“You’re serious?” My voice dropped, flat and sharp. “You’re kicking me out? On my birthday?”
“It’s not a punishment,” Elizabeth said. “It’s accountability. Something you’ve never had.”
“Right.” I took another swig. “That’s just…fucking fantastic.”
“We’re cutting you off,” Maddox said. “You keep your car and what’s in your account. But that’s it. Your credit line is closed.”
“Wow. You guys rehearsed this, didn’t you? Had a whole little debrief session about how to ditch your only kid and still look classy doing it.”
“You’ve made this choice easy for us, Sinclair,” Elizabeth said, glaring. “You’ve humiliated us. Again.”
“Good,” I said quietly. “Because I stopped trying to make you proud a long time ago.”
Her jaw twitched. Maddox looked like he wanted to put a fist through the wall, but he wouldn’t want to get drywall dust on his suit.
“I swear to God, Sin,” he growled. “You’re going to end up dead or in jail if you keep going like this.”
“Maybe that’s better than ending up like you,” I snapped. “Miserable. Hollow. Pretending you’re something you’re not.”
Maddox stepped forward. “You want to get hit, boy?”
“Do it,” I dared him. “Come on. Give the tabloids something real for once.”
He didn’t move. He just stared, breaths ragged, fists clenched, arms locked at his side.Coward. I turned my back on them both and headed upstairs, making my way over the bodies that littered the floor.
“One bag,” Elizabeth called after me. “Pack only what you need.”
I didn’t answer, just carried on to my floor, shaking my head as the staff cleared out the house and my parents argued about how much of a disappointment I was. In my room, I grabbed the bare essentials. Cigarettes. My leather jacket that still smelled like the guy I met at the beach last week. Condoms, out of necessity, and a few changes of clothes.
No photos.
No keepsakes.
Nothing of them.
I kicked off the jeans I’d found in a rush downstairs—still damp with someone else’s sweat—and staggered toward the attached bathroom. The tiles were cold beneath my bare feet. Sharp. Real. I needed something real to ground me.
I didn’t bother waiting for the water temperature to adjust. Just stepped into the shower and let the icy blast hit me like a punch to the chest. The shock stole the breath from my lungs. I tilted my face up into the spray, closed my eyes, and let it sluice over me. Washing away the stink of whiskey, smoke, sex, and something worse—failure, maybe. Or apathy.
Dried sweat and cum ran down the drain. Evidence of a night I barely remembered, and wouldn’t want to even if I could. Eventually, the water warmed, but I barely noticed. My skin was already numb. My brain wasn’t far behind.
By the time steam filled the room and blurred the glass, I was out. Towel slung low on my hips, I rubbed at my hair with one hand and wiped the fog from the mirror with the other.
What stared back at me looked more ghost than man. Hollow, sunken eyes. Purple shadows bruised the skin underneath. Cheekbones cut like they’d been carved with glass. Even my golden skin—once my mother’s favorite feature—looked sickly and washed-out under the harsh vanity light.
The house might’ve been a palace, but I looked like I’d crawled out of the gutter. I stared at my reflection for a long time. I wondered what they saw when they looked at me. Maybe nothing. Maybe that was the problem.
I brushed my teeth next—too hard, like I could scrub away the taste of everything I regretted. It didn’t work. The medicine cabinet was full of designer colognes and skincare shit my mother sent home in press kits. All unopened. Untouched. Like me. I threw what little mattered into a wash bag and zipped it up.
Then came my ritual as I donned my armour. Ripped black jeans. A loose tee that hung off one shoulder and smelled faintly of smoke and lavender like the girl I hooked up with at the club the other night. I laced up my scuffed combat boots, pulling them tight. One loop around the ankle. A double knot.
I crossed the room, tossed the toiletries into the duffel on my bed, and took one last look. Sheets twisted, headboard cracked, lipstick still smeared on the pillow.
Some people had childhood bedrooms filled with memories. Posters, trophies, and photos taped to the walls. This place? It could’ve belonged to anyone. The walls were white. The art? Chosen by a designer. Soulless. Like the house. Like the people in it.
This room had never felt like mine.
Not when I was five. Not when I was fifteen. Not now.
