Just like when I was a kid. Weston was the golden boy, never doing anything wrong. Callum was quiet and kept his head down.
But me?
I was the one our dad tracked like a turnover waiting to happen.
Bennett, slow down. Don’t do anything stupid.
Bennett, think before you act.
Like me fucking breathing was going to cause a hurricane.
Tonight, hearing “probation situation,” I was sixteen again with everyone watching for me to screw up.
I crank the temperature up higher, each pulse of watera sharp blast on my skin. Steam swirls around me and fills up the bathroom. I suck in a shaky inhale, trying to force air into my tight chest.
I could give two shits what Eleanor thinks of me. Or most of the people at the event, for that matter.
But Tori?
She matters.
I kill the water and towel off. Check my phone for messages.
Nothing.
“Dammit!” I throw the phone onto the bed, rage welling up from my gut. I stride back over to the minibar, down another bottle of whiskey. This time I chase it with water, at least.
I crash onto the white bedspread, fingers itching to text her.
But what the fuck would I say?
She can only take risks with me when we’re alone. When no one can see us and being with me doesn’t cost her anything.
When she can get messy and pretend it’s just heat.
But tonight, in that room full of old money and loaded expectations, she froze.
She could have reached for me, let her hand rest on my arm and owned it.
She didn’t.
Optics.
I’m not mad at her for playing the game. I know the rules. I’ve lived under them my entire career.
No.
I’m mad at myself for believing I could be more to her. Believing we could work.
The vein at my temple throbs and I curl my hands into the sheets to keep from reaching out to her.
Tell me I matter.
I can’t do it. Can’t ask for that.
Not when I already know the answer.
There’s no way out of this mess.
