Page 19

Nic

The damp sponge squeaks against the kitchen counter as I scrub at a stubborn stain that isn’t there.

There’s something about mindless cleaning that keeps me from spiraling, and today, I need to keep it the fuck together.

For the past two weeks, I’ve practically cleaned the house into a state of surgical sterility. The linoleum floors now shine and the old upholstery vacuumed within an inch of its life.

It’s not working.

I could scrub myself bloody, and it still wouldn’t purge the way he feels from my skin.

Because I let it happen. I let him touch me again. Let him inside me.

At the fundraiser, I told myself he was being an asshole, and I wanted to hurt him. The second time, I was having a panic attack.

This time, I have no excuse other than weakness and stupidity. I craved his touch. I loved it so much I blew apart like a fucking idiot. The ache between my legs still remembers him. His heat . . . his girth . . . his—

My stomach clenches violently and I squeeze my eyes shut, pressing the sponge harder against the counter until my wrist aches.

I am disgusting.

I thought I could run, cut off all contact, pretend it never happened. But the truth is, it did happen. And now, I’ve no choice but to face what I did. Or lose any chance of saving my scholarship.

“We could get used to having you home, Nic,” Bea’s chirpy voice floats into my mind from her perch on the breakfast counter. “Although, compared to the Palisades, this place must feel like a musty closet.”

I put the sponge down and take a calming breath. “You know, living in a gilded mansion isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”

“Still, fairytale trumps shoebox, sis,” she muses, then hunches over the counter, returning to whatever she’d been working on.

Not in any mood to argue, I watch her work instead. Her brows knit in concentration, purple streaks in her hair glinting, and wonder again if she’s bringing this up because she’s disappointed by the change in her college plans. She had been looking forward to attending an elite college.

And then I see what she’s doing.

There are four tiny disposable cups with time stamps on them, arranged in a single line in front of her like some grim mosaic. She carefully presses down a blue plastic device, opens it, and then shakes out two perfectly cut halves of pills into the cups.

She’s cutting up Dad’s meds.

“Why aren’t we using those?” I point to the foil pill packs that the drugstore sends every week, still stacked neatly near the breadbox. “Why are you cutting his pills?”

Bea’s hands still. Her eyes flick to the hallway as if to make sure Dad isn’t nearby.

When she finally speaks, her voice drops so low I almost miss it.

“He can’t open the foil packs anymore. And the larger pills . . .” She swallows, fingers curling around the edge of a cup. “He chokes on them sometimes.”

My world tilts sideways. “What?”

“Yeah, I think he’s too proud to ask for help, so he just doesn’t take them. And sometimes . . .” Her voice falters, her jaw working to hold it together. “Sometimes he hides them. Under his pillow. Or in his sock drawer.”

I grip the edge of the counter, suddenly needing its solidity. “How long has this been happening?”

“Three, maybe four months.” Her smile is thin and brittle. “But I’ve been keeping track and making sure he takes them.”

“Four months!”

“Don’t be mad Nic. He made me promise not to say anything. I think he feels like enough of a burden to the Aldridges already.”

Suddenly the bright kitchen light is too harsh, the lemon cleaner scent too sharp.

Four months.

For four months, Dad has been slipping. Struggling. Slowly unraveling. And where was I?

Playing house in a mansion built on lies.

Moaning under a man I swore I hated.

Shame curls like a noose around my throat. I abandoned my family for a fantasy. Kai—

No, not Kai. Chase Mitchell. It was Chase I obsessed over. Chase was the fantasy. A figment of my imagination. Chase was safe.

Kai is the monster I let fuck me.

I dig my nails into the counter, grinding my teeth so hard my jaw creaks.

A car horn beeps outside. I crane my neck to see it’s Barry’s Civic. He’s taking me to campus today since my van is still out of commission.

Bea’s expression softens. “You should go, Nic. You said you have a test.”

Fuck. I really do have to go. “I’m so sorry Bea. I had no idea it was getting that bad—”

She’s off the stool and in my face before I can blink. “Don’t you dare apologize, Nic. I’ve felt guilty enough watching you play Cinderella while I got fat, like the dog. I’ll go to the community college. Hell, I’d rather be uneducated than watch you get stuck with a man you don’t—”

“It was the cat, genius,” I cut in daily.

“What?” Bea frowns.

“The one that got fat in the fairytale. Lucifer was the cat, not the dog. But your speech still works.”

We go still for a moment, and then the tension crumbles, and laughter bubbles up from somewhere raw and broken—but real. In moments, we’re bent over and howling.

The tears that spring to my eyes aren’t purely out of humor. They’re also of relief . . . and a bit of self-pity. But they’re cathartic. I didn’t realize how much I needed to hear Bea take ownership like that.

Barry’s horn blares again.

Shit.

I rinse the lemon wash off my hands, dry them on a dishrag, and grab my coat and shoulder bag.

My ponytail suddenly feels too tight, pulling at my scalp like a leash, but I leave it—a small illusion of control in a life that’s spiraling sideways.

I kiss Bea’s cheek, mutter a rushed goodbye, and slip out into the cold air.

Barry’s leaning against the side of the Civic, posed like a model in a chunky black sweater and skinny plaid pants, his sunglasses carefully perched on his spiked platinum hair and red sneakers crossed at his ankles.

His smile dims a notch when his gaze lands on my teary eyes, but he wisely doesn’t comment.

“Ready?” He slides into the driver’s seat, adjusting his sunglasses back into place.

No. Not even close.

I nod and pull my coat tighter around my simple button-down shirt. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

My fingers tap restlessly against my denim-clad thigh, nerves coiling just under my skin. Barry’s playlist—a chaotic blend of K-pop and sea shanty—warbles softly, but it barely touches the storm gathering in my chest.

He glances at me after a few minutes. “You’re weirdly quiet, Nic. What’s up?”

I hesitate, staring at the streaks of rain sliding down the windshield like tears. “It’s about my dad.”

“What about him?”

“He’s . . . getting worse.”

Barry’s hand leaves the wheel to grab mine, warm and steady against my cold fingers. “Nic,” he says in a soft voice. “I know you’re doing everything you can. But it’s what Parkinson’s does. It never gets better.”

A lump rises in my throat. I hate hearing it out loud, even though I know it’s true.

“It’s been ten years. He’s fought so hard, Barry. And now it just feels like he’s . . . slipping.”

Barry squeezes my hand. “And that’s not your fault.”

Tears sting the corners of my eyes, but I blink them away, focusing on the warmth of his hand around mine.

His fingers trace absently over the back of my ring finger. Then he stops. His grip tightens slightly, his gaze snapping to mine.

“Where the fuck is it?”

I pull my hand away, crossing my arms defensively. “I gave it back.” Unwashed.

Barry’s jaw drops. “You what?”

Rage bubbles under my skin as I recall the conversation. “Lilith told me to put my dad in a nursing home. And that was before I even knew he was getting worse.”

“What? Why the hell would she say that?”

“Because I missed a ‘family event’,” I air-quote. “Dinner with the so-called Baltimores. When I told her I didn’t show up because I needed to stay with my father, Lilith called to tell me that my father was being selfish for keeping me away from my fiancé’s family. So I thought, screw this.”

Barry’s stunned silence lasts all of five seconds before he breaks into a slow, almost smug grin.

“Amazing, isn’t it?”

I scowl. “What’s amazing?”

He shifts gears as we approach a red light, turning to face me fully. “How much clearer you see when you walk away from bullshit.”

“I deserved better.” I simply shrug.

Barry arches an eyebrow. “Don’t you mean someone made you realize you deserved better?”

My stomach tightens with irritation, and I level a glare at Barry. “I don’t appreciate you making it sound like I was in some sort of goddamn slumber until he showed up. It was a judgment lapse—everyone has them. End of story.”

I don’t tell him about the gym two weeks ago. Or that Kai has no intention of leaving me alone.

Barry’s stupid grin only widens. “But what are the odds that the good professor hasn’t noticed you’ve boycotted his classes, Nic? That setting up this in-person test two weeks into the semester isn’t a ploy to reel you in? Surely it must have crossed your mind. It’s certainly crossed mine—”

“Will you just let it go, Barry!” I snap as my heart rate kicks up. “This is all your fault, anyway! You pushed me into that stupid dare, and now my entire life’s upside down!”

Barry bites his lips, to keep from laughing out, I suspect, the jerk. He remains silent the rest of the way, letting me stew in my frustration and panic.

By the time we pull into the campus parking lot, I’m too frazzled to think of anything beyond the fact that I’m about to see him again.

The moment we step into the lecture hall, my heart leaps straight into my throat.

The room hums with the usual pre-class noise—low conversations, laptop keys clacking, someone rustling through their bag—but none of it registers. Because all I see is him.

Kai.

He’s at the lectern, perfectly still, watching the door like he’s been waiting for me.

I want to kick myself for my sudden inability to tear my gaze away from him.

His dark hair is brushed back with the kind of lazy precision that shouldn’t look so good. There’s more roughness along his jaw than the last time I saw him—a few days past polite stubble. The tweed jacket should make him look boring and professorial. Instead, it emphasizes the breadth of his shoulders, making my fingers twitch at the memory of sinking my nails into them.

I’ve slept with this asshole.

A large hand lands at the small of my back. I start, expecting Barry, but then the hand shifts, slipping around my waist in a hold that’s too familiar.

Theo.

“Nic,” he says softly, voice worn thin, frayed at the edges. “Hey.”

I turn, and the sight of him knocks the air from my lungs.

He looks awful—pale and drawn, dark circles smudged beneath his eyes, his usual polish stripped down to something raw and threadbare. His skin is sallow, hair slightly overgrown, like the simple act of caring for himself became too much.

And then I see the glint of metal between his fingers.

“I—I got your ring,” he says, voice cracking on the last word. “Nic, I’m going insane. You’re not answering my calls. Mother’s starting to panic, wondering what’s happened to us.” His fingers flex, the ring twisting between them like a worry stone. “Can we talk? Just five minutes? I’m desperate here.”

The past claws at me like a rope looped tight around my ribs, trying to drag me back into a life I already left.

“Oh, you’re desperate,” I scoff, “but Valencia was too far to drive to?”

His hand tightens slightly, gently steering me back toward the door. I let him, not wanting to cause a scene.

Even with Barry’s scowl burning into the side of my head and the twin coals of dark eyes scorching a trail down my spine from across, I walk.

One step.

Another.

The air itself feels wrong — thick, charged, like the static before a lightning strike.

“Miss Abbott.”

The deep voice slices through chatter like a gunshot. It’s not loud—it doesn’t need to be—but the entire hall seems to flinch under the authority packed into two words.

I stop cold.

Theo’s grip falters.

Slowly, like we both already know what we’ll find, we turn.

Kai leans casually against the lectern—but nothing about his laser beam stare is casual.

Directed straight at me.

“You too, Mr. Thorne,” he adds.

Barry stiffens beside me.

Kai lifts a single hand, then gestures to the front row.

The realization crashes over me in sickening waves. He’s ordering us to sit right in front of him. Where he can watch me the entire lecture.

“Aaand there’s your mating call,” Barry mutters in obvious glee, grabbing my hand and tugging me forward. “Let’s go.”

We take a few steps before Theo moves to follow.

“I’m sure you’ll find a comfortable seat in the back, Mr. Aldridge.” Kai’s voice remains deceptively soft.

A ripple of murmurs moves through the hall, students trading glances, probably feeling the shift in the air, the almost primal clash happening.

Theo freezes mid-step, his jaw going slack. “What?”

Kai doesn’t repeat himself. His cold, steady gaze says enough.

A muscle jumps in Theo’s jaw—the only outward sign of the debate I know is raging inside him—push back and make a scene, or retreat. His fingers twitch, but his feet backtrack, step by reluctant step.

Barry leans in as we slide into our seats, his whisper a delighted purr. “We’re starting to get drunk off the testosterone fumes, Nic.”

I ignore Barry, too aware of Kai’s nearness pouring over me like heat off a furnace, seeping into my skin. I decide I won’t dignify his caveman bullshit with as much as a glance.

That resolve lasts about six seconds.

I glance up, my death glare locked and loaded—but Kai’s not watching my face.

He’s watching my left hand. The one fisted in my lap. I instantly know what he’s looking for.

Lose the ring. Or I’ll make him watch the next time I fuck you.

I feel sick.

Not just because of the threat—but because of the way it still makes my stomach flip.

My hand clenches tighter, not about to give him the satisfaction. But it’s no use. I’m going to have to write, eventually.

I’ve never hated being left-handed more than I do at this very moment.

Crap.