"Yeah."
"My mother died when I was twelve. Cancer.” He doesn't look at me when he says it. Just stares at the dance floor. “It's been just us and Dad for a long time." He pauses. His jaw tightens. The muscle jumps. "This is... an adjustment."
I don't know what to say to that.
"I'm not trying to replace anyone," I offer.
"I know." He finally looks at me again. Something in his expression softens. Just barely.
But the weight in his voice says otherwise.
Before I can respond, someone calls his name. He sets down his glass—the ice rattling, the last swallow of whiskey abandoned—and gives me a nod.
"I'll see you around, Max."
Then he's gone, swallowed by the crowd. I watch him go—watch the way people part for him automatically, the way he moves through the room like he owns it.
I exhale.
One down.
I make it another twenty minutes before the second brother finds me.
I've relocated to the terrace—fresh air, fewer people, space to breathe—leaning against the railing, staring out at the water as the sun finally dips below the horizon, when I hearfootsteps behind me. Deliberate. Unhurried. The scrape of dress shoes on stone.
"Hiding?"
The voice is rougher than Atlas's. Sharper. Like gravel. Like smoke.
I turn.
The man leaning against the doorframe is leaner than Atlas, all hard edges and danger. He's not as tall—maybe six-one—but he takes up space like he's twice that size. Black hair, long enough that it falls into his eyes, messy in a way that looks intentional, pale skin, ice-blue eyes that pin me in place. Cold. Calculating. The kind of eyes that see too much. Tattoos crawl up his left arm, disappearing under his rolled shirt sleeves. Dark ink. Intricate patterns I can't make out from here but want to. He's not wearing a jacket. His tie is loose. Hanging around his neck like an afterthought, top three buttons of his shirt undone.
He looks like he'd rather be anywhere else.
"Just getting some air," I say. I straighten, turning to face him fully, hands gripping the railing behind me.
"Right." He pushes off the doorframe and walks toward me, his gait lazy, predatory, hands in his pockets. "Zero."
"Max."
"I know." A smile ghosts across his lips. Sharp. Dangerous.
He stops a few feet away and lights a cigarette, the flame from his lighter briefly illuminating his face—sharp cheekbones, a scar through his left eyebrow I hadn't noticed before, taking a long drag. The smoke curls between us. Gray wisps that catch the last of the fading light.
"You're not supposed to smoke here," I say. The words come out before I can stop them. Stupid. Defensive.
"And yet." He blows smoke toward the sky. Tilts his head back, exposing the long line of his throat. "Here I am."
I don't know what to do with that.
"You don't look like you want to be here," Zero says, studying me with those unsettling eyes. He takes another drag, never breaking eye contact.
"It's my mom's wedding."
"Stepmother." He takes another drag, never breaking eye contact.
"Adoptive mother," I correct. My voice hardens. "She's my mom."
