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His creation. Those two words crawl beneath my ribs. Is that what I am, Nicholas’ creation? Is that why I’m so fucked in the head? Why I faked a kidnapping just to get my brother/boyfriend’s attention back? I had his attention all weekend, and it was fucking glorious, but now I’m wondering if it was all worth it. Was it worth tearing her down just to put myself back on top? Oh look, apparently I do have a conscience after all.

There isn’t a single cough or whisper in the room, no one knowing what to do with Meg’s honesty. No one except Liz.

“I agree.” Meg’s head whips toward her, a sharp inhale sounding from somewhere nearby. It could have been mine, but I can’t be sure. My pulse is beating too loud in my ears. “You can’t put a single paint stroke on that canvas because it won’t be you painting. I understand that now. We’re not going to give space to your demons until you have control over them.”

For some reason, that’s the thing that nearly does me in. Not the mention of bleeding or Harrison. Liz’s simple understanding of saying, ‘We’re not going to allow your monsters any more room than they already occupy.’

I look at Liz like I’ve never seen her before, this woman in paint-dusted linen and silver bangles, helping to build Meg back up as if there’s no audience. I may not be the object of her attention, but I hear her loud and clear as if I were. We don’t have to be brave. We don’t need to force resilience. We simply need to remove the power from the hands of our personal demons. Conjured by that very thought, my phone buzzes in my hand beneath the desk, and I almost drop it.

Bastard: Dinner tonight. 8 pm. Don’t be late.

Nicholas’ assistant always sends clipped messages to replicate the orders he’s given. Rarely does Nicholas deem his time worthy of communicating with me directly, and if it does, it’s because I’m in deep shit. My heart clenches, already beating out of time as Meg mutters quietly.

“So…what do I do now?” Tucking my phone away, I prick up my ears, hanging on that very answer. Yes, what do we do now? How do we overcome the destruction that’s been caused to us? Liz scratches her cheek in thought, the bangles clinking again.

“You’re going to take back your story. Leave it with me.” Meg nods and excuses herself, walking back down the aisle toward her seat. As she passes, her gaze flickers toward my canvas, and panic hits so sharply I flinch to make sure the cover is still in place, turning the frame away as if she has X-ray vision. Beneath the cover, deep blues, bruised purples, and layers of shadow are starting to take shape into an image not even I’m ready to face.

As Meg takes her seat, I vault out of mine as if I’ve been burned. I can’t sit here a second longer, the sensation of her stare on my back, shame clawing at my throat.

Grabbing my satchel, my fingers fumbling clumsily around the strap, no one tries to stop me from leaving. Striding for the door, my feet fighting against me every step of the way. I almost relent and turn back, my lips parted to say something, but where would I even start?

Sorry I drugged you. Sorry I faked another girl’s kidnapping to drive you out. Sorry I watched you bleed out in front of a crowd and only just realized I was the one holding the knife. No, none of that leaves my head as I barrel into the hallway, struggling to draw breath. The door swings shut behind me on a room full of people who will spend the next hour pretending they weren’t intrinsically altered by what Meg just said. Bracing a hand against the wall, I lower my head until my hair falls around my face and the nausea settles low in my throat. My satchel vibrates, and I roughly grab for my phone.

Bastard: Confirm your attendance.

Nostrils flaring, I type out a harsh reply and hit the send button too hard, taking off towards my room. I have no idea if Everest is still there, but I hope to hell he is. I need to use him to banish the uncomfortable feelings in my chest the same way he used me.

I thought the plan was working. I thought Meg’s pain was something I could use. I thought I could hide in the shadows as I so often do, pulling strings and controlling the narrative that suits me. Bile rises in my throat, and I almost stumble over my own feet as one final thought rolls in before I rush to grab a joint from my bag.

Nicholas would be so proud.

Chapter Nineteen

Everest wasn’t in my room when I returned, hence the bad mood is still riding me when the Sedan pulls up. It’s empty in the back, since the world might explode should Everest and I be seen in the same car. His would have conveniently collected him from the frat house, while mine swings by a darkened corner of campus miles away.

To be a stubborn dick, I wait beside the car with my arms crossed for a whole minute, hoping someone might happen upon us. Then I shiver from the setting evening chill and realize I’m only further punishing myself.

Huffing and dropping into the backseat, the driver pulls away without exchanging a single word. That gives me plenty of time for self-reflection whilst staring at my actual reflection in the darkened windows. Plenty of time to decide which version of myself I’m going to be tonight. Reid Wilder, the artistic little charity project who has just enough talent to impress benefactors as long as he stays quiet. Or Cody Calloway, the mistake who was dragged to the manor by marriage and kept around through pity. Choices, choices.

Concluding that my overall attitude will depend upon Nicholas, I shove my headphones in and blast myself with punk rock. The lyrics speak of desolation and heartache, a jagged guitar riff and drumbeat rattling straight through my sternum. It’s loud enough to drown out the hum of the engine, but not loud enough to silence the memories that trickle in as we speed towards my living nightmare. Flashes of darkened rooms, closed doors, chunky family rings on reddened knuckles.

I suppress a series of shudders, wishing for the millionth time that Calloway Manor wasn’t quite so close. Naturally, previous generations had insisted on living within an hour of the academy they all attended, funded, and later championed from their seats on the board.

Towering trees line the long, private drive, turning my chest hollow, nothing but nerves and the phantom ache of every bruise that has lined my ribs remaining. Up ahead, the manor glows against the night, light pouring from the expansive windows and onto the gravel beneath our wheels. Every single time I return, I try to force the chill from my veins, to remain calm, but it never works. It never gets any easier.

The Sedan rolls to a stop outside the front steps, and I pull my headphones free just as the driver opens the door. The evening air crawls over me, solidifying my legs. I can’t move, can’t do anything but stare at the lit entrance. My jacket becomes heavier, compressing me into the leather seat, constricting the rise and fall of my chest. I know I need to see this through, that tonight is the fallout of my own actions, but no matter how much distance I put between myself and this damn manor, returning never gets any easier.

“I’ve got this,” a sharp voice says from somewhere behind the driver, and my heart stops. Literally halts, my next breath frozen until the driver steps away and reveals Everest. He’s dressed for a formal evening, a dark tie loose around the throat of his white shirt, his hair pushed back from running his hands through it too many times. I manage to breathe again, a sharp pain accompanying the jolted movement. I forget how much he can sound like his father when he’s being stern. Crouching before me, concern washes over Everest’s face.

“It’s okay, Cody. I’m here.” Licking his lips, he holds the inner door handle in a whitened grip. He knows I’m spiraling as much as he knows this isn’t the time or place to show weakness. I can’t help it. There’s only so long I can hold up the front that I’m unaffected by the world around me.

Careful not to touch me, Everest does his best to soothe me with his eyes. Endless pools of emerald green that contain a lifetime of regret. I know if we could go back, he’d do so much differently. He’s told me a thousand times, but I wouldn’t. There isn’t a single punch I wouldn’t have taken to spare him. Turning toward the manor, his jaw is tight, a tic beating until he exhales harshly.

“Fuck it,” he mutters, climbing into the car and shoving me along the backseat. Slamming the door shut, his mouth is on mine, his body collapsing into me.

For a second, I’m too stunned to kiss him back, my hands suspended uselessly between us as Everest breaks every rule he’s spent years finding loopholes for. The car is parked outside the manor. The driver is on the other side of tinted glass. Nicholas is somewhere behind those glowing windows, no doubt watching through glass or cameras, and Everest kisses me anyway.

There’s nothing gentle or careful in the way he grabs my jacket and hauls me into him. Nothing hesitant about his tongue pushing into my mouth, tangling with my own. I groan at the taste of him, mint disguising the sharp edge of whatever he drank to get through the hours without me. It pulls the last of the air from my lungs and replaces it with him.