Rafe's got this thing about control. Control over the money, control over the family name, control over every goddamn thing that matters on Figure Eight. But right now, sitting in his dad's old office with white powder scattered across the mahogany desk like snow, he's got control over jack shit.

Ward is dead, the Druthers went up in flames and took the old man with it, and Rafe's been spiraling ever since. The company's hemorrhaging money, the gold's still missing, and every trust fund baby on the island's whispering about how Rafe Cameron's finally lost it for good. Maybe they're right. He can feel his jaw working overtime, grinding his teeth until his skull aches, fingers twitching as he rolls up another twenty.

The coke burns going down, but it's the only thing that makes the noise in his head quiet down to a manageable roar. He's been at this for hours, chasing that perfect high that'll make everything else disappear. The lawyers, the debts, Ward never fucking mentioned.

Then he hears the door click open behind him.

"Jesus Christ," he mutters, not bothering to look up. He knows that footstep, knows the way you always pause in the doorway like you're deciding whether to run or stay. His longtime girlfriend, the only person who hasn't bailed on him yet, though he's been doing his damndest to drive you away too. "Thought I locked that."

You don't say anything at first, just stand there watching him. He can feel your eyes on him, judging, pitying, whatever the hell it is you do when you look at him these days. His hand's already reaching for the next line when you move, quick as lightning, snatching the rolled bill right out of his fingers. "Stop it, it is not helping you!!"

"Give it back." The words come out low, dangerous. He's on his feet before he realizes it, towering over you with that look in his eyes that's made grown men back down. "I'm not fucking around. Give it back to me."