Maxwell POV

The sound of glass shattering barely made me blink.

My mother stood across the room, chest heaving, her perfectly manicured fingers trembling as the crystal tumbler hit the marble floor and exploded into shards. Whiskey streaked across the tiles like spilled gold, stark against the cold white.

“Are you going to say something?” Rebecca hissed. “Anything?”

I didn’t answer. I just watched her, my hands tucked into the pockets of my slacks, my expression steady. Too steady for ...