Losing Control : His Madness, His Cure Chapter 264

I pause mid-stir, the spoon dripping sauce back into the bowl in slow, lazy folds. I turn toward Adam, brow raised.

“Help me how.... exactly?”

He shrugs like it’s nothing, hands tucked into the pockets of his slacks, shoulders loose. “However I can.” Then, calmly, almost too casually....he adds, “If money’s the only problem, I can fix that.”

He says it without sounding like some puffed-up, self-satisfied rich guy dangling generosity like a trophy. No arrogance, no gleam of superiority. Then his eyes narrow, just a little, but enough to pin me in place.

“You had it in you to take my card and buy yourself a bike without even consulting me first.” His tone is dry, but with a tinge of amusement. “So don't tell me you've suddenly developed some noble moral conscience since you’ve been with Xander? Because the lack of it was honestly one of the things I liked about you.”

I scoff, straighten up and cross my arms across my chest. “You saying you’re willing to just throw cash at something? Just like that?”

He shakes his head immediately, lips curving like he’s a little offended by how little credit I give him. “Of course not. I’m a businessman, Jax. I don’t go into anything unless I’m confident in the return...confident it’s worth the risk.”

I don’t know what to say. The words scatter, useless. There’s an old instinctive fear that swells up and presses against my ribs. I’ve never let myself imagine something bigger, not really. Especially not out loud. The dream was always safer when it lived in the dark where no one could point at it, where I could pretend I didn’t care.

Hearing Adam talk about it like it’s real is intimidating. Unsettling. Too bright and way too sudden. It feels like stepping into sunlight after years in a basement. His voice softens. “If it’s something you’re sure about, and you know you’ll take it seriously, then I’d be more than happy to invest.”

He smiles a small, knowing smile. “Could even be fun. And not to brag, but I’ve got good connections just about everywhere. Plus my dad’s building that resort, he knows people in that field. We could use that. Strategize.”

He looks right at me but I say nothing. Then he nods, like he expected that. “Think about it. Call me if you make up your mind.”

Definitely too intimidating....

“And for the record?” he adds, voice dipping into something sincere, “I believe in you. I’m good at spotting potential, and I wouldn’t be suggesting this if I didn’t see it.”

He checks his watch with an easy flick of his wrist. “I’ve gotta go. And happy birthday again.” He lifts his beer, takes another sip, then starts walking towards the door. “Say hi to Xander for me when he wakes up.”

And just like that, he’s gone. I know I should probably stop, sit with what he just offered. Let it crack me open a bit.

But I don’t.

I go right back to the stove like muscle memory swallowed me whole, pretending nothing happened. Pretending the earth didn’t shift under my feet. When the food’s done, I clean up more than necessary, then reach for ingredients again before I’ve even decided what I’m doing. I bake a cake, spiced brown sugar with a cinnamon crumble top.

While it bakes, I lean against the counter, flipping through the cookbook. My shoulders loosen a little at the weight of the pages, the softness of the paper. I know exactly what I’m doing, intentionally avoiding a single conscious thought about what the offer.

It’s fear, the quiet kind.

Some recipes have ingredients I’ve never touched. Techniques I’ve never dared try. I look around the kitchen, checking if I even have what half these pages demand. It distracts me, but not enough.

I check the timer again. Still plenty of time, so I go unload the dryer. The clothes are warm and heavy in my arms as I head down the hall. When I reach the bedroom door, I peek in first before stepping inside.

Xander’s still sleeping.

For a moment I just stand there. Watching the rise and fall of his chest. I do that more often than I should. Haven’t figured out how to stop. Not sure I want to.

I cross the room carefully and drop the clothes on his desk before I start folding them. It’s an excuse, just a way to stay here a little longer, to keep him in my periphery. There’s a notebook open near the edge of the desk. I shouldn’t look, but of course I do.

Both pages are filled, lines and lines of gift ideas. Half of them crossed out. Small comments scribbled beside them in that handwriting I know too well,

*Too cliché.....cheesy AF.... Unrealistically expensive.*

I breathe out a small laugh. He tried so damn hard. I wonder how long he sat here. How seriously he took this. And that thought hits somewhere soft in me. I glance at him again, curled on his side, back to me. But I can perfectly see his face in my mind anyway.

And then the thought slips in before I can block it. If I ever got him something, what the hell would it be? Is there anything on earth that would be enough for him? Enough for this?

I fold the last shirt and put it away just to keep my hands busy. Then I sit on the edge of the bed. The mattress dips under me, Xander doesn’t even stir.

I go to check the time, see how long before the timer goes off, but my phone’s still on the desk. So I reach for his instead.

The screen lights up. And immediately I narrow my eyes.

There's a couple of texts from Nate....

The first one reads,

*“If a random guy at a gas station tells you his ‘homemade energy drink’ is safe, don't drink it,,,,been vibrating since 7am and I can hear colors now.*

And then the second....

*You holding up okay? Thinking about calling Jax, does he still hate me?*

My eyes linger on the second text, and a pang of guilt hits me like a cold wave. It’s sudden, uninvited, and heavier than it should be. I should probably be wondering when the hell Nate and Xander started chatting like friends, maybe even feeling a flicker of something like jealousy. But that’s not what swallows me. It’s the guilt. Over the past few weeks, I’ve fallen back into the routine, letting their calls go unanswered, their messages unread, as if forgetting them was natural.

I put Xander’s phone back on the stand. Less than ten minutes until the oven timer buzzes. I head back to the kitchen, take the cake out and set it down on the counter to cool. Then I stall, letting the minutes stretch, fingers drumming lightly against the counter, watching the steam rise in lazy spirals.

Finally, after a moment that feels too long, I pull out my phone and open Kieran’s contact, thumb hovering over the call button. My chest tightens as I hesitate....He’s like an older, more self-absorbed version of Nate. And according to the state-appointed psychologist the three of them were all forced to see at one point. Kieran's a full-blown narcissist. Talking to him would be like taking the easy way out. That’s why I close the thought and pull up Dorian’s number instead. Harder, more honest. Something that might actually matter.