SOLD TO AUGUST CHILDE

011

AUGUST

“What do you mean by that, August?”

Camilla asked the question with full knowledge in her eyes. She knew exactly what I meant. She just wanted to hear me say it again—wanted to poke at the edge, see how far she could push before something snapped.

I hated that part of myself that reacted to that challenge.

“This attitude,” I said, keeping my voice low and even, trying my f*****g best to keep my anger at bay, “will not serve you well.”

She scoffed, as usual. The sound scraped against my nerves, setting them alight.

“The man is not even a stranger,” she said. “He’s your friend. And also… you can’t keep telling me what to do all the time. You need to relax.”

Relax.

The word landed wrong. Like a match tossed onto gasoline.

I felt the heat climb up my neck fast, familiar, and unwelcome. The switch inside me flickered—one second steady, the next roaring to life. I knew this feeling too well. The tightness in my chest. The buzzing behind my eyes. The way the world narrowed down to her mouth, her tone, and the defiance written into every inch of her posture.

I wanted to pin her against the counter right there in the kitchen. Show her exactly what happens when she talks back. Show her how fast that smart mouth of hers could be put to better use. The thought came unbidden, violent in its intensity, and I hated how easily it took root.

Ama moved before I could.

She stepped between us quickly, wrapping her arms around my waist in a firm, grounding hug and pressing her cheek against my chest. The gesture was instinctive and practiced. She’d done this before—years ago, when I was younger, and the storms inside me didn’t come with warnings.

“Easy, August,” she whispered. “Breathe. She’s just scared. She doesn’t know you yet.”

Her voice was soft. Steady. Familiar. The same voice that had talked me down from worse edges, darker spirals, moments when I’d felt like I might tear myself apart from the inside out.

I inhaled, hard. Then again.

The anger didn’t disappear. It never did. But it dulled enough for me to unclench my fists, enough to keep me standing where I was instead of doing something I’d regret.

I glared over Ama’s head at Camilla, my eyes hard.

“Fix your attitude, Camilla,” I said. “Or I’m going to do it for you.”

She didn’t flinch.

She glared right back at me—defiant, chin lifted, eyes blazing with a mixture of fear and fury. Beautiful. Infuriating. A contradiction wrapped in soft skin and sharp words.

“The club was better than this.”

The words hit like a slap.

For a split second, I couldn’t breathe.

The kitchen seemed to tilt, the air thickening around us. Every muscle in my body locked at once. The club. Rico. That hell of a place. The lights, the music, the men who thought they owned her because they tipped well.

I pulled out of Ama’s embrace in one sharp motion.

Crossed the kitchen in two strides.

My hand wrapped around Camilla’s throat—not tight, never tight—just enough to feel her pulse jump wild and fast under my thumb. A reminder. For both of us.

“Do you want to repeat that, baby?” I asked quietly.

Her breath hitched. Her eyes went wide. She shook her head fast.

“That’s what I thought.”

I dropped my hand and turned away from her before I could do something worse.

“Don’t let her step out of this house,” I said to Ama.

Ama nodded quickly. “Yes, sir.”

I walked out of the kitchen without another word. Out of the penthouse. Away from the tension crackling behind me like exposed wire.

The elevator ride down felt endless.

I leaned back against the mirrored wall, jaw clenched, hands shoved deep into my pockets. This girl was frustrating in a way I hadn’t felt in years. She had a mouth that never knew when to quit, and every sharp word she threw at me made me furious. Made me hard. Made me want to either break something or lose myself in her until the world went quiet.

The two feelings twisted together until I couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.

By the time I stepped into the underground garage, my phone was already vibrating in my hand.

Missed calls.

Texts.

My parents.

Taylor.

Daniel had been right. They’d been blowing up his phone too, trying to track me down, trying to drag me back into the life I’d been avoiding.

Taylor didn’t know about the penthouse. Thank God. The only place she had access to was the main house. My mother had given her a spare key years ago, back when everything was “settled” and “appropriate” and “for the good of the family.”

I still hadn’t changed the locks.

One more thing on the endless list of s**t I kept putting off.

I slid into the driver’s seat and slammed the door shut. The quiet inside the car was immediate and heavy. I rested my head back against the leather and stared at the ceiling, trying to slow my breathing.

The phone rang again.

My mother.

I answered.

“Why are you so stubborn, August?” she snapped. “You are making me mad.”

Her voice was loud and sharp, cutting through whatever calm I’d managed to scrape together. It was the same tone she’d used when I was a kid—when my moods swung too hard, when I refused my meds, when I didn’t fit neatly into the version of a son she wanted.

I sighed. Long. Tired.

“What do you want from me, Mom?”

I heard her turn away from the phone. “He’s asking what I want, Mateo. He’s—”

My father took the phone from her.

His voice was deeper. Calmer. Controlled. But no less commanding.

“Come home. Now.”

I scoffed, gripping the steering wheel tighter. “You can’t tell me what to do.”

“I dare you, August.”

The challenge hung there between us, heavy and familiar. The unspoken reminder of who held the cards. Who always had.

I pinched the bridge of my nose. “I’ll be home in the next fifteen minutes.”

I hung up before either of them could say anything else.

I was tired.

Bone-deep tired.

I was tired of the engagement that had been hanging over my head since I was eighteen, wrapped up in contracts and expectations and family legacy. I was tired of my parents breathing down my neck, reminding me every single day that I owed them. That the merger with Taylor’s family company was the least I could do after all the “trouble” they’d endured because of me.

Because of my bipolar.

They never said the word outright anymore. They didn’t have to. It lived in every disappointed sigh. Every careful glance. Every soft, manipulative we just want what’s best for you.

I slammed my forehead against the steering wheel once.

Twice.

Three times.

Hard enough to sting. Hard enough to cut through the fog for just a second.

Then I straightened up and smoothed my expression into place.

The serious one.

The CEO mask.

The one that said I had everything under control, even when I didn’t.

I can’t wait to hear what they have to say this time around.