"I know what you're trying to do." Bane sets down his fork. It clatters against the plate. Too loud. Harsh. "But he clearly doesn't want to be here."
"Bane—"
"What?" Bane's eyes lock on me. Finally. Finally he looks at me. And the hatred in his eyes is palpable. Real. Burning. "It's obvious, isn't it? You're sitting there like this is some kind of hostage situation. One-word answers. Won't look anyone in the eye. My dad is bending over backward trying to make you feel welcome, and you can't even pretend to give a shit."
"I didn't—" My voice cracks. Breaks.
"You don't want to be part of this family, Carter? Fine. Say that.” He leans forward, elbows on the table, getting closer like he's trying to intimidate me. It's working. “But don't sit here and act like we're the problem when you're the one who can't even be bothered to try."
Zero makes a low sound—almost a laugh. A chuckle. Dark. Amused. "Cold as fuck," he mutters, just loud enough to hear. His eyes are on me. Watching my reaction. Feeding off it. "Margot really picked a winner."
My stomach drops. Everything inside me goes cold. Then hot. Then cold again. Shame burning through me like acid.
"Hey," Atlas says, voice low and warning. His hand comes down on the table. Not hard. But firm. Final. "That's enough. Both of you."
"Why?" Bane shoves his chair back. The legs scrape against the floor. Loud. Violent. "It's true. We're all thinking it."
"Bane, apologize," Richard says firmly. His voice has gone hard. Authoritative. Father, not friend.
"For what? Calling it like it is?" Bane stands. His chair rocks back. Almost tips.
"Now."
Bane stands. To his full height. Looking down at everyone. Looking down at me. "Whatever. I'm done." He throws his napkin on the table. It lands in his plate.
He walks out. The silence he leaves behind is suffocating.
"Max—" Margot starts, reaching for me, her hand extended, but I'm already standing. My chair screeches back. I almost knock over my water glass, catching it at the last second.
"I'm sorry," I say, voice tight. "I—I need to go."
"Honey, wait—" She's on her feet too. Coming around the table.
But I don't wait. I leave the table, the food, the stares. I take the stairs two at a time and lock myself in my room.
My chest is too tight. Crushing. Compressing. Like someone's sitting on it.
I can't breathe. Can't get air. Can't get enough. Gasping but nothing comes.
Pretentious asshole.
Acting like he's asking you to confess to a crime.
Stop being so fucking closed off.
I sink onto the bed and press my palms against my eyes. Hard. Until I see spots. Until the pressure is almost pain.
He's right. I know he's right. Bane. Zero. All of them. They're all right. But I don't know how to be anything else. Don't know how to open up. Don't know how to let people in. Linda made sure of that.
There's a knock on my door an hour later. Soft. Tentative. Three gentle raps.
"Max?" Margot's voice. Soft. Worried. "Can I come in?"
I don't answer. I'm lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling, counting the swirls in the plaster. Trying not to exist.
She tries the handle. Locked.
"Sweetheart, please. Let me in." Her voice is closer now. Like she's pressed against the door. Like she's trying to get to me through the wood.
