Sins of the Elite

Chapter Four

Axel

The sky over San Paloma bled gold and rose as the sun sank behind the hills, casting long shadows across the courtyard. Casa Luz was soft in the light—quiet, drowsy, like it was holding its breath, not quite ready to let us go.

Neither were we.

We’d been putting it off for days—packing, leaving, deciding when to face the noise of the city again. But now the time had come. The bags were zipped. The cars were fueled. The silence was thicker than ever.

“I’m not ready,” Calyx admitted, lying on his back in the middle of the courtyard tiles, arms stretched out like he could somehow soak up the last of it. “I know we have to, but still. This place… it’s different.”

“It’s her,” Silas said, sitting with his knees drawn to his chest, sketchbook open beside him but untouched. “Everything about this house… it’s my tía. Her colors. Her light. Her laugh in the floorboards.”

“She built it for herself,” Braxton added. “For us. This was the only place we ever saw her completely happy.”

We all nodded.

Casa Luz had that kind of magic—the kind you didn’t question. Here, we could breathe without permission. We could laugh too loud, cry without shame, exist without masks. Here, we weren’t legacy heirs, or Rosewood’s perfect golden sons. We were just boys—her boys.

But the spell wouldn’t hold forever.

“We have responsibilities,” I said quietly, the words bitter in my throat. “School. Senior year. Expectations. It doesn’t stop just because we’re still grieving.”

Braxton’s jaw tightened. “I’m not doing it for him.”

“We’re doing it for her,” Silas said before I could. “To honor her. To finish what she started.”

The silence stretched between us. Heavy. Honest.

In Veridian Heights, we were royalty. Not by crown, but by bloodline—by our father’s name. Everything was performative. Our words, our steps, our silences. We had to be careful. Composed. Brilliant. Bulletproof. There was no space for softness there. No room to fall apart.

And Rosewood? Rosewood was worse.

A place where you didn’t blink unless it was calculated. Where kindness was currency, and cruelty bought you power. Cameras disguised as classmates. Legacy sharpened into weaponry. We were expected to be elite—cold, charming, invincible.

Casa Luz had let us forget that, if only for a little while.

But now?

Now we had to remember.

“I miss being kids,” Calyx murmured. “Not that we ever really got to be.”

“We did here,” Silas said. “For a little while.”

I looked around at the house—the cracked tiles we’d raced across barefoot, the smell of citrus and cinnamon that still clung to the kitchen walls. The mural she painted in the back hallway, half-covered in ivy now. She used to hum when she worked on it. Called it a blessing. A spell for peace.

She said this house would always remember us.

And it did.

“Someone’s here,” Braxton said suddenly, standing, tension rolling off him.

A car door slammed just beyond the gate.

The wind paused.

Then came the familiar squeal of the wrought-iron hinges.

And there he was.

Sebastian Vale.

Bash.

His arrival wasn’t a surprise—not really. We’d kept him in the loop. Told him we were staying here through the summer. And even if we hadn’t, he would’ve found his way. Bash always did. The kind of friend who could read between your silences. The one person who never cared about asking for permission. He just showed up—like a storm, uninvited but impossible to ignore.

He looked the same. Same cocky stance, same dark hair, same sharp glint in his eye that said he knew more than he’d ever admit. Combat boots, black jeans, fitted gray shirt, tattoos peeking beneath the sleeves. Chaos dressed like confidence.

“Miss me?” he asked with that crooked grin of his.

Calyx bolted toward him.

“Bash!” he grinned. “I thought you weren’t gonna make it.”

Bash shrugged. “Figured I’d regret it if I didn’t.”

Braxton raised a brow, arms crossed, but didn’t object.

Silas watched from the steps, quiet, guarded. Eyes unreadable.

“Silas,” Bash said smoothly. “Still wearing that same scowl?”

Silas gave him a tight nod. “Still earning it.”

I stepped in, pulled Bash into a hug. The kind that came with years behind it.

“Glad you came,” I said, and I meant it.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” he said low, clapping a hand on my back. “You’re family.”

We drifted into the courtyard, lit by low lanterns and the last threads of sunset. The air buzzed with cicadas. Braxton passed around bottles of Topo Chico and tequila. Bash, of course, drank straight from the bottle.

The laughter came slow, but it came. We shared stories we’d already told, memories that tasted sweeter in the dark. We talked about the time Calyx flooded the garden trying to make a pool. About Bash nearly passing out in the heat during one of our backyard “training camps” after Braxton dared him to run sprints barefoot on the hot tile. About the homemade salsa that nearly killed Bash at thirteen.

Eventually, we drifted into heavier things.

“So,” Bash said, eyes scanning us slowly. “You gonna tell me what’s really going on?”

Braxton looked to me.

I sighed, then spoke.

“There’s something off about what happened,” I said. “With Mom. The story doesn’t add up.”

Bash didn’t flinch.

“She never said she was sick,” Silas added, voice low. “No calls. No message. Not even to my mom.”

“Our father said she didn’t want us to know,” Braxton said. “Said she wanted it that way.”

“But it doesn’t make sense,” I finished. “It doesn’t feel right.”

Bash leaned back, swirling the bottle lazily in one hand. “I always said your dad was a snake in a suit.”

“You’re not surprised?” Silas asked.

Bash met his gaze. “I stopped getting surprised a long time ago.”

“Still,” Braxton said, “we’re going to find out the truth. All of it.”

“You want to dig,” Bash said, turning back to me, “then I’ll dig with you. Whatever it takes.”

I nodded. I knew he meant it.

But I also knew something else. Something I didn’t want to admit—not yet.

When everyone else drifted into the house later—Calyx singing along to the end of a playlist, Braxton carrying empty bottles, Bash following with that crooked grin—I hung back.

Silas stayed by the stairs, arms folded, eyes on the stars.

“Hey,” I said, stepping next to him. “You good?”

He didn’t answer right away.

Then, “You ever notice how quiet it gets when he’s around? Like everything pulls inward, waiting.”

“Bash?” I asked.

He nodded.

“You’ve never really liked him.”

Silas gave a slow shrug. “It’s not that simple.”

“You trust him?”

He took a long pause, then said, “I trust you.”

“Silas…”

He turned to me, expression calm but serious. “Just be careful with him.”

There was something in his voice. Not anger. Not warning.

Memory.

But he didn’t elaborate.

And I didn’t push.

We stood there a little longer, the night thick around us, the weight of everything unsaid pressing quietly between our shoulders.