Kit's car slowed as they reached the LaRoche estate, the gravel crunching beneath the tires in a way that sounded too final. The mansion rose behind the wrought iron gates like a painting framed in stone and shadow—perfectly trimmed hedges, glowing lanterns, not a petal out of place. The kind of perfection that didn't allow for chaos. Or truth.
Inside the car, silence thickened between them.
Delorah sat rigid in the passenger seat, her blazer wrinkled from the hours they'd spent hiding from the world. Her fingers twitched against the hem of her skirt—restless, unfinished. The warmth from Kit's heater barely touched the cold settling in her chest.
"Thanks for today," she said finally, voice soft, almost swallowed by the low hum of the engine. She didn't meet his eyes. "I needed it more than I thought."
Kit's hands stayed on the wheel, knuckles pale. "Anytime," he said, his voice rough-edged. He glanced at her then, brief but heavy. "Just… don't push it too far, okay?"
She nodded—too quickly. "I'm fine."
They both knew she wasn't.
The buzz from their escape—the freedom, the quiet, the confessions—was already dimming like the tail end of a song. What waited for her behind those gates wasn't safety. It was script.
Kit reached over and unlocked the door for her with a quiet click.
"I'll text you tomorrow," he said.
Delorah hesitated. Then nodded again, this time slower. "Yeah. Tomorrow."
She stepped out into the sharp air. The sky had gone dusky, that eerie in-between where the sun hadn't quite left but shadows had already taken root. Her boots clicked softly against the stone path as she made her way to the front door, the mansion looming larger with each step.
Behind her, Kit's car lingered for a moment longer—then rolled back into the dark.
Inside, the quiet struck her first. Not peaceful quiet—the curated kind. The kind that could cut.
Then came the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall, like a countdown she hadn't agreed to.
Footsteps.
Her mother's voice rang out from the foyer. Too composed. Too rehearsed.
"Delorah, we need to talk. Where have you been?"
Her heart jolted like a misfired engine. The chandelier overhead cast sharp shadows across the marble floor, and for a second she wished she were still in the woods—still invisible.
"I was just out," she said, too quickly.
"Out?" Her mother's heels clicked once against the tile as she advanced. "With whom? Why didn't you answer your phone?"
The questions landed like slaps, fast and precise. Delorah hesitated. The truth stuck in her throat like something jagged.
"I was with a friend," she forced out. "We skipped class."
Mrs. LaRoche's expression didn't shift immediately, but something behind her eyes narrowed.
"Skipping class isn't like you." Her tone held no concern—just calculation. "Are you being honest?"
Before Delorah could respond, a knock rattled the front door—then her father's voice floated from the study:
"Is that you, Delorah? Who were you with today?"
Her spine stiffened. The warmth from earlier felt like a story she had misremembered.
Her mother's gaze pinned her. Demanding more.
Delorah took a breath and chose the ledge.
"It was… Kit. He drove me home."
Mrs. LaRoche blinked—just once—but the flicker of surprise gave her away.
Her father appeared in the hall, folding his arms like he was already disappointed.
"Kit? The Honey boy?"
Delorah nodded, cheeks burning. "Yes."
Her mother's voice turned glacial.
"Delorah, we've discussed your associations before. You know what's expected."
She dropped her gaze to the floor. A thread in the rug. A crack in the tile. Anything but their eyes.
"I know."
Her father stepped closer, the warmth in his voice a hollow echo.
"We only want what's best. Remember that."
A silence settled between them—tight and metallic.
A silence that said: you belong to us.
A silence that dared her to forget it.
.
.
.
.
The Honey estate loomed like a warning—sharp angles, cold windows, and a stillness that never felt like home. Kit pulled into the long drive and cut the engine. For a moment, he just sat there.
The front door opened before he reached it. Sebastian.
He leaned against the frame, arms crossed, calm painted on like it was permanent. "Hope she was worth it."
Kit's stomach twisted. "What are you talking about?"
Sebastian stepped aside with a smirk. "He's waiting for you in the study. I told him where you were."
Kit's mouth went dry. "You what?"
Sebastian shrugged. "You're not the only one who knows how to play this game."
Kit shoved past him, boots echoing across the marble. The study door was cracked open. Light spilled into the hall like a warning.
He knocked once and stepped inside.
Mr. Honey sat behind the desk, reading a thick leather-bound folder. He didn't look up.
"So it's true," Mr. Honey said, voice low and razor-clean. "You took the LaRoche girl out of school. After we spent a week finalizing the contract."
Kit stopped just inside the room, fists clenched at his sides. The word contract echoed like a threat.
"I didn't know she'd agreed to anything."
His father's eyes stayed fixed on the paper for a beat longer, then lifted—sharp, assessing, empty of warmth.
"You think that matters?"
He closed the folder with slow precision, the sound landing like a gavel.
"Perception is everything. And you—" he stood now, walking around the desk with deliberate calm—"have embarrassed this family. You've jeopardized a carefully orchestrated alliance, and worse, you've tainted her reputation before the ink's even dry."
Kit's chest rose and fell in shallow bursts. He could feel the edges of himself fraying.
"She's not yours to control."
The words were soft but flammable.
Mr. Honey stopped in front of him, the cold curl of a smile tugging at his mouth.
"No," he agreed. "But she's Sebastian's now."
Silence.
"And if you don't stay in line, Adrian—" he stepped closer, just enough to shadow him—"if you cost us this deal, you won't just be cut out. You'll be forgotten."
His voice was quiet, but final.
"Do you understand me?"
Something inside Kit shifted. Not a shatter—he was too used to breaking for that—but a deep internal snap, like the groan of a fault line giving way.
His mouth opened, then closed again.
There was no fight left in it. Not here. Not now.
He gave a single nod—tight, brittle.
Then turned, walked out.
Not quickly.
Just far enough to keep from being seen unraveling.
.
.
.
.
His room wasn't safe.
But it was quiet.
Kit leaned back against the closed door, chest heaving like he'd just sprinted barefoot through broken glass. His father's voice still hung in the air, sticky and clinging, like smoke after a burn.
You'll be forgotten.
Not just a threat.
A sentence.
A promise with teeth.
He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes and exhaled hard, like he could force the words out with breath alone.
Then his boots came off—first one, then the other, thudding against the floor as he moved on instinct. The blackout curtains were drawn, steeping everything in ash-gray dimness. No sunlight. No warmth. Just shadows and the quiet pulse of grief he couldn't name.
Sebastian had told on him. Of course he had.
Not because it helped anyone.
Because it hurt.
You don't get her.
You don't get anything.
Kit sat down on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, jaw locked tight.
For a moment, the room held its breath.
Then—
Delorah's laugh surfaced in his memory: raw and golden, like the sun streaming through a crack in a wall. That sound had made something in him ache. Because it meant she was still alive in ways he wasn't. Not in this house.
Not in this name.
"Just don't forget who I am when this all hits."
He hadn't said when I break.
Because he already had.
Quietly.
Repeatedly.
And she didn't even know.
He stood too fast, head swimming.
Crossed the room with sudden purpose.
Dug into the bottom drawer of the dresser—past old notebooks, a cracked watch face, the cologne bottle he never wore.
Then his fingers found it.
Small. Orange. Familiar.
The label had long since peeled, but the weight of it in his hand was the same as it always was: a threat, a comfort, a dare.
He stared at it.
He hadn't touched anything since the party. Since that night—when she looked at him like he was worth something. Like maybe Kit wasn't just a mask over ash.
But now?
Now the weight had come back. Thick and heavy and clawing at the walls inside his ribs.
He popped the cap.
One.
Two.
Three.
Bitter chalk on his tongue. No water.
Just silence.
Thickening like smoke.
Crawling into his lungs.
He didn't even realize he was moving again.
The hallway felt colder than it should've.
Or maybe he was colder.
Maybe the warmth had finally drained out of him—leaving behind that soft, floating numbness.
Like a ghost climbing back into the fire.
Sebastian's door was cracked open. Of course it was.
Like an invitation.
Like a trap.
Kit stepped inside.
His brother sat at his desk, sleeves rolled to the elbows, amber liquid catching the light in a cut glass tumbler. Casual. Pleased. Powerful.
He didn't even look up.
"Took you long enough," Sebastian said. "Was wondering when you'd come cry about it."
Kit barked out a laugh—sharp, involuntary.
More shrapnel than sound.
"You really think this is funny?"
Sebastian finally glanced up. His smile didn't quite reach his eyes. "I think it's inevitable. You were never made for this family. Not the way I was. And Delorah?" He sipped his drink. "She deserves someone who knows how to handle a contract."
Kit stepped closer. His voice trembled—but it wasn't fear. Not anymore. The pills were smoothing that out. What was left was raw and burning.
"You think this is about contracts?" he spat. "You really think a signature means she'll ever love you?"
Sebastian didn't blink.
"She doesn't have to love me," he said simply. "She just has to sign."
Kit's fist clenched.
The fury wasn't sharp—it was dull, thick, like trying to scream underwater. But it moved him. Forward. Closer.
"You don't know her," Kit said. "You don't know anything about her."
Sebastian rose slowly from his chair, deliberate in his grace. "I know she's your weakness," he said. "And now?"
A pause.
A smile that cut like glass.
"She's mine."
Something snapped.
Kit shoved him.
It wasn't planned. It wasn't even conscious.
It was instinct.
Reflex.
A line in the sand finally crossed.
Sebastian staggered back a step—surprised, but only briefly. He caught himself, adjusted his collar with maddening calm, and let out a low laugh.
"I should thank you," he said smoothly. "You made it so easy to take her."
Then, twisting the knife:
"Some people are built for power. Others for pity.
I'm sure you know which one you are."
Kit's hands shook.
He turned.
Left.
Because if he stayed, he'd break something. Or someone.
And he wasn't sure if that would be Sebastian.
Or himself.
The high was slipping sideways now—warped and cruel, like a funhouse mirror cracking under its own weight.
And somewhere deep inside, under the noise and the fury and the ache,
a voice whispered:
He's right.
He always has been.
.
.
.
.
Kit sat on the floor beside his bed, knees drawn to his chest. The light outside had turned gray and flat—nothing golden left.
He hadn't moved in hours. Not really.
His phone buzzed.
Delorah.
He opened the thread.
Kit:
I know we haven't said anything yet.
About yesterday.
The typing bubbles appeared almost instantly.
Delorah:
Yeah.
I didn't know how.
Or if you wanted to.
Kit:
It didn't feel real until I saw his face.
He said it like it was a win.
Delorah:
It felt like betrayal.
Like the floor cracked under me and no one even blinked.
Kit:
They knew.
Both sides.
For how long?
Delorah:
Since last week.
My parents signed the night of the party.
They waited until last night to tell me.
Said it was better not to 'burden me.'
Kit's grip tightened.
Kit:
He gloated. Sebastian.
Like you were some trophy he earned.
Delorah:
I saw his face too.
He looked proud.
Like I was already wearing a collar with his name on it.
Kit stood up fast, chest heaving. The quiet cracked open again.
Kit:
It's you.
I didn't know it was going to be you.
If I had…
Delorah:
What?
What would you have done?
Kit:
Run.
Fought harder.
Something.
A beat. Then—
Delorah:
We can't change what they did.
But we don't have to go quietly, either.
His pulse kicked.
Kit:
You're saying we fight this?
Delorah:
I'm saying I don't belong to him.
I never did.
Kit stared down at the screen, barely breathing.
Then he typed, slowly:
Kit:
We'll burn this whole thing down
before I let them take you from me.
A pause.
Delorah:
Then don't let go.
No matter how bad it gets.
Kit:
I won't.
Not even if it kills me.
He let the phone fall into his lap.
For the first time all day, he could breathe.
And as the shadows stretched long across the room,
Kit closed his eyes and held her name like a lifeline.
Kit's Private Journal — some time later, corner of the page crumpled, ink jittery in places
It's easier when I'm not all here.
I don't mean that in the poetic, "I'm floating" way. I mean my body feels like a coat I forgot to take off and everything I say comes with a two-second delay.
I mean I can sit in the same spot for hours and forget what day it is.
Sebastian's face is still burned into the backs of my eyelids—smug, satisfied, like he finally won something he thinks I care about less than I do.
I do care. God, I care so much it's making me sick.
Delorah said we'd fight this. That she doesn't belong to him.
But what if she breaks first?
What if I do?
I wasn't supposed to use again. Not after that night at the party. Not after she looked at me like I was worth saving.
But this week everything's sharp and I needed to make it dull.
I needed to breathe without choking.
So yeah. I did.
And I hated myself halfway through the second one, but that didn't stop me taking the third.
It's not about the high. It's about the hush.
The silence between heartbeats where I stop thinking about how much I want to break something, or scream, or hold her until the world shuts up.
She deserves more than this.
More than a boy with a past on fire and pockets full of pills he swears he doesn't want.
But I'm scared.
Scared I'll ruin her.
Scared I already have.
I don't know how to be okay.
But I know how to look okay.
And that counts for something, right?
Right?
—K
(Bottom margin, written sideways like a secret)
Sometimes I think the real me died in that fire too.
Everything since has just been smoke with a pulse.