"Perfect. Your stepmother spoiled me rotten." Richard's arm goes around Margot's waist, pulling her close.
Margot laughs. Light. Happy. The sound fills the foyer. "You spoiled me."
They're disgustingly happy.
I should be happy for them.
I am happy for them.
I'm also exhausted just watching them. The performance of it. The effortless affection. The ease.
"Listen," Richard says, glancing at his watch. "I know we just got back, but I ordered a ton of Chinese food. Should be here in about twenty minutes. I figured we could all sit down together. First official family dinner."
My stomach drops. Plummets. The bottom falls out.
"Sounds great," Atlas says smoothly. No hesitation. Perfect. Of course.
Bane says nothing. Just stands there, jaw tight, eyes on his father. Not looking at me. Deliberately not looking at me.
Zero smirks at me from across the foyer. Catches my eye. Holds it. That sharp smile that promises trouble.
"Max?" Margot touches my arm. "That okay with you, honey?"
"Yeah. Of course." My voice sounds normal. Steady. It's a miracle.
No.
The dining room is too big for six people. The table could seat twenty. Maybe more. The chandelier overhead is massive, dripping crystal, casting prismatic light across the walls.
We sit at one end of the table—Richard at the head, Margot beside him, then me. The brothers spread out on the other side. Like a firing squad. Like judges at a trial.
Atlas across from me, perfect posture, spine straight, shoulders back, hands folded on the table, those gray eyes watchful even when he's relaxed. He doesn't blink much. Doesn't fidget. Just watches. He's rolled up his sleeves now, and I can seehis forearms are built, corded with muscle. Veins visible under tan skin. The kind of arms that could break someone in half. Everything about him screams control.
Zero next to him, sprawled in his chair like he owns it, legs spread, one arm draped over the back, taking up more space than he needs. The scar through his eyebrow catches the light when he tilts his head. His ice-blue eyes flick to me every few seconds, like he's waiting for me to fuck up.
Bane at the far end, sitting stiff and formal despite the casual clothes. His jaw is tight. He's not looking at me. Hasn't looked at me since he sat down. Deliberately. Pointedly. The avoidance is aggressive. His hazel eyes are fixed on his plate, but I can feel the tension radiating off him. Like heat. Like electricity. Like something about to snap.
The food arrives right on time. The doorbell rings. Someone—I don't see who—answers it. Voices at the door. The rustle of plastic bags. Fried rice, orange chicken, lo mein, dumplings. The smell fills the dining room—soy sauce, ginger, sesame oil, the sweet tang of orange sauce. Enough to feed twelve people.
Richard dishes out plates like this is normal. Spooning rice, passing containers, making sure everyone has enough. Like we're a normal family having a normal dinner. Like this isn't the most uncomfortable thing I've ever experienced. Like we all want to be here.
We're not.
"So, Max," Richard says, passing me the fried rice. "How was your first day here? Atlas said he showed you around."
"It was fine." I pass the rice to Margot without meeting Richard's eyes.
"Just fine?" Richard smiles. It's meant to be encouraging. Warm. It makes me want to crawl under the table. "Come on, the house is pretty impressive. What do you think?"
"It's nice."
"Nice." He laughs a little. The sound is forced. Uncomfortable. "You're a man of few words, aren't you?"
I don't answer. Just focus on my plate. On moving food around with my fork. On being anywhere but here.
Margot shoots me a look. Pleading. Worried.Come on, sweetheart. Try.
"Margot tells me you're in school," Richard continues, undeterred. "Business, right?"
