Back in my own room, the door was slightly ajar. I pushed it open gently—and the moment I saw who was inside, the blood in my veins froze solid.
Max was sitting on the edge of my bed. He wore a perfectly tailored suit, his hair combed without a strand out of place. There was no guilt on his face, no grief—only thick contempt and mockery. When he saw me enter, he slowly lifted his head, his lips curling into a cruel smile, his voice sharp and grating:
"What's this? Just came back from Grandfather's room? Couldn't wait to go running to him with your complaints?"
He stood and walked toward me, step by step, the disgust and derision in his eyes completely unconcealed.
"Do you actually believe that if you sweet-talk my grandfather, sweet-talk my sister, I'll suddenly see you differently? That I'll settle down and play house with you?"
The moment I saw Max, hatred surged through me like a tidal wave, drowning everything else. I wanted to kill him right then and there. I wanted to send him straight to hell.