Page 8 of Vendetta

At some point around midnight, we’d indulged in ice cream sundaes, each of us trying to outdo the other in creativity.

Not to brag, but mine had turned out so good it could rival JoAnne’s—our estate’s cook who used to spoil me with sweets as a kid.

Thinking about that now, I couldn’t help but wonder if Cashton would add my childhood privileges to his growing list of reasons to hate me if he ever found out. It wasn’t like I’d asked to be born into money.

And despite what he might think, I was fully aware of just how fortunate I was. If there was one lesson my mother haddrilled into me, it was this:Treat the janitor with the same respect you’d give the CEO.That philosophy was something I clung to, even when it felt like others assumed the worst about me.

And maybe that’s why his words had cut me so deep the other day. Because I strived so much to be more like my mother and to adopt her kind and caring soul. It was always the thing I had admired most about her. But the annoying voice inside of my head always came back to the fact that maybe he wasn’t wrong after all. And I didn’t think that I was ready to entertain that possibility.

And although I knew that the only opinions that should matter were the ones of my friends that actually knew me, I realized that no matter how hard I tried, I might never live up to the person that I wanted so badly to be.

I tried so hard every day to be a good friend—a kind friend. A good person. And yet, no matter how much effort I poured into being someone I could be proud of, I couldn’t stop myself from being affected by the careless words of a complete stranger.

That was the shitty thing about anxiety. You couldn’t just turn it off or shut it down. It was insidious—a parasite that latched onto the tiniest scraps of doubt or fear and grew until it swallowed every thought whole.

It felt like having a personal bully rooted deep in my mind. Most of the time, it stayed quiet when I was surrounded by others, and I had learned how to shove it aside when I was alone. But if I were honest with myself—and if I’d ever actually gone to the therapist that my doctor had recommended—I was sure they’d say my need for constant stimulation was just anotherway of keeping it at bay. Whether it was TV, music, podcasts, or audiobooks, I always needed background noise when I was alone. It was the only thing that could drown out the endless cycle of bad thoughts.

The movie had ended, and the theater screen was frozen on the question:Are you still watching?My friends were sprawled across the couches on either side of me, their soft snores filling the air. I picked up the remote and put on a lighthearted chick flick—something mindless and familiar that I could fall asleep to.

Everyone was always nagging me about not being a morning person, but they didn’t know the whole story. Late nights like this one, where my mind raced relentlessly and sleep felt so far out of reach, were the real reason I struggled to wake up.

So, I stayed there, lying in the dim glow of the screen, watching early 2000s rom-coms until, at last, my eyes grew heavy and I drifted off into the kind of rest I desperately needed.

CHAPTER 4

CASHTON

I woke up before my alarms on Monday morning, the restless energy forcing me out of bed. I decided on a quick run before heading to the gym, the cool, predawn air bracing against my skin. The sun had yet to rise as I pulled my blacked-out 1972 Chevelle SS fastback into my usual spot in the parking lot. Kaptan’s motorcycle was parked in the space next to mine, letting me know he was already inside.

I grabbed my duffel bag from the passenger seat and stepped out, heading into Savage Strike—the boxing gym owned by Kaptan and Zayn’s family. Sure enough, I spotted Kap in the far corner, relentlessly working one of the hanging punching bags. He had his usual intensity, his strikes echoing softly in the otherwise quiet space.

I started my own warm-up routine, wrapping my hands and letting the familiar rhythm of movement take over. A lightsheen of sweat gathered under my hoodie, but the heat was welcome—anything to burn off the frustration brewing under the surface.

“Hey, man,” Kaptan called as he made his way over, clapping a hand on my shoulder. “Wanna hit the ring?”

I nodded, grateful for the opportunity. A sparring session was exactly what I needed to clear my head. With my first class of the day looming—and the guarantee of seeing Landry Andrews—it was the perfect way to let off some steam before the storm hit.

We made our way onto one of the canvases, opting for gloves in order to keep any damage minimal. Kaptan was massive, and though we were close in height, he definitely had quite a bit of weight on me.

“What are you doing here so early anyways?” He asked, throwing a jab that I easily dodged.

“Couldn’t sleep, figured I would get some extra training in before class. You?”

He scoffed in response to the seemingly ridiculous question. “I’m always here this early.”

I threw a right hook that he dodged, throwing a counter punch in return. The sun was beginning to rise, and I heard shuffling around us as more people began showing up. We kept at it for a good half-hour before making our way to the showers at the back of the gym.

"Everything okay with you lately?" Kaptan asked as I tugged on a pair of jeans and a fresh T-shirt.

"Yeah, man," I replied, keeping it short.

But he wasn’t buying it. He shot me a pointed look, arms crossed. "You’ve been in here more than usual this week."

"Just got a lot on my mind, that’s all." I offered, hoping he'd leave it at that.

His smirk turned teasing. "Girl problems?"

"Something like that." I muttered, avoiding his gaze.

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