Zeke's POV
Five years ago...
“Where the hell have you been?”
My father’s voice was the first thing that greeted me when I walked through the grand entrance of the Donahue mansion. No warm welcome. No concern. Just fury.
I barely had time to close the door before his voice slammed into me again.
“Answer me, Ezekiel!”
I let out a slow exhale, rolling my shoulders like I could shake off the tension clinging to me. I still reeked of alcohol, my new tattoo burning under my sleeve. “Out.”
That was all I said.
That was all it took.
The slap came fast. Sharp. A stinging crack that rang through the marble foyer. My head snapped to the side, the metallic taste of blood coating my tongue.
“You’re shaming this family, Zeke,” my father said, voice low and controlled. That was worse than his yelling. When David Donahue was quiet, it meant he was done being patient.
I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, swallowing down the pain. “You ever stop to think I don’t care about your damn legacy?” My words slurred slightly, the liquor still clouding my brain, but I didn’t back down. “Did you ever ask me what I want?”
His eyes darkened. “It’s not about what you want.”
“Of course, it’s not,” I scoffed, running a hand through my messy hair. My pulse pounded against my skull, a mix of alcohol and anger making me reckless. “It never is.”
“You don’t understand what’s at stake here.”
“And I don’t care,” I shot back.
Silence stretched between us, thick with years of unspoken resentment.
In the corner of my eye, I saw movement—my mother, standing at the base of the grand staircase, gripping Cara’s small hand like she was afraid I’d drag her down with me. My little sister had rushed toward me the moment I stepped inside, eyes bright with relief, but my mother had pulled her back just in time to see me get slapped.
Cara’s lower lip trembled. She looked up at our father, then back at me. “Zeke…”
I forced a smile for her, winking like it was nothing. Like I hadn’t just been hit in front of the whole damn house. “Hey, kid. You should be in bed.”
“But—”
“Now, Cara,” my mother whispered, her voice thick with worry. She pulled her away, but Cara kept looking over her shoulder at me, like she knew. Like she knew I was going to be in trouble.
She wasn’t wrong.
My father straightened his suit, his expression unreadable. “You’re sleeping in the attic tonight.”
I let out a bitter laugh. “You serious?”
“You’ll stay there until tomorrow. Is that clear?”
I should’ve fought back harder. I should’ve said something, but the exhaustion weighed too heavy. I was too drunk to argue, too lost in my own world to care.
I turned on my heel and walked up the stairs. I could feel their eyes on me—my mother’s worry, Cara’s sadness, my father’s unwavering disappointment. None of it touched me. I was too used to it by now.
The attic was cold, the air thick with dust. A single window let in the glow of the city lights, casting long shadows across the old furniture covered in white sheets. The weight of the night pressed against my chest as I sat on the creaky bed, running a hand over my new tattoo.
A black raven, wings spread wide, inked into my forearm.
Freedom. That’s what it was supposed to mean.
But as I lay back against the worn mattress, staring at the ceiling, all I could think about was how trapped I still was.