“Everyone aspired to be like us, at least in our circle.” The muscles along my spine went rigid. “They were always commenting about wishing they had this or they had that.”
I sat down, put my glass on the coffee table, and put my elbows on my knees. “I hated when they said that because it made it so hard to keep my mouth shut. And that was rule number one.” I tapped my finger against the coffee table. “You never showed anybody your weaknesses.”
Dakota’s expression softened, and she reached out like she might touch my hand, but pulled back at the last second. Smart woman. I wasn’t sure I could handle her touch right now.
“Behind closed doors,” I continued, my voice dropping to nearly a whisper, forcing her to lean in, “we were an absolute train wreck.”
I stood abruptly, needing to move, to put distance between us. The floor-to-ceiling windows offered a view of the Chicago skyline, twinkling like a promise that never delivered. I pressed my palm against the cool glass.
“My dad cheated often and was quick to anger. My mom hated him.” I stared at my reflection, superimposed over the city lights. “But most of all, they loved fighting. I think they loved fighting more than they loved me.”
When I turned back, Dakota had tears in her eyes. That was the problem with real emotions. They were messy, unpredictable. Nothing like the perfect selfies we all posted.
“I was never abused,” I clarified quickly, shrugging one shoulder.
“Axel …” she started, but I cut her off with a sharp gesture.
“Aside from that,” I continued, “it was a house of horrors. Broken glasses and dinner plates being thrown across the wall.” I closed my eyes briefly, could still hear the crystal shatter, followed by my mother’s perfect, practiced laugh when the neighbors called to check if everything was okay.
“Just a clumsy moment. Everything’s fine here!”
“It’s one of the reasons that when I left that all behind, I didn’t care who saw me for who I really was.” I ran a hand through my hair, messing it up in a way that would have horrified my mother. “I was somebody that had no interest in long-term relationships, and I wasn’t going to pretend like I wanted one.”
I returned to the couch, but didn’t sit, instead bracing my hands on the back of it, needing the physical barrier.
“In fact, I leaned into it. Authenticity and all that, I guess.” My lips curved into a bitter smile. “I never set out to create this image of myself as a playboy. I was just being young and unattached and not afraid to show the truth.”
Dakota nodded slowly, understanding dawning in her eyes. “And then the next thing you knew, people were taking photos and putting them online.”
“Exactly.” I nodded. “Maybe it was an act of rebellion, leaning into it. Maybe I enjoyed when my parents would get upset, seeing their son destroying their perfect image.”
The admission cost me, each word feeling like it was being ripped from somewhere deep and private. “Church-going, pearl-clutching, country-club perfection,” I spat. “I don’t know. I suppose it was a way of rebelling while also just being true to myself.”
I fidgeted with my watch.
“That’s why I hated the social media side of your business so much,” I admitted, finally looking directly into her eyes. “Every perfect post, every flawless photo … it reminded me of my mother’s crimson lipstick. Beautiful on the surface, hiding something broken underneath.”
Dakota’s breath caught audibly. “You thought I was like her.”
It wasn’t a question, but I answered anyway.
“I did.” Past tense. I let that hang between us, an admission of its own.
Her hand found mine in the space between us, her touch tentative but warm. “And now?” she whispered.
The question lingered, dangerous and full of possibility.
“Now I know you’re not,” I answered.
She swallowed, her shoulders relaxing like this took a tremendous weight off of them. “How did I not know this before?”
Which was fair. She was, after all, Knox’s sister. And she was friends with Scarlett, who was dating Jace. Jace, someone in my inner circle, who knew my demons. But I’d been clear with the guys I considered brothers long ago that my business was my own, and it meant a lot to me that they hadn’t shared my past with anyone.
“Because like you, I don’t like people to see what I keep hidden.”
She seemed to consider this, her beautiful eyes dancing in the orange light of the fire. I knew what she was waiting for: for me to continue with the hardest part to admit.
“My mom started drinking to cope with my father’s verbal cruelty,” I continued. “The constant criticism, the cutting remarks, the way he’d tear her down. I didn’t see that her drinking had become an issue. Not right away at least.” But I should have. “Once I did, I begged her to get help.”
