You made me lose control.
“She called me,” Xander says.
Instead of responding, I crouch over the open hood again, inspecting the old engine.
In reality, I stare at the rusty parts, and they make no sense. My mind is coping with the ugly green envy that Thunder speaks to my brother.
Fucking hell. I’m positivelycertifiable.
“Was she complaining about me?” I hope I sound casual.
“She was snooping. It seems she knows a lot about you already.” Xander cranes his neck, peeking over my shoulder.
I straighten up. “Did she succeed in her snooping?”
“I remain neutral, but if I’m honest, I think she deserves that partnership more than you. If I had known they were considering her, I would have talked you out of it before you took the meeting with Corm.”
“That’s very brotherly of you,” I deadpan. “Do you know who her father is?”
Xander jerks his eyebrows. “No, how is that relevant?”
“Her father holds the key to destroying ours. She goes by Roxy, but her name is Roxanne Moretti Lock.”
Chapter 13
Roxy
Idrag my feet inside my shoebox apartment. On days like today, I wish I had a larger bed. Or a comfortable sofa. Or anything here that would feel like home.
But when I moved out of my father’s place, I didn’t believe in myself. I didn’t believe I could make it work.
Okay, there was stubbornness involved. My trust fund is tied to being married—because welcome to the twenty-first century—and I never wanted to ask my brothers or my father for money.
The air smells faintly of old paint and last week’s takeout, a reminder that I’m still living in a place I never planned to stay in.
Where I lived didn’t matter when I got my get-out-of-jail-free card.
I grew up in luxury, which came with loneliness, and with being undervalued and overlooked.
Renting a fancy apartment was low on my priority list. I wanted to prove myself. I wanted to find a way to get my freedom.
Tonight, every joint screams with exhaustion, and every muscle is taut. I glance at the mattress in the corner, and tears prickle my eyes.
My legs tremble with that hollow kind of fatigue that feels like the bones are melting out of me.
How many times did I return here late at night and just fall into slumber, often still dressed up? How many times did I eat takeout at the small table in the corner? How many times did I sweat here all night because the AC was broken?
Never have I felt defeated by any of it. Never have I felt this tired. This partnership chase is taking its toll.
I shuffle my feet to the small refrigerator humming in the corner beside the table.
Someone shouts something below the window. A couple argues down the hallway. Kids are running upstairs, their feet drumming on my ceiling.
Usually, the noise fades into background static. Tonight, it scrapes at my nerves.
Cold air hits my face, sharp as an insult. The light in the fridge glares at me, illuminating empty shelves. Fuck. On the one night when I’m trulyhungry I don’t pick up food, and I don’t have any leftovers.
I pull out my phone and consider whether I can stay awake while waiting for a delivery. Probably not. Do I have it in me to walk back out and fetch something?
