Sins of the Elite

Chapter Two

Axel

The hills of San Paloma were still painted in the soft gold of morning, sunlight spilling like liquid warmth over the terracotta rooftops and thick bougainvillea vines that climbed the stone walls of our summer home.

No. Not just a summer home.

It was her home.

Nestled in the heart of San Paloma’s oldest barrio—where adobe houses leaned into the earth like they’d grown there, and the scent of pan dulce and roasted chiles drifted down cobblestone streets—this place was where my mother’s soul came alive. It was where she felt grounded. Rooted. Free.

And now that she was gone, it was the only place that didn’t feel like a lie.

Our house—Casa Luz—sat on a sloping hill just above the town square, surrounded by olive trees and flowering agave. It was built in the old Spanish style, all arched doorways and painted tiles, with thick stone columns and wooden beams worn smooth by decades of sun and memory. Every room had its own soul. The kitchen always smelled like canela and citrus peel. The courtyard sang with birds at sunrise. And the upstairs balcony—the one with the wrought-iron railing and the blue mosaic floor—had been her favorite place to drink her coffee and plan how she’d save the world.

This wasn’t where we grew up, not fully.

That was the city—Veridian Heights—a glittering, brutal place where wealth and ambition carved out kingdoms, and our father reigned like a polished serpent behind designer suits and political charm. Our house there was massive, cold, filled with silence and staff and floor-to-ceiling windows that made everything feel watched.

But here? Here was warmth. Music. Stories. Laughter that lingered in the walls.

Our mother had dragged us here every chance she got. Spring breaks. Holidays. The days between private tutors and political fundraisers. Even when she was busy with her foundations in the city, she’d still escape to San Paloma to breathe.

I remember waking up to the smell of tamales in the kitchen, her humming from the garden, the sound of Selena’s laugh echoing off the courtyard walls as Calyx chased her around the fountain. I remember our mother pressing fresh tortillas by hand, hair tied back, flour on her cheeks, telling us stories about the women in our family and the magic in our blood.

She used to say this house had a heart of its own. And I believed her.

“Axel,” Calyx called from the tiled walkway, barefoot, a mango in one hand, hair still damp from the shower. “You coming or what?”

I turned, taking in my youngest brother. Technically, by minutes. But you’d never know it.

Calyx was all mischief and sunshine. A walking contradiction of charm and chaos. His smile was quick, his wit quicker, and despite the world we lived in, he somehow kept his softness intact. A protective softness. A tenderness he tried to hide behind jokes and pretty girls and the kind of laughter that made people forget to look too closely.

“You gonna eat that or wear it?” I asked, nodding toward the mango juice dripping down his wrist.

He grinned. “Maybe both.”

Braxton appeared behind him, shirtless, already lacing his boots like we had somewhere to be. Which we didn’t. Not yet.

If Calyx was chaos, Braxton was control.

He carried tension like a second skin—broad-shouldered, sharp-eyed, and quiet in the kind of way that made people nervous. He was the protector. The enforcer. He didn’t waste words. Didn’t do surface-level. His loyalty was absolute, and his temper was dangerous. You earned his trust once, and if you broke it… well. Good luck.

He shot Calyx a look. “You left the blender on. Again.”

“You were using it next.”

“I was waiting for you to finish.”

“Semantics,” Calyx muttered, tossing the mango pit into the compost bin.

I rolled my eyes and headed toward the courtyard. The air was cooler there, shaded by the massive jacaranda tree that stood at the center, its violet petals beginning to fall like confetti across the tile.

Silas was already there—sitting on the low wall near the fountain, legs stretched out in front of him, earbuds in, sketchbook open across his lap.

Our cousin. But really? He was our brother.

He looked like us in build—tall, broad-shouldered, strong—but his hair was a soft, honey-toned blond, more sun-streaked than our darker curls. Like his sister, Selena. They had their father’s coloring, but their mother’s eyes—warm honey, always observant, always steady. Their dad had never really been around. Always working. Always “traveling.” Just like ours. It was our moms who raised us. Who raised each other’s kids, too.

Silas drew the way some people prayed. Quiet. Careful. Full of intention.

“You gonna sketch your feelings again?” Braxton asked as he dropped down beside him.

Silas didn’t look up. “You gonna grunt your feelings again?”

Calyx snorted and flopped onto the stone beside the fountain.

I sat next to them, glancing at the page—our house, again. Drawn like he was trying to preserve every tile before time washed it away.

“I miss the sound of her voice,” Calyx said after a moment. “Even when she was yelling at me.”

“She had this way,” Silas added softly. “Of making you feel like the most important person in the world when she was talking to you.”

“She meant it,” I murmured. “She saw people.”

Braxton nodded once, hands folded loosely in his lap. “And she made them feel seen.”

We were quiet for a while.

The jacaranda tree swayed above us, petals floating down like blessings.

“We have, like, six more weeks of summer,” Calyx said suddenly. “Think it’s gonna feel like summer?”

Braxton rubbed a hand over his jaw. “Feels like grief.”

I stayed silent.

Because it did.

Even here, where the sunlight danced through vines and the breeze smelled like heaven—it still felt hollow. Like we were waiting for her to call us in for lunch, or scold Calyx for climbing the roof again.

“We’re starting our senior year without her,” Silas murmured.

I nodded.

“Rosewood’s gonna feel different,” Calyx added, voice quieter now. “Everything will.”

Rosewood Academy.

The elite of the elite. A place built on bloodlines and legacy. The kind of place where our last name opened doors… and raised questions.

“Different doesn’t mean bad,” I said, my voice steady. “We’ve got each other.”

It wasn’t just a comfort.

It was a warning.

Because whatever had really happened to Mom—whatever truth had been buried under our father’s polished lies—we were going to find it.

Together.

My phone buzzed against the table.

The name on the screen made my jaw tighten.

Dad.

I let it ring once. Twice. Then answered.

“Axel,” came the familiar, clipped voice of Xavier Vaughn. Too composed. Too controlled. Like he was on his fifth call of the morning and couldn’t be bothered to soften his tone. “Just checking in. I trust you and your brothers are settling in.”

I didn’t respond right away.

“Yes,” I finally said.

“Good. Because it’s time to move forward. You boys have your senior year coming up. You’ll need to refocus. Especially at Rosewood. You know how important appearances are.”

There it was.

His version of grief: polished, packaged, and shoved behind strategy.

“She was your wife,” I said, unable to keep the edge from my voice.

“And I’ve honored her in every way necessary,” he replied flatly. “Now honor her by doing what’s expected of you.”

The line clicked dead.

I stared at the screen.

Braxton cursed under his breath.

Silas shook his head. “He didn’t even ask how we’re doing.”

“He doesn’t care,” Calyx muttered.

I looked out at the hills of San Paloma, bathed in the last of the morning light.

We weren’t moving on.

We were moving in.

And we were taking the truth with us.