Iwoke the next morning to the grey light of dawn.
Someone had draped a blanket over me during the night. Resting on top of it was a new toothbrush, a tube of toothpaste, and a small, handwritten note.
I noticed you fell asleep and I didn’t want to wake you. If you need anything, let me know.
— Margaret.
I set the note aside and went to the small, barely used bathroom to splash cold water on my face. My reflection stared back from the mirror, eyes hard, jaw clenched. Sleep hadn’t helped: I was still angry—at my father, at Ingrid’s father, this fucked-up world, and at my own helplessness.
When I stepped back into the room, a text from Noah was waiting on my phone.
Bastard
I would make a decision if I were you, son. As I said before, the clock is ticking.
My jaw tightened.
A soft knock at the door made me whip my head around. Margaret stood there, wringing her hands nervously.
“Tristian…” she said softly.
“Yes?” My voice came out sharper than intended.
“Your father,” she gulped, her eyes darting to the floor. “He just called the administrator’s office.”
The engine hadn’t even stopped vibrating before I was out of the car, slamming the door so hard the glass rattled. I stormed up to my father’s mansion.
The door swung open before I could reach for the handle. Geoffrey, the butler, stood there with a stoic expression.
He was the only person in this house who actually saw me. He’d been the one to patch me up when I was bruised, witnessed my terrible teenage years… seen the security feed of me nearly demolishing the gate. He knew better than to make me wait.
“I’m not in the mood, Geo,” I snarled as I brushed past.
“I hadn’t said a word, sir,” Geoffrey replied smoothly, closing the door. “I could see from a mile away that you were not ‘in the mood.’”
I marched to the heavy oak doors of the study and kicked them open.
Noah sat behind a sprawling mahogany desk, looking up with a faint, infuriating smirk.
“Tristian, my dear boy... what brings you home—”
“You shut the fuck up,” I spat.
Noah’s playful mask dropped instantly. The air in the room turned cold. I approached the desk slowly. “You called the hospital? You told them you’re stopping the fucking payments?”
Noah shrugged, leaning back in his leather chair. “It was a way to gain your attention. Nothing more than a small threat.”
A threat? To end my mother’s life?“Are you fucking kidding me right now?”
“Don’t be dramatic,” he snapped. “Be lucky I’m even keeping her in that miserable state at all.”
“Excuse me?”
“Tristian, you and I both know,” he said, his voice dropping to a dangerous register, “you haven’t beencompliant, you’ve been spiraling, out of control—and I’ve grown tired of your behavior. You’re aLocke. And you will join this family—properly. It’s time you grew up.”
“Go to hell.”
I turned to leave, but my father’s voice stopped me. “I’m not finished, Tristian.”
