Page 9 of Manic

Where most families spent their time together, I was pushed aside by my own. My father in particular.

Mom was always there, but she was too busy clutching a bottle of wine from sun-up to sun-down to give a shit. The only thing we really did together was go to weekly dinners with pressed napkins and tidy utensils, but even that felt forced.

Financially, I was taken care of and given anything I desired. Deep, intellectual conversations about my emotions or interests? Not so much. Not unless it was about Father’s work or crunching numbers centered around the casinos. All I’d ever asked for was to intern. Yet every year, they found more reasons to tell me no, and their denials sat on my shoulders like a dark, grey cloud. I loved both of my parents, but we weren’t close.

A hollow ache dug beneath my ribcage.

Loneliness was like standing beside my own headstone, quiet and undisturbed, like the world had learned how to go on without me. I toyed with my necklace, nostalgic for something I’d never get in this lifetime—parents who cared beyond surface level. Beyond the cash in their pockets.

Was that normal? Were days of deliberate silence through stretched out marble hallways common in other families? Did they go through the same thing?

“We’re staying as long as necessary,” Father said curtly.

He urged my mother up the steps with a hand on her back, and I sighed, following them up.

I was typically forced to stay nearby, but more often than not, I found a way to leave early. I knew my father knew this, but so far, he had yet to complain about me leaving sooner than they ever did. As long as I came and made appearances, he didn’t care if I left whenever it suited me. These parties were too extravagant for me anyway.

The attendant took my trench coat once we stepped inside, and the cool air of the ballroom kissed my skin. It was dim, save for the warm glow from the crystal chandeliers.

My parents made their way across the checkered, black and white tile floor, stopping once they found a tall circular table to stand at. As I went to follow, my eyes collided with someone I was all too familiar with. I stopped short, my breath hitching.

Manic Mortaine, the son of Vancouver’s city manager.

Last I heard, he’d been running the security for those warehouses his family owned. A ruthless, rude bastard who was too cocky for his own good. Our past conversations had all been brief, all of which had left me more annoyed than satisfied throughout the years. Sometimes I’d run into him in public, but I typically avoided speaking to him.

Our first interaction ran through my mind.

Despite hating the taste, I’d bummed a cigarette off him when I’d been dragged here by my father. When I’d extended my hand in greeting, Manic had yanked me into his chest with a menacing grin and asked if I’d looked as good out of my dress as I did in it. He’d pissed me off as I’d been dating Noah at the time. But what pissed me off the most was how his forcefulness made me feel—I’d liked it.

Still, it physically pained me how attractive Manic was, and my pulse fluttered as I dragged my gaze over him.

His black suit pulled across his shoulders, almost as if it were bursting at the seams and a smidge too small for his muscled frame. His blond hair parted down the middle, dusting his temples. Even with it slightly messy, he was nothing but pure elegance. Pure sin, really.

He gave me a slow, deliberate once-over, accompanied by a rueful smile before turning away. I shivered and fought the urge to hide myself, too conscious of my dress. I pulled my phone out from my clutch and texted Amelia.

Me: Where are you? I need a drink.

Amelia: Not too far behind! Almost there.

I sighed and glanced around.

The familiarity of the ballroom hit me all at once as it usually did when I stepped in. I’d been coming to these events for five years, yet even with its familiarity, I was struck with a sense of awe.

Classical music dipped and swelled near the wide stairs in the back while a questionable number of waitresses passed out wine from elaborate silver trays. They glided through the crowd with practiced ease. A full bar sat on one side of the room, and the mirrored, shelved wall behind it showcased every brand of alcohol available.

Yet my thoughts whirled.

Noah had been plastered all over the news today, and every time I closed my eyes, he was there. Flashes of investigator photos and a cold interrogation room seeped behind my eyelids. All it did was bring forth a slew of buried feelings and memories I wanted to forget.

I curled my fingers and inhaled deeply, hating the way my hands shook. The news would continue to blast his face for the next few days, and I needed a fucking drink.

When my phone chimed again, I looked down, thinking it was Amelia. Even though I scoffed at the message, all thoughts of Noah dissipated in the cool, inside air.

Unknown: Already catching eyes for someone else? I’m disappointed.

Me: Perhaps if you’d show your face, I’d have eyes for you instead.

My face grew hot, but I looked around, searching for cameras. Wherever they were—and I knew there were some—they remained hidden from sight.