Sebastian Maddox's Point of View
I swear to God, the air changes when I walk into school.
Like it knows I'm coming.
Phones drop. Heads turn. Lip gloss gets reapplied like I don't notice. And I'm not even trying. Just tall, black hoodie, black boots, bike helmet in hand, hair still messy from the wind and smelling like secondhand smoke and expensive cologne.
I walk like I own the hallways.
Because I kinda do.
"Yo, Seb!"
Trey's already jogging up beside me, grinning like an idiot. He's all varsity jacket and gossip.
"You seen your DMs this morning?" he asks, practically bouncing.
"No."
"Bro. Five new girls from Elmsworth Academy followed you. One sent a pic. She said you could ruin her life."
I smirk. "Tempting."
He elbows me. "Didn't say you should, just that you could."
The day hasn't even started, and I've already got three girls making heart eyes from their lockers and one slipping her number into my hoodie pocket like this is Mean Girls.
By the time I make it to first period, I've dodged two more flirty stares, high-fived three teammates, and been asked—no joke—if I wanted to be someone's prom date again. It's September.
Then it starts.
"Yo, Maddox."
That voice—Hayden. Mouthy, annoying, too tall for no reason.
"Your girl from yesterday…was that your mom?"
I pause mid-turn. "What?"
"You know, the one in the cream coat and heels?" he says. "Kinda looked like a model. Long ass black hair. She came in that Lambo? That was your mom, right?"
I say nothing. Just stare.
That's enough for the others to join in.
"No way that was his mom," Leo says. "She looked like a Victoria's Secret model. She looked younger than my sister."
"Dude, she gave MILF energy," Trey adds, not helping. "Like, if she wasn't your mom… I would've shot my shot."
I blink slowly.
"You sayin' you wouldn't?" Trey nudges me. "Come on. Admit it. Your mom's literally—"
"Shut up."
They all go silent for half a second.
Just enough time for Riley, some sophomore with too much lip gloss and not enough self-respect, to slide past and chirp, "If that's your mom, Sebastian, I see where you get it from. Hot must run in the family."
She winks at me like she's doing me a favor.
And I swear to God I almost break something.
"You guys are disgusting," I mutter, slamming my locker. "That's my mother. Not a thirst trap."
"But she literally is—"
"Say another word and I will break your jaw."
I mean it.
The whole hallway's watching now. And it's not just the boys. It's the girls too. Whispering, staring, passing me like I'm the hottest rumor in the room. But this time, it's not about me.
It's about her.
Sky Maddox.
32.
Looks 22.
Black knee-length hair. Silky voice. Expensive everything.
And not a damn clue that every dude at this school wants to fantasize about her.
They don't see her when she's standing in the kitchen in bunny slippers making me hot chocolate.
They don't see her yapping about French art museums and crying at Pixar movies.
They don't see how she's obsessed with lavender tea and tucks me in like I'm still ten years old.
To them, she's just hot.
To me, she's everything.
And I don't like the way they talk about her.
At all.
---
Lunch doesn't help.
Even my usual table—where I'm surrounded by teammates, cheerleaders, influencers, models—can't shut up about her.
"I'm serious," Leo says. "If I saw her on Tinder? Superlike."
I roll my eyes. "You're seventeen."
"And she looks twenty-two."
"She's thirty-two," I snap. "She's my mom. You idiots need therapy."
Trey leans forward, grinning. "Does she have an Instagram though?"
I throw my apple at him.
---
By the time school ends, I've had enough. I ignore the snickering, the whispers, the stares. Storm through the halls like I'm about to break something. Pull on my hoodie. Grab my helmet.
Nobody gets it.
Nobody gets what she's been through. What she gave up. How hard she worked to get where she is now.
She's not some rich socialite with a sugar baby car and tight dresses.
She's my mother.
She raised me alone in a shoebox apartment. She fought for every cent. She gave up her damn twenties to raise a kid. And now that she finally looks happy—now that she's finally glowing again—
These bastards wanna sexualize her?
Nah.
Not on my watch.
---
I pull the helmet over my head, swing my leg over the bike, and drive off like a storm tearing through Manhattan.
They can talk.
They can flirt.
But if any of them lays a hand on her—
I swear they won't have hands anymore.