Page 20

“ T ext me the entire time,” Dayton says, as he peppers kisses across my cheeks just outside the DSN Manor. Kai and Silas are up ahead, loading our bags into the car for our weekend trip back home.

We’d spent the past two days diving into that little black book Dayton and Kai swiped from the dean’s office. Every page, every scribbled entry, brought more questions than answers. Kai and Silas seem to think that our parents are holding on to more than they want to admit. Kai feels that if he goes home, he can convince his uncle to finally tell him something useful. So Silas and I have decided to join him.

Because meeting the parents in the middle of trying to exonerate your other boyfriend is exactly what I want to be doing right now.

Dayton’s hands slip lower as he steps closer, his thumbs brushing teasing circles along my waist.

“Promise to call me twice a day?”

“Will you change the picture you set for my contact?” I plead.

“Oh? You’re not happy with it?”

“It’s my tits, Day,” I huff.

“But what if I forget what they look like while you’re gone?”

“For two days?” My head tilts, my nose scrunching.

Dayton’s gaze drops toward my breasts for a moment, and his hand inches forward like he might actually try to reach out and grab them right here, in broad daylight. “They’re just so fucking beautiful.”

“Day,” Levi calls from where he’s lounging against the banister. “You get to babysit me for two whole days. Focus up.”

Dayton groans dramatically like a toddler, shooting Levi an exaggerated look of annoyance. “Sounds like a blast.” He rolls his eyes but steals one last kiss, his lips pressing into mine like he’s committing the shape of them to memory. “I love you, babygirl,” he whispers, low enough that only I hear.

“I love you too.”

I’m not sure when we started to say those three words, but it came so naturally for both of us.

Kai and Silas hop into the car, leaving the front passenger seat open for me because of my infamous motion sickness. But before I join them, I turn, jog up the steps, and throw my arms around Levi. He stands still as I lean up on my tiptoes. My mouth brushes his ear as I whisper, “I’ll miss you more.”

He chuckles, and before I pull away, I press a quick kiss to his cheek, lingering just long enough to feel his breath hitch.

As I turn to head back to the car, Levi’s inked hand closed around my wrist, his grip firm but somehow gentle. He pulls me back, capturing my gaze before leaning in, his mouth finding mine in a kiss that steals the air from my lungs. His other hand cups my cheek, fingers spreading warmth through me as his lips press deeper, his tongue tracing along the seam. We both know we can’t go further. When he finally breaks the kiss, he rests his forehead against mine, “Be careful.”

“I will,” I whisper, nodding as he slowly releases my wrist, letting me slip from his grasp. It feels like leaving a part of myself behind as I walk toward the car, where Silas and Kai stand.

I climb in and close the door. I glance back one last time, finding Levi’s and Dayton’s eyes still locked on me, both of them unwilling to break the connection. When I turn around, I see Silas’ gaze on me, the hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he starts the car and pulls out of the driveway.

Silas and Kai argued about what songs to play almost the entire drive. When we pull down our familiar street, a pang of anxiety creeps back into my stomach. I hate going home. While some people feel a sense of nostalgia when returning to their childhood home, I am part of the minority that feels an overwhelming sense of dread.

My parents were never overly affectionate, but they were loving when needed and raised me to be the strong, independent woman I am today. Still, the thought of going back to that house makes me feel ill. Sensing my tension, Silas starts to move his hand to my thigh but redirects it to the gear shift instead.

Kai sits in the backseat, absorbed in something on his phone, while I continue to stare out the window until I see our familiar brick house. Silas pulls into the U-shaped driveway.

My mother’s car isn’t here—thank god. I don’t think I could deal with her just yet.

“I’ll pick you up for dinner tonight,” Silas says.

I nod meekly and climb out of the car.

Kai meets me at the trunk with my small suitcase. “I don’t like the idea of us sleeping separately.” He frowns.

“Just for a couple of nights.”

“Still hate it.” He pouts. “If you need anything before dinner, text me an SOS.”

I bite my lip as his hand moves slowly to caress the side of my face. He leans down to press a much needed kiss of confidence to my lips. I give a reassuring nod before separating from Kai and walking up the steps. Using the key I’ve used a million times, I let myself into my childhood home.

The door closes behind me, and I’m immediately assaulted by the scent of peonies—my mother’s favorite. I kick off my shoes, leaving them by the door, and make my way inside. Passing the living room, I glance at a dirty wine glass sitting on a coaster beside my mother’s usual spot.

In the kitchen, I grab a glass from a cabinet and fill it with water. The cold liquid does little to soothe the knots in my stomach. I lean against the counter, staring out the kitchen window into the small floral garden my mom loves. It’s the beginning of winter and the flowers are slowly starting to die out. I used to spend days out there while my mom tended to the flowers, wearing a flowy sundress and frolicking around like in the movies, my hand brushing against the petals.

How na?ve I was to think life was actually so innocent.

I always knew of the Syndicate. Knew my mother did work for them as a lawyer, representing members of the elite. Her job wasn’t just about defending people, it was about cleaning up the messes of those who thought themselves untouchable. She would tell me that justice wasn’t black and white, that the law was nothing more than a tool to be wielded by those who knew how to bend it.

But nothing prepared me for the day I saw her with their emblem—a discreet, almost innocuous symbol stitched into the lining of her briefcase. It wasn’t meant to be noticed, but I did. That was when I realized she wasn’t just working for the Syndicate. She was one of them.

Back in the living room, I busy myself with small tasks to distract from the flood of memories. I fold the throw blanket and drape it over the back of the couch, rinse her wine glass in the sink, then stand in the quiet for a moment before settling onto the couch. My gaze drifts to the mantle, lined with family photos taken before my dad passed away. Back when life felt normal.

My father was murdered when I was twelve. That much has always been clear. But the rest of the story? The tidy version my mother told me? I don’t know if I can believe it anymore.

She said my dad’s best friend and business partner, Andrew Porter, pulled the trigger. That Andrew had been blindsided by my father’s plan to file for bankruptcy, gutting their software company and leaving Andrew without a safety net. According to her, my father walked into his office one morning and never walked out. Andrew was there, waiting for him. A single bullet, point-blank, ended my dad’s life.

That’s the version she gave me. Clean. Efficient. The kind of story that makes sense on paper.

But now, with everything I’ve learned, I wonder: Was it really Andrew? Or was that just a convenient narrative? The Syndicate doesn’t leave loose ends. And if my father had debts—if his failure threatened to expose something bigger—could they have orchestrated his death? Could my mother have known?

She didn’t grieve—not in any way I could understand. Instead, she threw herself into the case of her career, defending a high-profile Syndicate member on death row. It consumed her, leaving no space for me, for us. She hired a nanny to step in, a replacement mother who did her best to fill the void. But even at twelve, I knew the difference.

My fingers tap against my knee as I sit on the couch, staring at the family photos on the mantle. My family was a picture-perfect elite unit: banquets, galas, charity events. Even after my father’s death, my mother preserved the Wilson image like it was a fragile heirloom. She wore her grief as an accessory—tasteful and understated.

When I turned eighteen, she started dating again, parading men through the house like trophies. I didn’t care. If anything, I welcomed it. It made her less insufferable when she had someone to fuck her miserable ass.

The golden urn sits on the wall of bookshelves, amongst some of my dad’s favorite books and a photo of him and me when I was a little girl. It was some corporate trip that he had taken my mom and me on somewhere in the Caribbean. We had spent the day hiking trails through what I called a jungle, even though I’m 99 percent sure it wasn’t. The picture has me holding a stick toward the sky like a sword, my dad’s hand on my shoulder with a grin stretched across his face.

My dad was the one who fueled my artistic endeavors growing up. He paid for countless camps, whether it was for 2D, 3D, or graphic design. He even paid for guitar lessons for an entire year before I gave it up. Mom would have liked me to pick a more logical pursuit, but being creative was the only time in my life I could choose what I wanted to do and didn’t need her approval.

The front door opens, and I hear the sound of my mother shrugging off her coat, her heels clicking on the tile down the hallway toward me. She enters the living room, her hair in a flawless french twist, her makeup thick. Her pantsuit doesn’t seem to have a single wrinkle in it after a long day at work.

She always looks effortless, in everything she does.

“Sable, why didn’t you tell me you were coming home this weekend?” she asks as she throws her work bag on the living chair, The bag lands with a soft thud on the cushioned seat, and she turns to face me, her brow furrowing slightly. “I could have had Patty make some dinner for tonight.”

I stammer, my gaze darting around the room as if searching for an escape. “I, uh… I’m having dinner with the Reynolds tonight.”

“The Reynolds? You mean that cute little throuple?”

I nod. “Yes. Their son invited me.”

Her eyes narrow slightly in curiosity before she shakes her head with a resigned smile. “Come into the kitchen, and I can pour us a glass of wine,” she says as she waves me towards the kitchen. She moves with practiced grace, opening the cabinet to retrieve two wine glasses. I take a bottle of chilled white wine from the fridge and hand it to her.

“Are you dating this Reynolds boy?”

She pours us both a glass of wine and then passes mine across the counter.

“Yes.”

Her eyebrows lift in mild surprise as she takes a delicate sip of her wine.

“I’m surprised you rejected Silas.”

My head tilts. “I didn’t reject Silas.” At least not the fiftieth time he tried.

She scoffs. “Oh, Sab.” Realization dawns on her face. “Sable Wilson! I will not allow my daughter to partake in such?—”

“Change the subject, Mom.”

She resets herself. Obviously not happy with my non-answer, but not wanting to get into it. The less she asks about my relationship with the boys, the better.

“I see Ashen Grove hasn’t made you want to elevate your wardrobe,” she comments with a hint of disapproval. Her eyes linger on my ripped jeans and the fishnets peeking through, paired with a red crop top adorned with devil horns. “I really wish you wouldn’t wear such torn-up clothing.”

I glance down at my outfit. “It’s the style, Mom,” I respond with a half-hearted shrug.

We settle into a rhythm of rehearsed conversation, the clinking of our glasses punctuating the air as I slowly sip my wine. She speaks animatedly about a case she’s defending, her hands gesturing as she recounts the details. I nod, trying to stay engaged despite my growing unease.

“Mom, can I ask you a question?”

She looks at me, her mouth slightly agape, before her expression softens. “Sure,” she replies

“Did you meet Dad in college?”

They both attended Ashen Grove, but the story I’ve always heard seems inconsistent.

“No, sweetie. I told you that I was too consumed with my books. I didn’t have time for silly frat parties like your dad. We met through mutual friends after graduation.”

I narrow my eyes, scrutinizing her carefully composed expression. Her smile is forced, and her gaze avoids mine.

“Honey, are you sure you’re doing okay?” Her hand reaches out, touching my arm with an unexpected chill. I flinch slightly, the coldness of her touch sending a shiver down my spine. I slowly pull my arm away, and she crosses her arms defensively. “Are you taking your meds?”

Oh, you mean the meds that you forced the doctor to prescribe to me? The one that has been the one thing stifling my true creativity this semester. “Yes, I’ve been taking them.” And that isn’t a lie.

“Good,” she murmurs, taking a larger gulp of her wine, her eyes distant. “Good.”

“So, do you know anything about Dad’s time in college? Was he super involved in his fraternity?”

“He wasn’t in a frat,” she snaps.

I shake my head and click my tongue. “You just said he went to frat parties.”

She scoffs, her demeanor shifting abruptly. “Why are you so interested in your father all of a sudden?” Her eyes narrow. “Joseph tells me you’re staying at the house with the boys. Sable Wilson, I did not raise a whore.”

I hold up a hand, stopping her. “First off, I’m not a whore. Second, tell Professor Zegler to fuck off?—”

“Sable!” my mom shrieks.

My first slams down on the counter, causing her to jump. “No, Mom. Tell me about your involvement with the Syndicate.”

“What on earth are you talking about?”

“How far up are you on the ladder?”

Her face remains impassive as she refuses to even glance in my direction. Her jaw clenches, a visible tic under the skin. “Sable, listen to me. Stop this line of questioning.”

“Or what?”

“Or you’ll get yourself killed!” she hisses.

Her words hang between us. My breath catches in my throat and I struggle to process the gravity of what she just said. Did she mean it literally, or was this another one of her dramatic overreactions?

Before I can ask anything further, I feel a presence enter the kitchen. “Hey, look at the two most beautiful women in the world.” It’s Silas. He’s changed clothes since I saw him, dressed now in a polo and khakis. He comes and places a warm arm around me and looks down at my mother. “Some girl talk?”

“Hello, Silas! It’s so good to see you!” My mother’s voice is as fake as her tits. “Thank you for taking such good care of my girl. She can’t stop talking about you!”

His head tilts. “Oh.” He looks down at me. “She has?”

“Don’t fucking push it,” I mutter under my breath.

“Your parents are out of town. Where are you staying?”

“I’m over at Kai’s house. Sable, they invited you to stay the weekend there, too. Unless you want some time with your mom.”

My mother looks stunned, her face paling as I stand and finish the rest of my glass of wine in one long gulp.

“I actually don’t think that is necessary. I think mom has a date tonight, anyway.” I throw a sideways glance toward her. “And yes, we need to go or we will be late. Thanks for the drink, Mom.”

“Don’t go digging anymore, Sable,” my mom retorts. Fuck her though. She could do me the decency of letting me know what we are up against.

Silas ushers me through the arch way. “Thank you,” I whisper, desperate to get out of there.

As I make way through the house to leave, Silas’ steady arm loops around my waist, pulling me firmly to his side. He leans down and asks, “You okay?”

I don’t answer him. Holding back tears, His eyes narrow as he studies my face.

Silas holds open the door to his car, and I slide in, grateful for the dim interior that hides my puffy eyes. The second he’s in the driver’s seat, he glances over at me, his brow furrowed. “Want to tell me what that was all about?”

I exhale, finally letting out a long, shaky breath as I recount the exchange. “She was dodging every question. My dad, his connections—she even had the nerve to call me a whore for staying at the Manor.”

“She actually said that?”

I nod, a bitter smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. “She’s always had her own twisted ideas about who I should be. Then she threw in a warning about digging into the Syndicate”

“But then she just tries to act like everything’s fine when you walk in. She was practically fawning over you, and that?—”

“That’s the charm, babe. It’s the khakis. Moms love them.”

I roll my eyes, a small laugh escaping despite everything, but his hand moves to mine, fingers threading together. “Don’t let her get under your skin. That’s how she wins.”

I squeeze his hand, trying to draw some of that strength into myself. “It’s just… she’s my mom, Silas. I always knew she was hiding things, but to have lied to me all these years, even about basic stuff, like my dad? It’s like I’m a stranger to her.”

“I know. All of our parents have been holding things back—keeping secrets from us. But now we’re in it, right here, in the middle of a clusterfuck.”