Eat Your Vegetables

MILES

Shopping with my mother was fucking exhausting.

Every second in her presence was a carefully choreographed performance—fake smiles, forced laughter, and the ever-present threat of a sharp slap behind closed doors if I dared step out of line. She played the doting mother, whispering sweet endearments while digging her nails into my arm, just deep enough to leave marks.

By the time we made it home from picking out dresses, stopping at the salon (which she hated because the stylist dared to call me naturally beautiful), and buying shoes, I was running on fumes. My stomach twisted with hunger, and I had to clench my jaw to stop it from growling like a wild animal. I hadn't eaten since my shift at the diner, and that was... fuck. When even was that?

As much as I hated this night, dinner couldn't come fast enough.

For once, I was looking forward to something.

I kept my head down as we drove through the nicer part of town, pressing my fingers into my thighs to distract myself from the gnawing in my stomach. I knew my mother had managed to snag a wealthy fiancé, but when we pulled up to a mansion, my stomach dropped.

'This can't be right.'

The house was massive—almost obscene in its size—and as I stepped out of the car, a creeping sense of familiarity itched at the back of my mind. The wrought-iron gates, the sprawling drive, the towering double doors… I had seen something like this before.

But where?

I didn’t have time to figure it out. My mother latched onto my arm with an iron grip, her nails pressing into my skin as she whispered, "Don't fuck this up for me, or you'll regret it."

Before I could snap at her, the doors swung open.

A tall man with graying hair and sharp brown eyes greeted us with a polite nod. His suit was pristine, his posture that of a seasoned butler.

"Welcome, Ms. Valentine. Ms. Valentine." His voice was warm yet formal. "Mr. Black has been expecting you. Please, come inside."

Black.

The name tugged at something in my memory, but before I could latch onto it, my mother pulled me forward into the house.

We were led through a grand foyer, the polished floors gleaming under an extravagant chandelier. I barely had time to process the luxurious surroundings before we were ushered into a dining room. Seated at the head of a ridiculously long table was a tall, dark-haired man with warm honey-brown eyes.

The moment he saw my mother, he was on his feet.

"My love," he murmured, striding toward her.

My stomach churned as they embraced, my mother tilting her face up like a lovesick schoolgirl while he cupped her cheek in what should have been a tender gesture.

I bit back a scoff. Fake.

There was no way in hell my mother was capable of love.

Then he turned to me, and to my absolute shock, his expression softened even more.

"You must be Miles," he said, taking my hand in both of his. "I've heard so much about you. I must say, I’m glad to welcome you to my family."

I stiffened at the warmth in his voice. Genuine warmth. It was so unfamiliar that it made me uncomfortable.

"I—uh, thank you," I muttered, forcing a small smile. "It’s nice to finally meet the man who’s been making my mother happy."

He chuckled, squeezing my hand. "You have your mother’s smile."

For the first time in my entire life, my mother turned to me and beamed.

My heart clenched.

For a fleeting second, I felt something stupid and naive and dangerous—hope.

I crushed it immediately.

I focused instead on the long dining table, the ridiculous chandeliers, the obnoxious wealth. It was too much. All of it. The mansion, the warmth, the sheer absurdity of this man thinking my mother had any love to give.

But more than that...

Something still felt wrong.

Where had I seen this place before?

The feeling sat heavy in my gut as we took our seats. Maverick Black—because apparently, that was his name—spoke animatedly, mostly about my mother. He tried to include me in the conversation, but she expertly steered it away every time.

I let her. I didn't have the energy to pretend I cared.

Then, finally, the doors opened again, and house staff emerged, carrying silver trays.

The moment a plate was set in front of me, my stomach clenched with relief.

Salmon, roasted potatoes, grilled vegetables.

My mouth watered so hard I nearly groaned. I hadn't realized how badly I wanted—needed—this food until it was right in front of me.

I picked up my fork, stomach growling audibly, and just as I lifted the first bite to my mouth—

"Ah! Son, you made it just in time!"

The fork slipped from my fingers, the potato dropping back onto my plate with a splat.

A chair scraped against the floor as someone stepped into the dining room.

"Sorry I'm late. Practice was—"

I froze.

No.

No. No. No. No. No.

I knew that voice.

I turned my head slowly, heart slamming against my ribs, pulse roaring in my ears.

And there he was.

Dominic.

Standing in the doorway, dark hair tousled, golden eyes sharp and assessing.

I couldn’t breathe.

Oh, fuck.

Oh, fuck.

Oh, fuck.

"Come, meet Candice and her daughter, Miles," Maverick said cheerfully.

I couldn’t move. I couldn’t blink. I couldn’t even breathe as he walked toward us, his gaze locking onto mine.

For a split second, something flickered in those golden eyes—shock, recognition.

Then, it was gone.

His expression smoothed into something unreadable. A slow, easy smile curved his lips. It didn’t reach his eyes.

I wanted to die.

I was sitting at a dinner table with the man who had publicly humiliated me last night. The man who had helped me through a panic attack. The man who had fucked me in a greenhouse.

My future stepbrother.

He reached for my hand.

I barely managed to lift mine to meet him.

The moment his fingers curled around mine, I trembled.

His grip tightened just slightly. Just enough to let me know he felt it.

When we sat back down, I did the only thing I could do.

I grabbed my water glass and chugged it.

One glass.

Two.

Three.

I wasn’t hungry anymore.

I wasn’t anything anymore.

My mother’s voice cut through my panic.

"Miles! At least eat your vegetables!" she snapped.

I picked up my fork with a shaking hand.

Stabbed a roasted carrot.

Brought it to my mouth.

Swallowed around the lump of pure dread in my throat.

It tasted like regret.

It tasted like doom.

I was so fucking fucked.