9. Knox

CHAPTER NINE

Knox

I clench my jaw, my hands balled into fists at my sides as I stand in front of the fancy-ass door of the even fancier-ass mansion.

Do it.

I try to steady my breaths, reminding myself that this particular familial obligation is something I can’t skip. It’s not like I depend on my parents for cash—I have plenty of that on my own—but if I don’t want to be cut out of the family completely, I need to attend Sunday dinners. Maybe some stupid part of me is waiting for their approval, or hoping that the next time I see them, everything will be the way it’s supposed to be in a loving family.

“Lennox, what are you doing standing at the door like some sort of lurker?”

Not the case.

“It’s Knox, Mother,” I grit out as I step through the doorway. I run a hand through my hair, stuffing it back into my pocket to avoid doing something stupid like hugging her. That didn’t work out too well last time.

Adrianna Sanders, the picture of wealth and elitism, sticks her reconstructed nose up in the air. “Why you refuse to accept your given name is a wonder to me.” She urges me into the house. “Come now. You’re late for dinner.”

I roll my eyes. Dinner starts at eight, but my parents consider you “late” if you’re not here half an hour early for pre-dinner drinks in the conservatory. I drag my heels as I follow her deeper into my childhood home.

Home is putting it kindly.

The posh white walls and golden accents were always cold to me growing up. There aren’t any decorations that aren’t worth thousands of dollars or chosen by a pricey interior designer. Childhood artwork and report cards weren’t hung on the fridge, family pictures are actually family paintings , all posed for separately so the artist could capture the correct light for each of us. This mansion always resembled a model home because that’s what it is.

A model of what our lives looked like versus what it actually was.

A fucking barren wasteland.

My black combat boots clash against the pristine white marble floors leading into the dining room, and my mother’s gown is a stark reminder that my tattered, sleeveless shirt is not dinner formal.

As I enter the dining room, I ignore the scathing looks of disapproval from my brothers.

Barnaby scoffs, elbowing his twin as I take a seat. “Do you think he even showered before coming here, Bertram?”

“It’s Lennox,” Betram huffs, eyeing me with distaste. “Maybe he’s poor now.”

My upper lip curls on its own. The twins are two nasty fucks. They’re the equivalent of human trash. They flaunt their status, overuse their influence, and live off our parents’ fortune. They have absolutely no self-respect or pride. “You two are awfully interested in my showering habits. What? Watching too much ’cest porn lately?”

“William,” my mother hisses at my father as she places her napkin on her lap. “Say something.”

But, as usual, Dear Old Dad has nothing to say. He simply regards me like the vermin he thinks I am. He’ll let my older brothers poke their fun at me without any care for my feelings, probably because he wants to join along but is trying to keep a semblance of civility. William Sanders has never and will never say anything remotely pleasant to me, or to anyone, which is probably why my mother is already three glasses of chardonnay into the evening.

“Enough,” Archibald, our oldest brother, snaps from his seat next to my father. “We’re here for a pleasant dinner.”

Barnaby and Bertram roll their eyes in unison. “Fine.”

“Freaky,” I mutter under my breath. What sort of weird twin connection makes them speak together like that?

My mother, instead of getting up, rings the literal dinner bell beside her. “Grace! Dinner is late!”

Grace, the housekeeper, rushes into the dining room. My parents, like the pretentious fucks they are, don’t let her wear her own clothes while working. They make her put on this weird-ass maid’s outfit that I swear has to be some sort of joke.

Grace flushes, out of breath as she runs her hands down her apron. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Sanders, but dinner is going to be late. Arnold is?—”

“I don’t care what that blundering idiot is doing,” my mother snaps, referring to the cook. “Dinner is to be served at eight.”

Grace nods. “I could bring the salads out?”

“And the rolls,” Bertram commands and gestures at the table. “You didn’t even set the parsley oil out.”

“And why isn’t there music playing?” Barnaby raises a cruel eyebrow at her.

“Can you all lay off her?” I bark, slapping my hands down against the table. “Jesus fuck. Just let her bring the salads out.”

Grace throws me a kind smile, which I’m hesitant to return. Sure, she practically raised me as a kid, but that doesn’t mean anything. Just because she took me to all my soccer practices and attended each one of my piano recitals means nothing. She’s just the help. Still, they shouldn’t be shitting on her like this.

My mother gasps. “Lennox! Watch your language!” She turns to my father. “William! Say something!”

All eyes fall to my father. He cocks his head to the side, those eyes that are so identical to mine drilling into my skull. I hate to admit that my breath hitches and my palms start to sweat. He doesn’t say anything, and he doesn’t need to, because the searing look he’s giving me is enough.

He hates me.

I don’t even have to take a guess at that. I know he hates me. He told me so when I turned sixteen and found me dying my Sanders’ trademark blond hair to black. He made it clear how disappointing I was. I didn’t receive top marks like Archibald, I was nowhere near as gifted of an athlete as Bertram, and my social etiquette was nothing compared to Barnaby’s.

I was the last child. The oops baby. The one they didn’t want but were stuck with anyway.

So, I’ll fucking curse if I fucking want to, because it’s not going to make my fucking dad fucking love me.

Fuck.

Still, that look…

I slump into my seat, sweat beading my forehead as Grace brings out the salads. Dinner conversation flows like it should, with my mother catching up on everything we’ve been up to.

No, not we , but they.

She asks the twins about how they’re liking living in their new penthouse she bought them. They tell her all about the parties they attended this weekend and the donations they made to charities whose names they can’t even remember. She congratulates Archibald on his recent engagement to a woman I’m certain my father chose for him.

But no one asks me a thing. I exist in the void of their apathy, but I sit here and take it.

Always waiting for my turn.