not sound accusing. But I tried. And turns out, I can’t help it—Xavier Rockwell brings out the bristly side of me.

His fingers freeze on the strings. "Your 'job,' " he says through a clenched jaw, "is my brother. So forgive me for not being cool with you coming in and suddenly deciding what's best for him. "

He is so infuriating.

I wish I could have this conversation with vulnerable, private Xavier. He seems like the kind of guy who would be receptive to logic and reasoning. Instead I'm stuck with "closed-off, hates-my-guts, won't-listen-to-logic Xavier."

"Fine." I sigh. "Don't take my word for it, then. Do some research. Read books. Google it—what are good sleep routines for a five-year-old. And what are detrimental sleeping routines."

"I'll be sure to do that. Thanks." Back to playing his guitar.

I throw my hands up, taking a few angry strides across the room. "Why do you do that?" I practically yell. "Why are you so callous about any suggestion I make about Finn? So determined to undermine anything I do, even if it might actually be the right thing?"

He ignores me completely, and just keeps playing, working out a complicated picking rhythm.

"Tell me, Xavier —what is it you want from me? What? "

He pauses the strumming.

"I want you to quit." He resumes playing.

"Why?" I throw my arms up again. "Why do you want that so badly?" I practically beg for an answer. "I'm good to Finn. I care about him. And he likes me, right? We have fun together. Have I done anything that makes you think differently? Or is it seriously the fact that I give him boundaries that you can't stand? Is that really what you hate?"

Nothing.

"Or do you hate me because of that incident at The Welsford six months ago, where I wouldn't bend the rules for you?" I stare him down. "Because you sure seemed to be over it when you approached me at the bonfire the next day."

Still nothing from Xavier. Just more complicated guitar picking.

"Come on!" I run my fingers through my hair in frustration. "At least tell me what your problem is with me. What have I done that's so terrible?"

The music stops abruptly. Xavier's eyes lock on mine, intense and seething. "You want to know what my problem is?" His voice is low, dangerous. "My problem is that you waltz in here acting like you know everything about my family." He tosses the guitar aside, against one of the long cushions. His chest rises and falls in sharp breaths. "About Finn. About me. You've got us all figured out, right?"

"That's not—"

"Oh, it is." He stands, towering over me. "I've seen the way you look at everything here. Like it's all some kind of joke. Like we're all just spoiled brats playing house." He drags his tongue along his molars. "You think you're the first person to show up all high and mighty, and determined to 'fix' our lives? With all the answers on what rules or boundaries or charts or fucking bedtime routines will help Finn be so much better adjusted? "

"I never said—"

"Well, you're not!" he continues, cutting me off. "And you won't be the last. So I'm sorry to smash this whole goal of yours to be unique and authentic and one-in-a-fucking-million, because you're just one out of a whole line of nanny clones who breeze in with a mission and out again when it fails. And guess who will still be here with Finn?" He points at his chest, the muscles in his neck cording as he leans closer, his gaze drilling into mine. " Me! "He exhales sharply through his nose, his breath brushing over me. His tongue darts out to wet the corner of his lip, lingering there for a fraction of a second as if holding back even harsher words that might burn through the air. He rubs the back of his neck, his fingers digging into the taught muscles. "So yeah, instead of trying so hard to get me to listen to your advice, maybe for once, try listening to mine. And fucking quit. "

I stand there for a moment, absorbing his words. In total shock. Trying to wade through about a million different emotions. The shock, yeah—but also anger, and confusion. And hurt. He intended for those words to slice deep, and they did.

Not that I'll ever let him know that.

"I'm not quitting, Xavier."

"You're gonna end up quitting in a couple months anyway, might as well save yourself those few extra weeks of torture."

"I'm not quitting," I repeat .

He turns, looking out one of the windows. "You think this past week was hard? Wait 'till Jacee breezes into town for a couple of days. See how much fun Finn is to deal with after that. Because believe me, the tantrums you've seen so far are nothing compared to what's coming."

"I'm not going to quit because of Finn's tantrums, Xavier."

"No?" He turns to face me; our eyes lock. "Then quit because of me."

"Let me guess," I retort. "The partying is nothing now compared to what's coming."

"Fuck the partying," he sneers. "I'm gonna be your biggest entitled punk-ass nightmare."

I shake my head. Roll my eyes. "And you've been such a dreamboat so far."

His tongue grazes his teeth before he lets out a low, bitter laugh, the sound rough enough to scrape against my nerves. "Exactly." The corner of his mouth twitches, not into a smile, but into something darker—almost like he’s daring me to push him further. His gaze locks on mine, heavy with an unspoken challenge that makes my pulse stutter.

"Okay, well…" I take a step towards him, sick of the way he's trying to intimidate me. "Pretty sure I can handle Finn." I give him a slow once-over. "And I can definitely handle you." I cock an eyebrow. "So. Looks like we're at a stalemate."

He studies me, eyes narrowed. Possibly rendered speechless by my response. Or possibly just regrouping.

"But, say you are right. Say hypothetically, I do end up quitting in a couple of weeks… Because I just can’t handle what an entitled punk-ass nightmare you are." I make sure to maintain eye contact. No way I'm letting him intimidate me now. "Then, I'm still asking you—after I'm gone… even if I never get to find out you listened to me or if I'm even right on this—could you please still deal with the bedtime thing? At least try it, and see if it makes Finn happier."

He waits a beat before answering.

"He's a kid," he eventually says. "Trust me, he's happier staying up and hanging out with his big brother and being a little tired at kindergarten than being forced to follow arbitrary rules pulled from some parenting book. "

"You know what would make him even happier?" I fight to keep the bite out of my voice. "Having more than just his brother wanting to hang out with him. Having other kids his own age asking him to join them during playtime. Getting invited for playdates and sleepovers… Because just like the nannies, Xavier, eventually you're going to have to leave too. For college or a job or whatever. And then who will Finn have?"

He pulls back a little. Actually winces. "Finn's got plenty of friends."

But I can tell he's questioning it, even as he speaks the words.

"Yeah? When was the last time he went to another kid's house for a playdate? Or had someone over?" I watch him, waiting for an answer he's got no ready response for. "Who's his best friend? Or can you name even three buddies he hangs out with?" I nod slowly, then raise my index finger. "And you and Seb Murdoch don't count."

"He's fucking five… his friends change all the time."

I'm surprised how much it hurts me to see the doubt creeping into his eyes right now. I said those things specifically to jar him into facing reality. But I also know how much Finn means to him, and I'm realizing now that the way he acts with his brother truly is because he thinks it's what will make him happiest.

I can't help it; I feel bad for him.

"He has so much fun with you, Xavier," I say more calmly. "I mean, you're honestly the coolest older brother I think I've ever seen. It's just… Finn needs other friends too. Kids don't have the patience to play with a dude who freaks out every time he doesn't get his way. And who doesn't ever want to compromise or share, or melts down over nothing because he's tired all the time." I shrug. "I mean, at the Kids Club, the other kids thought he was funny and they liked so many of the ideas he came up with for games and stuff, but… " My eyes meet his. "Well, I'm sure you remember when you were that age and there was another kid who was always having a meltdown when he didn't get his way…and how you'd react to that."

"Finn is not that kid," Xavier says, his voice deep and gritty. Not far off from the way it sounded a few minutes ago when he was singing. The roughness in his tone catches me off guard—there's something raw and defensive there, like I've struck a nerve. His jaw tightens as he stares me down, daring me to argue. So I don't.

"Anyway," my own voice sounds a little like sandpaper, too. "I'm going back downstairs." I shove my hands in my pockets, gaze lowering to my orange bumblebee slippers. "I swear I do really love your brother. And I'm sorry if it feels like I'm trying to butt into your life. And for being judgy… It’s just…" I lift my shoulders, rack my brain for the right words. "I guess I have issues with… money. Rich people and stuff." My words come out in jumbled clumps. "I'm sorry," I say again.

Xavier goes completely still except for the slight movement of his throat as he swallows, his earlier intensity draining away. His eyes fix past my shoulder out the window, and the silence stretches between us, heavy and uncomfortable. I shift my weight, waiting for him to say something, but his expression has gone completely unreadable.

"That song really was beautiful," I say softly, and his eyes finally meet mine, but they're distant now, like he's looking through me rather than at me.

He gives a slight nod, then takes a few steps past me so he's standing at the window above the cushions.

"Right. Well…" I take a step backward toward the door. "I should go get Finn to bed."

His jaw tightens, but he doesn't respond. Just keeps staring out at the night sky, completely closed off now. It's like watching someone build a wall brick by brick, and I hate that I care enough to notice.

I pause at the doorway, studying his profile in the dim light. The sharp line of his jaw, the slight furrow between his brows. Even in shadow, there's something magnetic about the way he stands there—shoulders tight, hands shoved in his pockets, like he's trying to hold himself together. It's a side of Xavier Rockwell I bet most people never see. For someone who usually radiates such bolstered confidence, he seems oddly hollow right now.

"Kay… Good night, then," I murmur, slipping out into the hallway, leaving him alone with his guitar and the stars and whatever demons he's wrestling with tonight .

The last thing I see before I close the door is Xavier sinking back into the cushions, his fingers trailing absently over the guitar strings without making a sound.