Chapter 4

Steve slammed the door behind him with a force that rattled the large chandelier. His designer backpack hit the couch like a casualty of war, tumbling into the plush cream leather of a space too elegant to match his rage. The penthouse apartment was the picture of modern luxury, glass walls offered a sweeping view of the entire city, marble floors gleamed beneath his feet, and soft jazz played from hidden ceiling speakers. But tonight, it all felt like a joke.

The walls were cold. The lights were warm. And none of it mattered.

His chest rose and fell as he tried to breathe through the humiliation still clinging to his skin.

Then his eyes caught it.

The portrait on the far wall.

A beautiful young woman, smiling. A radiant smile. Her almond eyes mirrored his. Her sharp cheekbones. The tilt of her head. If anyone ever asked, she was his twin. But she wasn’t. She was his elder sister. The one who'd raised him like a mother and vanished before he was old enough to ask why.

Steve walked slowly toward the image, breath catching in his throat. He hadn’t cried in years. Not after she died. Not when the academy bullies nearly broke his collarbone in sixth grade. Not even when his first girl friend betrayed him in the worst way last summer.

But tonight?

One single tear.

It slid down his cheek before he could stop it, staining the edge of his smirk.

“Stupid,” he muttered, turning away quickly. He stormed into the kitchen, flung open the fridge. The door cracked like it would pull off with his force. He grabbed a bottle of mineral water, and gulped it down like it owed him something. The chill did nothing to calm the fire raging inside.

Humiliated. By a thrift-store scholarship kid who reeked of second hand desperation and somehow managed to slap him in front of everyone. Even worse? Miguel hadn’t lifted a finger to defend him.

Even if Miguel didn't have to notice his presence. He wasn't supposed to watch a low life insult him and go scot-free. Not after what they've been through.

He walked back into the living room, intending to dig out his cigarettes from his backpack.

But something caught his eye.

A notebook, but it wasn't his.

It had tumbled from his bag onto the marble floor. The journal. Drake's. The one he'd picked up in a haze of anger and hadn't thought about since.

Steve stared at it.

He should toss it.

But he didn’t. Curiosity won.

Instead, he sank into the couch, flipping it open without care. The first few pages were filled with numbers, schedules, lists, nothing interesting.

Then he hit something.

The handwriting shifted. The lines became tighter. Sharper. Ink smeared in places where fingers had trembled.

"Sometimes, I wake up gasping. Not because I’m scared, but because I can still hear the gunshots. I was fifteen. I remember the smell of my father’s cologne mixing with blood. I remember my mother’s hand going limp in mine. I remember her last word. 'Run.' When I was the reason for their death.

Steve’s fingers froze. He stared.

"People think nightmares are dreams gone bad. But mine? They're memories."

He kept reading.

Page after page. Paragraphs bled into one another, and soon, Steve wasn’t just reading, he was witnessing.

Drake's world.

A cold, rat-infested apartment. A drunk neighbor named Jude who slept on his mattress. A nonchalant uncle who he share the rat-infested apartment with. Eating expired cup noodles when the salary from his part-time job couldn’t stretch far enough. Being alone. Constantly alone.

But that wasn’t even the worst part.

The journal shifted again when Steve couldn't stop flipping through its pages. A confession.

"I've known I was gay since I was thirteen. But you don’t say that out loud in this world. I didn't dare tell my parents. I wouldn't even dare say a word of it. Especially when you're poor, weak, and disposable."

Steve blinked, unsure why his chest felt tight.

 "Sometimes I think about what it would be like to hold his hand. Not even kisses. Just...hold it. I wonder if he'd squeeze back. Or pull away in disgust. I wonder if he’d laugh. I wonder if he already knows."

Steve wondered who Drake was referring to. Then came a name.

"Miguel Sanchez."

It was there. Bold. Clear. Undeniable.

 "The way he walks. I watch. The way his voice drops when he’s annoyed. The way he looks like he carries the world but still finds time to be gentle. Stupid, right? I know he’d never look at me like that. But still... I dream. But does he know I stalk him on every social media handle of his? Does he know I know his daily schedule? Is he aware I do silly…stuffs with my body with him in mind?”

Steve stopped. His throat suddenly felt dry.

There were pages, entire pages, of these thoughts. Fantasies. Embarrassingly detailed scenarios of accidental touches with past male friends, stolen glances, imagined moments. Ones that ranged from painfully innocent to heart-thudding bold.

Steve stared at the journal, his fingers trembling slightly.

He wasn't sure why. Was it rage? Or pity?

Then he understood. He could ruin Drake.

Right now. One scan. One upload to CWA Undressed. And the entire academy would feast on this like hungry, desperate predators.

He could humiliate him.

Erase the slap. And reclaim the power.

He looked back at the portrait of his sister.

Then at the journal.

A bitter smile crept across his face.

"You really had to be in love with Miguel, huh? The one person I can’t touch."

He set the journal down on the table, stared at it for a long time.

His phone buzzed.

A message from Thea.

Steve didn’t reply.

He just stared at Drake's handwriting. That desperate, hopeful ink.

Then he reached for his phone again. Not to post. Not yet.

He opened his camera.

And began to take photos. Every page. Every word.

He was going to keep this. Just in case. For leverage.

For revenge.

For fun.

Just as he shut the journal, the sharp trill of his phone pierced the stillness. He blinked, dragging himself out of the haze of words, and sudden possibilities. The caller ID flashed:

THEA.

He hesitated. Then picked up.

“Steve speaking,” he said, slipping into his usual bored tone.

“Oh my God, guess what!” Thea’s voice buzzed with mischief and thrill. “He said yes!”

Steve’s brow arched. “He?”

“Drake,” she practically squealed. “He agreed to the deal. Told me he’d do whatever I say. He's desperate not to lose that scholarship, poor thing.”

Steve leaned back on the couch, a slow grin curling at the corner of his lips.

“Interesting,” he murmured.

Thea giggled. “You sound... too calm. I thought you'd be celebrating.”

“Oh, I am,” he said, standing and strolling toward the massive window overlooking the city skyline. “You’ve just handed me my favorite toy wrapped in a silver ribbon.”

“You should’ve seen the panic on his face,” Thea went on. “Guy was tryna tough in class but outside? He crumbled fast.”

Steve’s fingers drummed lightly against the cold glass. “So he’ll do anything?”

“Anything,” Thea confirmed. “Why? What do you have in mind?”

Steve’s eyes drifted to the journal on the floor. He didn’t answer her question. He didn’t need to. His mind was already spinning through the possibilities. 

Drake had no idea what kind of deal he’d just signed.

“Tell him,” Steve said slowly, “that he starts tomorrow. I’ll send the instructions through you.”

Anything to humiliate the lowlife? Steve wouldn't spare.