Cyrus
I’ve been drunk for days. Not the messy, crying-on-the-floor kind—more like the numb, don’t-feel-anything-anymore kind. Life’s been spiraling, and I haven’t exactly been playing by my father’s pristine little rulebook. So here I am again—summoned to the court.
Not court court. Tennis court. Where we apparently “bond.”
He doesn’t even greet me when I walk in, just tosses a ball at me. We start playing like we’re not at war, but the silence between each serve is thick enough to suffocate on.
Then, finally—
“What the hell is wrong with you?” he growls, still perfectly composed, as if yelling was part of his tennis form. “Just because you’re not the heir doesn’t mean you get to throw your name in the mud. You’re still a Blackthorne.”
I say nothing. Just keep hitting.
Until he slam
