CHAPTER 183: A GLIMPSE INTO OLIVIA’S AND MAXWELL’S PAST

Maxwell’s POV

The next day, Kennedy and I made our way to the library’s back alley at the appointed time as Peter had demanded. I could feel my heart trying to pound its way out of my chest.

Olivia walked beside me, her small hand gripping mine tightly. She’d insisted on coming, and nothing anyone said could change her mind. She was dressed in a pink jacket and jeans, and I could see the outline of her pepper spray canister in her pocket.

"Remember the plan," Kennedy murmured from my other side. "You and Olivia go in first. I’ll circle around through the back entrance."

"What if something goes wrong?"

"Nothing’s going to go wrong." He squeezed my shoulder. "Trust me."

We reached the alley entrance, and I immediately spotted the exact position where I’d been curled up yesterday, crying and broken.

Never again.

Kennedy disappeared around the corner, leaving Olivia and I to continue forward into the alley.

They were already there, waiting.

Peter stood in the center, surrounded by Jason on his right and Steven on his left. The fourth member - Marcus - was leaning against the far wall, picking at his nails with disinterest. All four of them looked up as we approached, a devilish smile spreading across their faces.

"Well, well," Peter drawled. "The fat pig actually showed up. I wasn’t sure you’d have the balls."

I forced myself to move forward, not back. Toward them. Make them back away.

"You asked me to come. I’m here."

"And you brought your little girlfriend." Peter’s eyes slid to Olivia, "how sweet. What is she, like six?"

"Eight," Olivia corrected sharply, arms akimbo like she was ready to fight. She looked completely unafraid, which was either incredibly brave or incredibly stupid. Probably both.

Jason laughed. "Oh, she’s got an attitude. I like that." He cracked his knuckles. "This is going to be fun."

"Here’s what’s going to happen," Peter said, taking a step toward us. "You’re going to get on your knees and apologize for existing. For being a waste of space. For breathing our air. And then we’re going to make sure you never forget your place again." His smile widened. "And your little friend gets to watch."

My hands clenched into fists. Every instinct screamed at me to run, to cry, to curl up and make myself small. But I thought of Kennedy’s training. Of Olivia’s faith in me. Of wanting to be someone worth being friends with.

"No," I said.

Peter blinked. "What?"

"I said no." My voice was firm. "I’m not doing that."

"Oh, you think you have a choice?" Peter’s expression darkened. He jerked his head at Jason. "Grab the girl. Let’s see how brave fatty is when we’re hurting her instead."

My blood ran cold. I started to move in front of Olivia, but she was already backing away.

Jason advanced on her with that cruel smile. "Come here, little girl. Don’t make this harder than it needs to be."

Olivia turned and ran.

Not away from the alley - but deeper into it, toward a corner filled with old crates and garbage bins.

"Jason, get her!" Peter barked.

Jason took off after her, his longer legs closing up the distance. I watched in horror as he rounded the corner where Olivia had disappeared, heard him laughing...

Then nothing.

Complete silence.

Peter frowned. "Jason?"

No response.

We all stared at the corner. Then Olivia came walking back out.

Alone.

She was dusting off her hands casually, looking completely unbothered. There was no sign of Jason.

"Where’s Jason?" Steven demanded.

Olivia looked at him with those big innocent eyes. "Oh, him?" She smiled sweetly. "He’s dead."

"WHAT?" Peter’s face went pale.

"Steven, go check on him!" Peter ordered, pointing at the corner. "And make sure you catch that little brat!"

Steven hesitated, clearly not wanting to, but Peter’s glare left no room for argument. He moved toward the corner cautiously, like he was approaching a wild animal.

"This is bullshit," Steven muttered, as he chased after Olivia. "There’s no way that little..."

He disappeared around the corner.

Again, we heard nothing. No shout, no struggle, no sound at all.

Then Olivia emerged once more, still looking serene and slightly bored.

"Let me guess," Marcus said shakily. "He’s dead too?"

"Yep." Olivia popped the ’p’ sound, examining her nails.

Peter was breathing hard now, his bravado cracking. "This is some kind of trick. Marcus, go..."

"Fuck that!" Marcus pushed off from the wall. "I’m not going anywhere near that corner. There’s something seriously wrong with that kid."

"Fine!" Peter snarled. "Fine, I’ll do everything myself. Like always." But his voice wavered.

He started toward the corner, but Olivia held up a hand.

"You don’t need to go over there," she said reasonably. "How about you just come get me instead?"

Peter stopped, confused by the sudden invitation. Then his expression hardened. "You think you’re clever? You think I’m scared of you?"

But instead of going for Olivia, Peter turned and lunged for me immediately, clearly deciding that violence was better than trying to figure out what game Olivia was playing.

His hand closed around the front of my shirt, yanking me forward. "I’m going to break your fucking nose," he hissed. "And then I’m going to..."

"Peter," Olivia called out in a calm voice, "You should look behind you."

"I’m not falling for your tricks, you little..."

"No, really. You should look."

Something in her tone made Peter hesitate. Maybe it was how confident she sounded.

Peter slowly turned his head.

Marcus was on the ground, sprawled face-down in the dirt, completely motionless. And standing over him, wearing an expression of cold satisfaction, was Kennedy.

"What the..." Peter breathed.

That moment of distraction was all I needed.

I pulled my fist back - like Kennedy had taught me, thumb outside my fingers, weight behind it - and punched Peter square in the nose with every ounce of strength I possessed.

CRACK!

Peter’s head snapped back, his hands releasing my shirt as he stumbled backward, shock and pain flooding his features.

Peter hit the ground hard, both hands flying to his face. Blood poured between his fingers, hot and red and proof. Proof that I’d fought back.

"You broke my nose!" Peter screamed. "You broke my fucking nose!"

I stood over him, chest heaving, knuckles throbbing, feeling more alive than I ever had.

Kennedy appeared at my side, grinning. "Nice hit, Wellington. You actually listened during training."

Olivia bounced over, her ponytail swinging. "That was AMAZING! You hit him right in the nose!"

"THERE THEY ARE, SIR!"

A new voice interrupted our celebration.

We all turned toward the alley entrance.

My driver stood there, pointing directly at us. His face was red from running, his hair disheveled.

And beside him, stepping into the alley with the presence of a judge entering a courtroom, was my father.

Robert Wellington III was an imposing man even on his best days. At six-foot-three, with silver-streaked dark hair and eyes that could flay you alive, he commanded attention wherever he went.

His gaze swept the scene in one look: the four older boys on the ground (one bleeding profusely from his nose), me standing over them with bruised knuckles, Kennedy looking ready to bolt, and tiny Olivia standing by my side.

My driver continued, "Those are the children who took your son, Mr. Wellington," he pointed at Kennedy and Olivia like they were criminals.