Maxwell POV

I’ve grown used to my mother’s voice—sharp, polished, heavy with expectation. It used to slice me open when I was younger, when I was desperate to impress her, to earn even a flicker of approval. But somewhere along the line—somewhere after Amelia, after the lies, after the funeral, after the silence in my chest grew louder—I stopped reacting. The nagging, the insults disguised as concern, the disappointment she wore like jewelry… none of it pierced anymore. It just ...