Stepping out of the car, I tilt my head back, straining my neck to take in the towering skyscraper looming in front of me. My eyes trace its sharp lines, disappearing into the night sky as delicate flakes of snow kiss my freshly made-up face.
I close my eyes for a moment, drawing in a long, cold breath. When I finally look ahead, the entrance glows—a grand arch of twinkling Christmas lights drapes over the double doors like a false hope of warmth inside. Boston on Christmas Eve, another family get together. We do this every year, sometimes at the Lakehouse cabin or a different location. This time, my stepmom chose this place, no doubt with my dad’s wallet to back it.
For the past few years, this season has felt like the tightening of a noose around my neck, each year a reminder that I might have to face him again. My stepbrother. Rook. My pulse quickens at the thought of his voice—menacing, careless, capable of ripping me apart in a matter of seconds.
My Christmas’s have always belonged to him. From those perfect childhood memories, when he was both my protector and my tormentor, to that dark, forbidden Christmas twoyears ago. The night everything shattered. The night we broke everything we were.
Maybe he won’t be here this year—just like last year. Maybe he’ll remain a ghost, haunting me only in the shadows of my mind. We were torn apart after that night, ripped from the wreckage we’d made. My father took Rook away, banished him to somewhere I couldn’t follow, and since then, I haven’t seen him. Not once. I’ve not even had a text.
Still, I know he’s not dead. If he were, his mom would’ve killed my dad by now or at least tried to. Losing him felt like losing a vital organ—a part of me I can’t live without but somehow must. Those final words I hurled at him, sharp as daggers, still echo in my mind. I remember the hurt in his teary eyes, the way I broke something inside him. But I had no choice. I told myself it had to be this way. I still tell myself that. And yet, the wound of it hasn’t healed. I’m not sure it ever will.
With a sharp slam, I shut the car door behind me. My fingers shake as I smooth out the tight, glittering black dress that clings to my skin, the cold seeping through the fabric. I wrap my dark grey, cropped faux fur jacket closer, but it does little to guard me against the bite of the icy air. The snowfall thickens, each flake heavier than the last, and for a moment, I hesitate.
This Christmas feels… Different.
After bracing myself, I push past the dread coiling in my chest and force my feet to move toward the glowing doors, my heels crunching over the thick snow.
Once inside, I brush the snow from my shoulders and step into the quiet, lavishly decorated reception. It’s eerily empty, the festive garlands and twinkling lights doing little to mask the stillness that comes with Christmas Eve this late. I imaginemost of the staff are home, huddled with their families, drinking hot cocoa. My heels click softly across the polished floor as I approach the elevator. Without hesitation, I press the button for the penthouse—the top floor, where my family waits.
As the elevator takes its time, I mentally rehearse the night’s plan: go in, smile, mingle for an hour or two, then leave. Head across the city to Blaise, the guy I’m dating. He’s working late, but I plan to meet him at his place for dinner. These nights are like rituals in my family—unavoidable, suffocating traditions. The older I get, the more I hate them, yet with a family like mine, refusing isn’t an option. The cost of saying no is always too high.
My dad rules Phantom Syndicate MC with an iron fist here in Boston, his name whispered in shadows like a curse. Ruthless, unruly, and utterly horrifying, he’s built his empire on blood and fear. But when it comes to family, his rules are carved in stone—hard and final. As the head of the most notorious motorcycle club in the state and having ties to the mafia, he’s a man no one dares to cross. And those poor, stupid souls who even think of stepping out of line? They don’t live to regret it.
A soft chime announces the arrival of the elevator, and as the doors glide open, I step inside, my stomach twisting with familiar anxiety. I press the button again, staring at my reflection in the mirror as the doors begin to close. My sleek, long black hair falls perfectly over my shoulders, and I smooth it down with my palm, making sure not even a strand is out of place.
Just as the door is about to seal shut, a hand shoots through the gap, fingers curling around the edge, stopping the cold metal in its tracks. My heart stutters, every beat uneven as Iturn slowly. The elevator creaks open wider until I see him and my breath catches in my throat, my lungs forgetting how to function. My eyes immediately lock onto the matte black helmet covering his face. I know it’s him, even without seeing him. I can feel it in the way the air shifts; always dense and charged.
Fuck, he’s here.
It feels like it’s been an eternity since I last saw my big brother.
I notice the fresh ink—new tattoos, black art snaking up his neck like sharp whispers of his madness, a map of the insanity that runs through his veins. Even in this luxurious building, Rook doesn’t belong. He never does. Standing in the doorway, his aura carves a hole through the room, impossible to ignore. He doesn’t fit. Not in that black tank top, tight black jeans and his leather jacket hanging loose over his frame, looking like he’s just stepped out of hell and didn’t bother to change. He never gave a shit about blending in, never cared about impressing anyone. He wears what the fuck he wants, because he can.
I can feel him staring at me from behind his tinted visor for a second longer until he steps inside, and I quickly look away, my throat tightening as I swallow hard. I keep my gaze at the corner of my vision as he turns his back to me, and with the soft hiss of the doors closing, I let my eyes trail up his towering frame. Rook stands at 6'7", dwarfing my 5'4", and I’ve always hated how small I feel around him. But now, he seems so much taller.
I notice his posture is rigid, while he looks ahead, as if I’m not even here and the ignorance hits me in the chest, a sting I wasn’t really prepared for. A sharp, unexpected sorrow pierces through me, but I fight to keep it locked away. I want to saysomething, anything, but the silence between us is loud enough to fill the whole elevator. It’s clear now—he doesn’t want to talk to me. Not yet. Not ever, maybe.
The sister in me wants to reach out, ask how he’s been, maybe wrap my arms around him and pretend none of this ever happened. But the other part of me—the one responsible for breaking everything—reminds me to stay quiet, to just leave him alone. He doesn’t need me. It’s for the best.
After what feels like forever, the elevator finally stops and the door swipes open. In the distance, I hear Christmas music and people talking, but Rook doesn’t move. He stands like a fucking monster blocking my path. I wait, until finally, he walks forward, entering the annoying family gathering.
I let out a tense breath, needing a strong drink after this. I watch him until he disappears out of view, then I finally leave the elevator as well, straightening my shoulders as I stride toward the noise and music.
When I step into the lavish living room, decked in black, gold and red like some holiday postcard, my gaze drifts to the open kitchen on the right. That’s where everyone is, laughing too loud, sipping too much, the drinks flowing freely. I hesitate at the threshold, watching from the shadows as Rook makes his entrance.
He doesn’t need to say anything—just his presence shifts the entire vibe in the room. My dad gives him a nod, stiff and forced, barely masking the tension simmering beneath.
They’ve never gotten along. My dad raised Rook since he was twelve, but it’s always been a battlefield, not a bond. Rook’s real father was the head of the Sinister Stalkers MC, the same rival club my dad spent years trying to crush. When Rook’s dad died,instead of carrying on the club, his mom did the unthinkable—she married my dad, the enemy.
Do they love each other? In some twisted way, I think so. They’ve found something strong, maybe even genuine, amidst all the heartaches. She’s been good to me, but with Rook and my dad, it’s different. The past clings to them like smoke, choking out any chance of peace.
Rook has never wanted this life, never wanted the expectations my dad dumped on him. Taking a role in the club that tore his father's apart? It’s a betrayal he can’t stomach. I think he believes all the time he’s against the idea of being obedient to my dad, he isn’t deceiving his own, even from beyond the grave, which, strangely, I understand.
My dad, on the other hand, sees Rook as a liability—a loose end that needs tying. The air between them feels volatile, like a lit match too close to gasoline. I stay frozen at the edge of the room, watching, waiting, just like every other time I’ve been in the same space as them. It’s like a ticking time bomb. Even more so now and I feel uncomfortable.
Over the years, his mom has stopped my dad from killing him more times than I can count. And, just as often, she’s kept Rook from doing the same to my dad. Their hatred is repeated, a savage tug-of-war that never breaks but never ends. Rook was always unruly, brutal in his own right—a born leader who refused to bow to anyone, least of all my dad. He never saw him as a father, never even pretended. And that? That boldness was a constant source of chaos. Fights that shook the walls, words sharp enough to draw blood.
I know how hard my dad can be. I’ve been on the receiving end of his strict shit far too many times. For me, it’s simpler, but no less suffocating. I was supposed to be the perfect MCprincess. Stay out of trouble. Look pretty. Keep myself intact, pure and untouched, until I’m handed off like a prize to a husband within the biker family. It doesn’t matter who, as long as they’re one of us.
