Broken Hands

115. Slipping hard

Nightfall was a comfort to many—a time of warmth, quiet dreams, and well-earned rest. But for some, it marked the beginning of something far less peaceful.

For Grayson, it was when the ghosts of his past whispered the loudest.

He hated the way his mind echoed words he'd tried to forget, how they played over and over until they became unbearable. He had tried everything—burying his head in his pillow, squeezing his eyes shut, drowning out the thoughts with sheer force of will—but nothing worked.

Sleep never came easily. This time. Not even with the pills.

The tournament was only a day away. Tomorrow afternoon, he'd be leaving for Miami with Raymond. The thought should have brought excitement, but instead, it settled in his chest like a weight.

Sighing, Grayson sat up, casting a glance at Julian, who was curled up peacefully under his blanket, and then at Russell, who slept on his back, torso bare, rising and falling with steady breaths.

Careful not to make a sound, Grayson swung his legs over the edge of the bed, slipped on his crocs, and padded toward the door.

The castle hall was eerily quiet, bathed in a dim glow from the low-set night lights. The walls, grand and elegant by day, now loomed like something out of a horror movie. The silence stretched, broken only by the occasional creak of the floor beneath his weight.

He stepped outside.

The night air was sharp, crisp with the remnants of a passing breeze. The wind rustled through the trees, slipping through hollowed branches, creating a soft, haunting melody. It was cold, but Grayson didn't feel it. Not when the chill inside him was far worse.

He walked without direction, letting his thoughts wander freely.

His mother.

She had gone missing for days. That much was clear. But why? Had she been kidnapped? Had she been on a joyride with friends that took a dark turn? Whatever had happened in those missing days, Grayson was sure of one thing—it changed everything.

It had led to him.

In his wildest dreams, he never would have imagined a connection to Charlie. According to Senior Smith, Charles Perez—the man he supposedly took after—had been adopted. No real blood relation with Charlie. That was some relief, at least.

But from what Charlie had hinted at, there had been more at play. Charles had been the golden child—the one who inherited everything. Charlie? The discarded one. The unwanted, the biological child was left with nothing. Maybe that was the truth. Or maybe he had always been a bad seed, twisted from the start.

Grayson scoffed under his breath.

One way or another, Charlie had found his mother. Or she had found him. Or maybe there had been a third party—Charles Perez himself?

The deeper he thought about it, the less sense it made. The phone calls. The isolation. The sudden decision to leave home. And then, the fraud.

She had stolen from her own family. But had it really been her?

Or had it been Charlie, pulling the strings?

She had handed everything over to him.

And yet, after her death, he had lived worse than a stray on the street, forced to work himself to the bone for a debt that had never even existed.

Grayson clenched his fists, staring down at his palms—palms that had been bruised, cut, and calloused from years of labor.

All for nothing.