Page 10 of Between Passion and Revenge: Part One

“Ma,” I say, dropping my voice in an attempt to comfort her. “You have nothing to worry about. Not with me and Dad, not with Stratos, and youdefinitelydon’t have to worry about me burning out. I’ve got everything under control in my life.”

I kiss her on the forehead, something I’ve done since our sizes reversed and I started to tower over her in the seventh grade.

“I promise you,” I add, pulling her into a hug.

She blows out a breath and steps back when I release her.

“I hope you’re right, Storm,” she says ruefully. “Just know that I’ve always got your back. I don’t want to be in the middle of it, but you’re my baby boy. You come first.”

She smiles when she says this, but I know she’s more serious than joking in this moment.

“Um. How does Dad feel about that?” I ask, releasing a pained laugh. She’s already been struggling with cutting the cord when I moved out for college instead of staying at the estate and driving in every day.

She supported the decision, sure, but I know she still cries every time I leave here.

Mom waves her hand in the air as if shooing off the words.

“He can think whatever he wants on the subject,” she says, lifting her nose in the air a fraction before smiling again.

“Be safe and be smart, Storm. Okay?” she says, heading for the door.

“What? You don’t wanna get lost in some art with me?” I call after her once she’s at the exit.

“Now?” She looks out into the night sky. “I do my best work in the light.”

And with that, she exits the studio.

After she leaves, the silence wraps around me. I close my eyes to do the thing the therapist taught me after Rainn died: meditate.

Or, more accurately, I try to, but the hum of the expensive fluorescents, unseen but loud-ass crickets, and the cars traveling outside the Gold Coast bubble become the soundtrack to my world.

I reach for the glass piece I started the last time I was here—this pretentious estate I’ve spent years avoiding.

It’s strange being here again. The last time I stepped foot in this house, it was Christmas. Now we’re creeping up on another one.

The blood-red vase feels strangely symbolic now as I’m holding it in my hands in the aftermath of my father’s betrayal.

Because yes, that’s what it is: a betrayal.

Like the vase, I feel like I’m becoming molten, transforming from one state to another. And yet, I also feel like the finished product.

Stretched, molded, and fragile.

Iloathethe idea of being fucking fragile.

I set the vase back down, careful not to drop it, because no matter how fragile it looks, it still holds its shape.

So do I.

The door creaks behind me, and I don’t have to turn to know who it is.

“I thought I’d find you hiding in here, Nephew.”

This fuckhead.

“What do you want?” I grind out. My fingers twitch as I focus on not throwing a vase at his head.

Or slitting his throat with the shards.

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