Chapter Five
1719 Words
Axel
We left before the sun could rise.
The sky over Casa Luz was still ink-blue, stars clinging stubbornly to the darkness like they weren’t ready to let go. None of us were.
We stood in the courtyard, surrounded by the hush of early morning. The scent of wet stone and marigold clung to the air, thick and heavy with memory.
“I don’t want to go,” Calyx whispered. His voice cracked. “It still feels like she’s here.”
“She is,” Braxton said. “She always will be.”
We each carried something of her in our pockets—notes, dried petals, tiny charms she’d tucked into drawers when we were small. We didn’t speak it aloud, but none of us were leaving empty-handed.
Silas stepped forward and placed a folded sketch beside the altar beneath the jacaranda. It was one he hadn’t shown us. A portrait of her—soft, radiant, eternal. It was the most beautiful thing I’d seen in weeks.
I crouched down and pressed my hand to the stone path, grounding myself. “We’ll come back,” I promised. “I swear on everything—this isn’t goodbye.”
We stood in a circle, our shoulders brushing, and made the vow together: We will find out what happened to her. We will return to honor her. And we will never let her memory be rewritten by anyone—not even him.
Then we turned and walked away.
We didn’t look back.
Veridian Heights was already awake by the time we hit the city limits.
Security opened the iron gates to our estate, and within seconds, the chaos began.
Flashes. Voices. Questions we weren’t prepared to answer.
“Axel! Braxton! Calyx! Where have you been?”
“Is it true you’ve been hiding from the press?”
“Did Esmeralda’s death influence Xavier’s decision to run?”
“Will you be joining him on the campaign trail?”
Cameras followed our every step up the driveway. Microphones were shoved toward our faces. We said nothing.
Braxton’s face was a mask—cool, unreadable.
Calyx gave a lazy wave and smirked, letting them snap what they wanted.
I adjusted my sunglasses and kept walking.
We’d been trained for this.
We didn’t blink. We didn’t break.
Inside, the house was immaculate and cold. Too clean. Like someone had scoured every trace of Esme from the walls.
“Feels like a mausoleum,” Calyx muttered.
The staff greeted us by name, offering drinks, food, updates. We nodded politely, said as little as possible. Our father was “working” from his private suite—meaning no one was allowed near him unless it involved a photo op or political spin.
No one mentioned Mom.
Not a single word.
That night, we gathered upstairs in our private wing—what we jokingly called the “royal quarters.” Everything was custom—velvet couches, built-in speakers, dark oak floors, and a panoramic view of the city skyline. Designed for distraction. For control.
Silas had returned to his own place with his mom and sister. He needed space, and I didn’t blame him.
But Bash was here.
He always found his way in, like smoke seeping under doors.
He lounged on the leather sectional, feet up on the coffee table, drink in hand.
“Welcome back to hell,” he muttered.
“You always this poetic?” Calyx asked, flopping next to him and stealing his glass.
“I try,” Bash said dryly.
Braxton passed around a bottle of mezcal. We didn’t toast. We didn’t say anything sentimental. We just drank.
The jokes came easier after a few rounds.
We talked about the annual Rosewood bonfire. About the girl who stole Calyx’s favorite hoodie and never gave it back. About Braxton getting kicked off the soccer field junior year for “unsportsmanlike behavior,” which was really just him slamming a kid for insulting our mother.
And for a moment, it felt like nothing had changed.
Then the silence fell again.
“You guys decided on the dorms yet?” Bash asked, swirling his glass.
“We’re thinking about it,” I said.
“The suite’s ready,” Calyx added. “Dad made sure of it. Full private floor. Two bedrooms each. Smart screens. Soundproof walls. The works.”
“But we’ve also got the drivers if we want to commute,” Braxton said. “It’s just… we’re not sure.”
“Wouldn’t blame you for avoiding this place,” Bash muttered, glancing toward the hallway. “Not exactly homey.”
“It never was,” I said.
Later, after the others trickled off—Calyx passed out with music still playing in his headphones, Braxton reading in silence—I found myself alone on the balcony with Bash.
He leaned against the railing, cigarette tucked between two fingers, the cherry burning slow in the dark. The city glowed below us—glassy, detached. Like it didn’t remember the people it broke.
“You ever wonder what we’d be like if we hadn’t grown up like this?” Bash asked, his voice low.
I looked over at him. “Like what? Privileged? Watched? Screwed from birth?”
He gave a soft snort. “Yeah. All of it.”
“I try not to think about it.”
“Of course you don’t.” He exhaled. “You had a mom who gave a damn.”
I didn’t say anything. He already knew.
We stood there for a while, leaning into the silence.
“I didn’t tell you about Rosewood,” he said eventually.
I frowned. “About what?”
“The scholarship. I was on one.”
I blinked. “You were?”
“Since freshman year,” he said, like it was nothing. “It covered half. My dad paid the rest.”
I stared at him. “How did I not know that?”
He shrugged. “Didn’t want you looking at me different.”
“I wouldn’t have.”
“I know,” he said. “But I would’ve.”
He tapped the ash off his cigarette, not meeting my eyes.
“You remember when everything started going quiet with me?” he asked, voice a little rougher now. “Back in middle school. When I stopped coming around for a while.”
“Yeah,” I said carefully. “Your house got quiet too.”
“Exactly.”
He didn’t say her name. He didn’t need to. I saw her every time I closed my eyes and thought of him. Light brown curls. Big eyes. Always barefoot in the grass at Casa Luz, running after Calyx with popsicle-stained hands.
Lily.
“She was the only one who kept things soft at home,” he said. “After she got sick, my mom changed. My dad threw himself into work. Not because he had to. But because it was easier than looking at us.”
“I remember,” I said, because I did.
He nodded, slow. “And after… you guys were the only thing that felt normal.”
My throat tightened. “You should’ve told me.”
“You think I could say that out loud? I barely survived it the first time. Talking about it… makes it real again.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I didn’t say anything.
He took a sip of mezcal from the glass he hadn’t offered to share. “Anyway, the scholarship got pulled last semester.”
“Why?”
“One of the new faculty kids made some crack about families buying their way in. About my sister. Said some s**t like, ‘Guess tragedy earns perks, huh?’”
My chest went cold. “You hit him?”
“Didn’t even think. Just reacted.”
“What did the school do?”
“Code of conduct violation. Image standards clause. Revoked the funding within the week.”
“Jesus, Bash.”
He offered a bitter smile. “Yeah. Legacy kids can throw punches. Kids like me don’t get second chances.”
“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
“Because you’d have made it your problem,” he said. “And it wasn’t. It isn’t.”
“It’s yours,” I corrected. “Which makes it mine.”
“I’m gonna figure it out,” he said. “I’ve got some money saved. I’ll make it through senior year.”
“Bash…”
“I’m serious, Ax. I’ll be fine. And if not—I’ll fake it until I am.”
He looked over at me then, and in that glance I saw everything he wouldn’t say. The grief still buried. The fear he couldn’t name. The need to be strong, even when no one asked him to be.
“I never forgot her,” I said quietly. “Lily. She mattered.”
Bash didn’t respond right away. Just stared out into the night. When he finally spoke, his voice was thin.
“She did.”
We stood there a while longer, saying nothing. Just breathing.
I cracked open two beers and handed him one.
“To surviving senior year,” I said.
He lifted his bottle. “And whatever comes after.”
After he went in, I stayed out a little longer. The air was colder now.
I wandered downstairs. Found Silas leaning against the stairwell wall, hoodie pulled low over his head.
“You came back,” I said.
“Just wanted to make sure you were good.”
“I’m alright.”
He didn’t respond.
“About Bash,” I said slowly. “I know you’ve never really liked him, but—”
“I don’t not like him,” Silas interrupted. “It’s not that simple.”
“Then what is it?”
He looked at me, eyes unreadable in the dark. “He’s not who you think he is, Ax. There’s… history. Stuff I haven’t told you.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t want it to come between us.”
I stepped closer. “You know I trust you. Always.”
Silas nodded. “Then just… be careful. That’s all I’m saying.”
And with that, he slipped back into the shadows—quiet as ever, but leaving behind a thousand unspoken things.
- Writer
