His lips twitch. The corner of his mouth curves up. Just barely. Almost a smile. "Defensive. Interesting."
"I'm not—"
"Relax, Carter.” He waves a hand, dismissive. “I don't give a shit about the semantics." He takes another drag. Exhales slowly, the smoke drifting between us like a barrier. "But you still look miserable."
"I'm fine."
"Everyone keeps saying that." He flicks ash over the railing. It falls, disappearing into the darkness below. "It's boring."
I don't know how to respond to that, so I don't. I just stand there, arms crossed over my chest now, defensive posture I can't quite hide.
We stand in silence for a moment, and I'm acutely aware of how much space he takes up. Not physically—he's not as broad as Atlas—but presence-wise. Like he's daring the world to challenge him.
"Richard seems happy," Zero says eventually. His tone is flat. Unreadable.
"He does."
"Good for him." He drops the cigarette, grinds it under his heel with more force than necessary. The movement is violent. Final.
There's something off in his tone. Not quite bitter, but close.
"You don't approve," I say. Not a question. An observation.
His eyes cut to me. Fast. Sharp. Like a knife. "I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to."
This time, he does smile. It's sharp. Dangerous.
"You're observant. That's useful." He turns to leave, pauses at the doorway, and looks back over his shoulder. He drops the cigarette and crushes it under his shoe. "Word of advice, little brother. Don't get too comfortable. Things change fast in this family."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means what it means."
He turns and walks back inside, his silhouette disappearing into the warm light of the reception hall, leaving me alone on the terrace with more questions than answers. And a chill that has nothing to do with the evening breeze.
The third brother doesn't seek me out.
I find him by accident.
I'm looking for the bathroom—this place is a maze of identical hallways and closed doors that all look the same—when I push open the wrong door and find myself in some kind of library or study. Leather chairs, worn and comfortable-looking, dark wood, paneling that climbs to the ceiling, walls lined with books.
And a man standing by the window, staring out at the water. Silhouetted against the darkening sky, hands in his pockets, shoulders tense.
He turns when I enter. The movement is quick. Startled.
Younger than the other two. Mid-twenties, maybe. Golden-brown hair, styled perfectly, not a strand out of place,hazel eyes, classically handsome in a way that probably gets him anything he wants. Sharp jaw. Straight nose. Full lips. He's dressed like Atlas—expensive suit, charcoal gray like mine but tailored better, fitting him like it was made for him because it probably was, perfect hair—but there's tension in his shoulders. A tightness. A coiled energy like he's ready to either fight or flee.
"Sorry," I say quickly. I take a step back, hand still on the doorknob. "Wrong room."
"Wait." The word is sharp. A command.
I freeze. My hand tightens on the doorknob.
He crosses the space between us, three long strides that eat up the distance, and I'm struck by how much he looks like Richard. Same bone structure. Same easy confidence.
"You're Max." Not a question. A statement. His eyes rake over me, assessing.
