Sebastian Maddox's Point of View
I swear to God, if she says Paris one more time, I'm jumping out of this car.
"…and the woman at the Chanel counter told me they'd only released four bottles in all of France, so obviously I got it for you. Not that you need more cologne, you already smell perfect—well, sometimes—but still, I couldn't resist. Oh, and I found this vintage vinyl store in Marais, baby, you would've lost your mind. I almost bought the entire crate—"
I lean my head against the passenger window and exhale slowly.
She doesn't stop.
She never stops.
"…and I made friends with this pastry chef who swore by pistachio macarons, so I brought a whole box. Don't worry, I had them chilled the entire flight, but I swear if you don't eat them I'll cry—"
"Mom."
"—and your hair! You didn't cut it! Thank God. I was going to FaceTime you at the salon and threaten the stylist if you had. Look at how it falls over your eyes, baby, so handsome, like a K-drama prince. Girls must be obsessed with you—"
"Mom."
She glances at me with those huge excited eyes, still buzzing like a hummingbird on espresso. "What?"
"I'm not hungry. And I don't want a cologne made from French unicorn tears. Can we just… drive in silence?"
She pouts like I just kicked her puppy. "But I missed you."
Guilt. Always. Instant.
She actually did miss me.
Two months in France, first time she's been gone this long since I was twelve. She sent voice notes every night like I was still five, texted me good morning and good night, forwarded videos of French cats wearing sweaters. I left her on read more times than I can count.
And she still came back early. Just for me.
I shift in my seat. Scratch the back of my neck.
"…I missed you too," I mumble.
Her smile returns like a damn sunrise.
"See! I knew it. That's why I came back today instead of Friday. My gut said Sebastian's lonely, and my gut's never wrong—"
My phone buzzes.
Group chat.
"Bro who tf was that woman??"
"Deadass thought she was your girl."
"Didn't know you were into cougars LMFAO."
"Tell her I said hi."
"Send her number."
I roll my eyes and mute it. These idiots have no clue.
They don't know what it's like being raised by Sky Maddox. A literal supermodel who bakes banana bread from scratch and drives a car that costs more than our school library.
They don't know that I sneak out every Friday night the second she's asleep, leather jacket on, helmet clipped, bike roaring through the dark while she dreams I'm tucked in.
They don't know I've made out with more strangers in the back rooms of clubs than I can count, that I smoke like I've got extra lungs, that the bouncer at Noir calls me by name because I show up like clockwork with my fake ID and that charming bastard grin.
They don't know that Sky's little baby boy has a different girl on his lap every week, that none of them matter, and none of them ever stay.
They don't know anything.
And thank God she doesn't either.
Because if she did…
She'd stop looking at me like I'm still her baby.
She's yapping again—about some artist who offered to paint me in Paris, about a scarf she bought me that "screams brooding heartbreaker," about how she couldn't wait to hug me the second she landed.
And all I can think about is how fake my life is.
She thinks I'm good.
They think I'm dangerous.
I don't know what the hell I am anymore.
I glance over at her as she turns onto the highway, humming to some French jazz song with her sunglasses tilted down her nose, hair wild in the wind.
She's too good. Too pure. Too oblivious.
And way too easy to lie to.
"Did you eat, baby?" she asks, one hand reaching over to ruffle my hair. "You look pale."
"I'm fine," I lie. Again.
She believes me.
She always does.