Easy to overlook.
The scars are harder to ignore.
There's one on my collarbone—thin, white, faded to almost nothing. I trace it with my fingertip. The tissue is smooth. Raised just slightly. A line that shouldn't be there. I got that one when I was twelve. Linda threw a glass at me for talking back. It shattered against the wall, and a shard caught me on the rebound. Sliced clean through skin. Blood everywhere. She'd been more upset about the mess than the wound.
You made me do that, she'd said while bandaging it. Her hands rough. Impatient. Pressing too hard on purpose.You need to learn to keep your mouth shut.
I learned.
There's another on my ribs. Lower. Hidden. I have to twist to see it in the mirror. Longer. Darker. Four inches. Angry red that never quite faded to white. It catches the light wrong. Puckers. I was thirteen, didn't take my suppressant on time because I'd forgotten the bottle at school. She found out when I came home and—
I stop. My hand drops from my ribs. Falls to my side. Fists.
Turn away from the mirror. Can't look anymore. Can't see what she made me.
I don't need to catalog every scar. Don't need to remember how I got each one. Don't need to relive every moment. Every hit. Every punishment.
They're just marks. That's all. Proof that I survived something that should've killed me.
The water's hot now. I step under the spray and let it burn.
I'm dressed and ready by six-forty. Hair still damp. Dripping onto my shoulders. I don't bother drying it.
Jeans. A hoodie. Black. Oversized. Something I can hide in. My backpack slung over one shoulder. The outfit of someone who definitely doesn't live in a mansion with marble floors and chandeliers.
I grab my laptop, my notebook, the textbook I haven't opened in two weeks. My diary—the worn one with the soft pages—goes into my backpack too. I zip it into the inner pocket. Safe. Hidden.
Then I take a breath and unlock my door.
Atlas is standing in the hallway.
I freeze. Every muscle locks. My hand still on the doorknob. My breath caught in my throat.
He's still in work clothes—dark slacks, white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up. The fabric is crisp despite the late hour. Expensive. The kind that doesn't wrinkle. Tie loosened. Hanging around his neck, the knot pulled down several inches, the silk gleaming in the hallway light. He looks like he just got home. His hair is slightly mussed. There's tension in his jaw. Exhaustion in the set of his shoulders.
And he's right outside my door. Blocking my path. Waiting.
"Max," he says evenly. "I was just about to knock."
"I have class."
"At eight. Margot mentioned it." He doesn't move from blocking the hallway. His body takes up the width of the corridor. There's no way past him without touching. Without getting close. "Dinner's in twenty minutes. You have time to sit down and eat with your family."
Not a request. An expectation. A command dressed up as an invitation.
My jaw tightens. I feel my teeth grind. The muscle jumps in my cheek. "I need to leave early."
"For what?" He crosses his arms. The movement makes him look bigger. Broader. More imposing.
"Does it matter?"
Something flashes in his eyes.Quick. Dark. Gone before I can name it. Irritation, maybe. Or disappointment.
"Yes," he says, voice still measured but with an edge now. "It matters when you've locked yourself in your room for twenty-four hours and your mother is downstairs worried sick about you."
"She knows where I am." I shift my backpack. The weight digs into my shoulder.
"That's not the point." He takes a step forward. Just one. But it feels like he's invaded my space. Like he's too close. Like I can't breathe.
