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~ 1 ~ Lynn ~ The graduation cap hit the back of my head before I even heard the laughter. I didn't turn around. After three years at Ravencrest High School, I'd learned that turning around only gave them the satisfaction of seeing your face. "Sorry!" a voice sang behind me — too sweet, too deliberate. Vanessa Quinn. I'd know that honeyed poison anywhere. I kept walking, hugging my books tighter against my chest, chin level, eyes forward. That was the only armor I had in a place like this — the appearance of not caring, even when everything inside me was caving. Ravencrest wasn't a school. It was a kingdom, and everyone here knew exactly where they stood in it. The children of old money sat at the top — untouchable, golden, and cruel in the effortless way that only the truly privileged could manage. Then there were the new rich, desperate to prove they belonged. And then there was me. Lynnette Hawthorne. Scholarship student. The principal's pity project. The girl whose grandmother sold fish at the local market. I had spent three years being invisible when it suited them and a target when it didn't. Today was supposed to be the last day of all that. The graduation hall buzzed with the kind of joy I couldn't access — cameras flashing, confetti spinning down like colored snow, parents in expensive perfume pressing their children into hugs. Everyone was crying and laughing at the same time, the way people do when something is ending and they're sad and relieved all at once. I was just relieved. I pressed myself toward the edge of the crowd, looking for a quiet wall to hold up until my name was called. That was my entire plan for today. Survive the ceremony. Collect my certificate. Disappear forever. Then I felt it — that particular prickling at the back of my neck that I had learned to recognize over three years. I looked up without meaning to. Ryker Vaughn was standing across the hall. He wasn't doing anything dramatic. He was just standing there in his graduation gown, one hand in his pocket, laughing at something Zane Carter, his best friend had said. But he was the kind of person whose presence rearranged the air in a room. Tall, effortlessly put together, with that sharp jaw and those dark brown eyes that always looked like they were calculating something. For exactly two seconds, his gaze drifted across the room and landed on me. My breath caught. Then he looked away. Straight through me, like I was part of the wall. Like I was nothing. I exhaled slowly. That was Ryker Vaughn in a nutshell — the boy who had spent three years making my life miserable, and still somehow made my stupid heart trip every single time he accidentally looked in my direction. I hated him. I hated myself more for the way my pulse behaved around him. Get it together, Lynn. "And now," the principal's voice cut through the noise, sharp and proud, "let's hear from our student body president — Lynnette Hawthorne." Polite applause. A few soft boos woven in just to remind me where I stood. I made my way toward the stage, keeping my breathing even. I had written this speech three times. I knew every word. I just had to get through it without falling apart in front of people who would absolutely screenshot it. I was on the second step when my foot caught something solid. I pitched forward, arms flying, and hit the stage floor hard on my palms. The laughter was instant — sharp and collective, the kind that has been waiting for exactly this moment. "Oops." Vanessa's voice floated down from behind me, soft as silk. "Didn't see your foot there." My palms stung. My cheeks burned hotter. I pushed myself up slowly, refusing to rush, refusing to give them the pleasure of watching me scramble. When I finally stood and turned to face the crowd, my eyes found Ryker without my permission. He was leaning back in his chair, arm draped lazily around Vanessa's empty seat, watching me with that cold half-smile. He didn't laugh. He didn't shout anything. He just watched, like I was mildly entertaining. Like I was a small, predictable thing that had done exactly what he expected. Somehow that was worse than the laughter. "Come on, Lynn — you've got this!" Adam. My best friend's voice cut through the noise from the front row, warm and steady, an anchor in the middle of a storm. He was grinning at me, his eyes full of the kind of quiet encouragement that had gotten me through three years of this place. I straightened. Picked up the microphone. "My name is Lynnette Hawthorne," I began, my voice shakier than I wanted but loud enough to carry. "And we have all come a very long way to get here." I didn't look at Ryker again. I gave the speech. Every word, every pause, exactly as I'd rehearsed. When I stepped back from the podium, my hands were still trembling, but I had done it. Three years of surviving Ravencrest, and I had done it. I was almost off the stage when a hard shove caught my shoulder. "Make way, President," Zane muttered, laughing as he pushed past me like I was a door. I steadied myself against the podium, jaw tight. Then Ryker stepped up beside him, reaching past me for the microphone like I wasn't standing right there. His arm brushed mine — brief, warm, and completely indifferent. "Who's ready to party?" he shouted into the mic. The hall erupted. Vanessa appeared at his side instantly, sliding her hands around his neck and pulling him into a kiss that the crowd screamed over. I turned away before I could see more of it, pressing through the bodies toward the exit. Adam found me near the doors, his face bright. "Hey — there's an afterparty tonight. Lakeshore Club. Come with me." "Absolutely not." "Lynn." "Adam, that place will be wall-to-wall people who just watched me eat the stage floor." He laughed softly. "And you'll walk in tonight looking so good they'll all forget about it. Come on." His voice dropped, quieter now, more honest. "I don't want to go alone. You're my person in this school. You've always been." That was the part that got me. It always was with Adam. I sighed. "Fine. One hour." His grin widened. "That's my girl." "Don't say it like that." He was already walking backward toward a group of friends, laughing. "Don't be late!" I watched him disappear into the crowd and stood there for a moment in the thinning hall, certificate in hand, the noise fading around me. Three years of this place, and tonight was the last impression I would ever make on any of them. If I was going out, I was going out like I meant it. ~ 2 ~ 2 ~ Lynn ~ My bestfriend, Brielle Knox had a gift for arriving exactly when she was needed most. I was standing in front of the cracked mirror in my bedroom, holding a faded pink dress against my body for the third time as if it would somehow look different, when the front door burst open and she walked in like the answer to a prayer I hadn't finished praying. "Put that down," she said, not even breaking stride, dropping her bag onto my bed with the confidence of someone who lived here. "I'm not letting you walk into that party looking like you're going to a church picnic." "Hello to you too, Brielle." "Hello." She was already unzipping her bag. "Now put it down." I dropped the dress onto the bed and watched her rummage through what appeared to be half her wardrobe stuffed into one tote. Brielle wasn't rich either — not even close — but she had a talent for looking expensive that I had never been able to reverse-engineer, no matter how many times I studied her. "I wasn't even sure I was going," I said. "You're going." She didn't look up. "Adam called me." "Of course he did." She pulled out a gold dress and held it up. The fabric shimmered even in the dim light of my bedroom, catching what little the cracked bulb overhead had to offer. It was short. Very short. The kind of short that made a statement before you even opened your mouth. I stared at it. "Absolutely not." "Absolutely yes." She pushed it into my hands. "Try it on before you finish that sentence." I looked at Grandma, who was sitting in the corner chair watching us with that soft, patient smile she wore when she already knew how things were going to end. "It's a little short," Grandma offered gently. Brielle winked at her. "That's the point, Ma." Grandma pressed her lips together, trying not to smile. She failed. I took the dress to the bathroom. Ten minutes later I stood in front of the mirror and barely recognized myself. The gold caught my skin tone in a way that the faded pinks and tired blues of my wardrobe never had. It skimmed my figure, hit mid-thigh, and made my legs look longer than I knew they were. Brielle had also produced, from some bottomless corner of her bag, a pair of barely-worn nude heels in exactly my size. I came out slowly. Brielle looked up from where she was perched on my bed painting her nails and went completely still for exactly one second. Then she screamed. "Lynn!" She launched herself off the bed. "I knew it. I knew it. You've been hiding this whole time!" "I'm not hiding anything, I just—" "Hold still." She was already reaching for my hair, gathering it up with practised hands, twisting it into something effortless at the nape of my neck. She slid a small gold clip in and stepped back to look at her work. "Ryker Vaughn is going to swallow his tongue." "Brielle—" "I'm just stating facts." "He doesn't even see me as a person." She met my eyes in the mirror, and for just a moment, the teasing fell away. Her voice came out quieter, more certain. "Then tonight he will." I looked at my reflection for a long moment. The girl looking back at me didn't look like the scholarship student. Didn't look like the girl who had eaten the stage floor a few hours ago while Ravencrest laughed. She looked like someone who had decided something. Maybe that was enough to walk through the door on. Grandma appeared in the doorway, her eyes moving over me slowly. She was quiet for a moment in the way she got sometimes — the way that meant she was seeing someone else in me, someone I never got to know. "You look just like your mother," she said softly. My throat tightened. I crossed the room and hugged her before she could see my face do anything embarrassing. She smelled like the sea and fish and everything that was home, and I held on a beat longer than I meant to. "I'll be back before midnight," I whispered. She kissed my cheek. "Be safe, my girl. And hold your head up in there — you hear me? All the way up." … The cab ride was quiet except for the radio and the sound of my own pulse. I had spent my last money on the fare because there was no version of this dress and this night that involved a bus. The driver kept glancing at me in the rearview mirror and I kept my eyes on the window, watching the streets change — gradually, noticeably — from the narrow roads of our neighborhood to the wide, lamp-lit avenues of the part of town where my classmates actually lived. When the Lakeshore Club came into view, I felt the gap between our worlds like a physical thing. The building glowed gold under string lights, luxury cars lined the curved driveway, and music pulsed through the walls like a second heartbeat. Beautifully dressed people moved in and out of the tall glass entrance like they had been born knowing how to exist in places like this. I paid the driver, stepped out, and stood on the pavement for a moment. ‘You could go home,’ said the voice in my head that sounded like three years of being laughed at. ‘Hold your head up,’ said Grandma's voice, quieter but steadier. I chose Grandma. I walked in. The heat hit me first — warm air thick with expensive perfume, alcohol, and the particular energy of a crowd that had been waiting all year to let loose. Gold light poured from chandeliers overhead, music shook the floor beneath my heels, and everywhere I looked there were my classmates, unrecognizable in their best clothes, finally free and celebrating like they knew it. I moved through the crowd looking for Adam, keeping my expression neutral, my chin level the way Grandma had told me. I didn't find Adam. I found Ryker Vaughn instead. He was standing near the bar, a glass held loosely in one hand, black shirt fitted in a way that should have been illegal. His hair was slightly dishevelled — not messy, just effortlessly undone — and he was half-laughing at something Zane had said, head tilted back, completely at ease in the way that only people who have never had to earn their place anywhere manage to be. Then he looked up. Our eyes met across the crowd and something shifted — the noise, the music, the hundred bodies between us — all of it seemed to drop back a register. His gaze moved over me slowly, just once, in a way that was completely different from the way he had looked through me at graduation. Or rather, the way he hadn't looked at me at all. He looked now. I felt it everywhere. Then Zane followed his line of sight, found me, and bit his lower lip in an exaggerated way that made my skin crawl. "Damn! Hot!," he said, loud enough to carry. Laughter rippled around them. And just like that the moment was over, punctured and mocking like everything always was at Ravencrest. Vanessa appeared at Ryker's side a half-second later — radar precise, as always. Her eyes found me, swept over the gold dress, and something flickered behind her perfect face. Not quite insecurity. More like the particular irritation of someone who had decided a thing was beneath her and was now being forced to reconsider. She slid both hands around Ryker's neck and kissed him slowly, deliberately, with the full awareness of an audience. I turned away before I had to watch more of it. I wove through the crowd until I found a quieter corner behind a cluster of chatting students, pressed my back against the wall, and pulled out my phone. The screen was cracked across one corner and it overheated if you used it too long, but it was mine. I typed quickly: Where are you? I watched the screen, waiting. The reply came faster than I expected, but it wasn't what I wanted to read. I'm so sorry, Lynn. Dad just got into town. We're talking about me studying abroad — Switzerland. I'll call you later, I promise. I read it twice. Then I read it a third time, like the words might rearrange themselves into something less final. He wasn't coming. I was alone in a room full of people who had spent three years making me feel like I didn't belong here — in a dress that wasn't mine, on borrowed confidence, at a party I never wanted to attend in the first place. And Adam was talking about Switzerland. Switzerland. I was still processing what that meant — for tonight, for after tonight, for the strange future shape of a life without my only friend in it — when Zane Carter climbed onto a table in the centre of the hall and the music dropped. "Doors are closing!" he roared, arms wide, bottle raised. "It's game time!" The crowd surged and screamed toward the centre. I craned my neck toward the entrance and my stomach dropped — two large men had positioned themselves at the doors, arms crossed, expressions flat. I looked back at my phone. Adam's message was still there. I'll call you later, I promise. "We're starting with Truth or Dare!" Zane announced, and the room detonated. I pressed further into my corner and closed my eyes for exactly three seconds. I should have never come. ~ 3 ~ 3 ~ Lynn ~ The Truth or Dare circle formed the way disasters do — quickly, and with everyone's full enthusiasm. Zane ran it like a ringmaster who had been waiting all year for his moment. He stood on the table at the centre of the hall, bottle in one hand, microphone in the other, conducting the crowd with the particular energy of someone who had never once faced a consequence in his life. I stayed in my corner. That was my entire strategy — stay small, stay quiet, stay invisible until the doors opened again and I could slip out into the night and pretend this had never happened. I was good at invisible. I had been practising it for three years. I kept my eyes on my phone, scrolling through nothing, the cracked screen warm under my thumb. Around me the game churned through its early rounds — harmless confessions, embarrassing dares, the usual theatre of people performing for each other. Someone admitted to a crush on the class nerd. Someone else was dared to chug a full cup in under five seconds. The crowd screamed for all of it. I watched from the edge and felt nothing except the quiet, persistent ache of Adam's message still sitting in my chest. Switzerland. I turned the word over in my mind for the hundredth time. It wasn't just a country. It was a distance that didn't close easily. It was the specific kind of leaving that changed the shape of things permanently, and Adam was the only person in this school who had ever made me feel like I had a right to take up space. Without him, what exactly had these three years been for? I was deep enough in my own head that I almost missed it when the energy in the room shifted. It started as a change in pitch — the crowd's noise sharpening from general excitement into something more focused, more electric. I looked up from my phone. Ryker Vaughn had leaned forward in his chair. "Truth," he said, his voice carrying easily across the hall without any effort at all. That was the thing about Ryker — he never had to try. The room just arranged itself around him. Zane's grin stretched slow and wide. "What do you actually feel for Vanessa?" The crowd held its breath collectively. Vanessa was already smiling — a carefully composed smile, the kind that was ready to be seen. She sat perfectly straight, her blonde curls catching the light, performing the role of girlfriend with the ease of long practice. She already knew what he was going to say. She was just waiting to receive it gracefully. Ryker tilted his head slightly. "She's got good energy," he said, pausing just long enough to let the room lean in. "And I like her body." The reaction was immediate and savage — gasps, shouts, someone knocking over a drink. Zane threw his head back laughing. A group near the front started chanting something I couldn't make out over the noise. Vanessa's smile didn't fall. It cracked — just at the edges, just for a second, the composed surface giving way to something that looked very much like hurt before she smoothed it back over. She laughed along with the crowd because she had no other choice, and I felt something twist in my chest watching it. I knew exactly what it felt like to keep your face together when something landed wrong. I looked back down at my phone. I shouldn't have felt relieved. I knew that. Whatever Ryker Vaughn did or didn't feel for Vanessa Quinn had absolutely nothing to do with me, and the small loosening in my chest at his answer was pathetic and I was fully aware of it. But there it was anyway. The game kept moving. More rounds, more noise, more bodies in motion. I stayed in my corner and watched the clock on my phone. Another twenty minutes and surely the doors would open. I could get a cab home, wash off this borrowed gold dress, and fold this entire night away somewhere I didn't have to look at it. My phone buzzed. Adam again. It's official. I leave in three days. I'm sorry I can't tell you in person, Lynn. I'll miss you more than you know. Three days. I read the message twice, then put the phone face down on my knee because I didn't trust my expression. My throat had gone tight in the particular way it did when I was not going to cry but my body hadn't quite accepted that decision yet. Three days and then he was gone, and I was standing alone in this room full of people who had never once looked at me the way Adam always did — like I was someone worth knowing. I needed air. I stood up carefully, smoothing the gold dress, and started moving toward the wall that ran along the side of the hall, angling for the far exit. If I moved slowly enough, close enough to the edges, I could get out without cutting through the circle and drawing anyone's— The crack of a slap split the room. I froze. The music didn't stop but the crowd did, turning as one organism toward the source of the sound. I turned too. Vanessa was on her feet, her chest heaving, her palm still suspended in the air. The red bloom on Ryker's cheek was visible even from where I stood. The composed smile was completely gone now. In its place was something raw and trembling that I almost didn't recognise on her — genuine hurt, stripped of its performance. "You're disgusting," she said, her voice shaking with the effort of holding itself together. Ryker said nothing. He just sat very still, the way he had gone still at graduation when Vanessa tripped me — that particular quality of stillness that wasn't shock or shame but something else entirely, something harder to read. Then he turned his head. And looked directly at me. My heart stopped. Not a glance. Not the casual sweep he had given me at the entrance. He looked at me the way you look at something you have been aware of for a long time but have been pretending otherwise — deliberate, unhurried, and with a weight behind it that made the air between us feel suddenly different. I didn't move. I couldn't. Zane's voice cut through the noise before I could make sense of any of it. "Alright, alright — settle down, settle down." He spread his arms wide, already grinning in the direction of my corner. "Let's not ruin the fun." He found me in the crowd like he already knew exactly where I was standing. "Lynnette Hawthorne." He said my name the way you say something you've been saving — slow, deliberate, letting each syllable land. The heads that hadn't already turned now did. I felt the attention like a physical thing, like heat, like the specific horrible exposure of being singled out in a room of people who had always found you funny for the wrong reasons. "I wasn't playing," I said. My voice came out steadier than I felt. Zane shrugged, unbothered. "Everyone in this room is playing. Those are the rules." "I didn't agree to any rules." "Didn't have to." His smile widened. He looked across the circle at Ryker, then back at me, drawing the moment out for maximum effect. "Ryker's been dared." The crowd stirred. "And you," Zane continued, his voice lifting over the noise with the ease of someone delivering the punchline he had been building toward all night, "are the dare." Laughter rippled outward from the circle like a stone dropped in water, reaching every corner of the room. Someone whistled. Someone else shouted Ryker's name. My fingers tightened around my phone until the cracked edge bit into my palm. "What does that mean?" I said, though something cold and certain in my stomach already knew. Zane looked straight at me, still grinning. "Ryker Vaughn," he announced to the room, "has been dared to sleep with you." The sound that came from the crowd was something between a gasp and a roar. It swelled and peaked and kept going, feeding on itself the way crowd energy does when it smells blood. I stood completely still in the middle of it. My first instinct was to laugh — the short, defensive kind that meant this isn't real and none of you can touch me. My second instinct was to look at the door, at the large men still standing there, arms crossed, immovable. My third instinct was to look at Ryker. He was already looking at me. He hadn't moved from his chair. Hadn't laughed with the crowd, hadn't played to the room the way Zane was doing. He was just watching me with that same unreadable steadiness, his cheek still faintly marked from Vanessa's palm, and something in his expression was harder to dismiss than I wanted it to be. Like he was waiting to see what I would do. Like, out of everyone in this screaming room, I was the only one whose answer actually mattered to him. Don't, said every sensible part of me. But Ryker Vaughn was already rising from his chair. ~ 4 ~ 4 ~ Lynn ~ He moved through the crowd — unhurried, inevitable, every person between us stepping aside without being asked. I watched him come and did not move, I didn’t know what to fucking do. That was the thing I couldn't explain afterward, in the long quiet hours when I replayed it — I had options. The doors were large but not impassable. I was small and quick and I had spent three years navigating spaces where I wasn't wanted. I could have pushed through. Instead I stood there with my cracked phone in my hand and watched Ryker Vaughn walk toward me like I had been waiting for this specific moment since the first day I stepped into Ravencrest and didn't know his name yet. He stopped in front of me — closer than he had ever voluntarily stood before. Close enough that I could smell him, he had a chocolate musk perfume on. I wanted to pull him closer and eat him. He was close enough that I had to tip my chin up slightly to hold his gaze, which I did, because I had spent three years of looking at the floor, it is my last day, I might as well hold this gaze and admire his brown eyes. For a moment he just looked at me. Then, without breaking eye contact, he reached for the hem of his shirt and pulled it over his head. The crowd behind him erupted. I forgot how to breathe. I had seen his photograph in the school magazine. I had seen him at swim practice through the window of the library where I studied alone. None of it had prepared me for this — the lean, defined reality of him, the tattooed geography of his chest mapped out in bold black ink. Wings spread from his collarbones, each feather rendered with the kind of precision that took hours to achieve, curling toward the edges of his shoulders. Between them, centred over his heart, a dagger wound with a snake — clean lines, dark shadows, the image of something beautiful and dangerous existing together. I became aware that my mouth was open. I closed it. "Well," he said quietly. Just that one word, and the corner of his mouth moved — not quite a smirk, something more private than that. Like I had confirmed something for him. I straightened. "This is not a game I agreed to play." "You're in the room," he said. "That's agreement enough tonight." "That's… that’s… not how consent works." I couldn’t help myself from stuttering. He leaned down slowly, and I held my ground even as every nerve in my body screamed at me to step back, until his mouth was level with my ear and I could feel the warmth of his breath against my skin. "Here's how this works," he murmured, his voice pitched low enough that only I could hear it beneath the noise of the crowd. "You say yes, or you pay the price. Those are the only two options on the table tonight." "What price?" I said. My voice was impressively steady. I was proud of it. He pulled back just enough to look at me. "Five thousand dollars" I laughed before I could stop myself — a short, involuntary sound. "You know I don't have that." "I know." His eyes held mine. "I also know you're the only person in this room who actually showed up tonight dressed like you want to be fucked." He paused. "That gold dress wasn't for them." My breath caught, how could he be so vulgar? How could he not have just an atom of filter. Jesus Christ! It was such a small thing. Such a quiet, specific observation buried inside what was supposed to be a humiliation. He had no business noticing what the dress was for. He had no business saying it out loud like that, low and even, like a fact rather than a weapon. I hated him for it. "I… I… I just wore what I have," I stuttered. He studied me for a moment. Behind him, the crowd was getting restless — someone shouted his name, someone else made a sound that was supposed to be encouraging. He didn't look away from me. “I want to go” I managed to say, though I didn’t mean it He laughed wryly. "The men at the door will let you go actually." He said it simply, without hesitation, and it surprised me enough that I believed him. "But you won't go." The arrogance of it should have been enough. It should have snapped whatever spell the low voice and the tattoos and the quiet observation about the dress had briefly cast. It should have sent me straight toward those doors with my head high and my middle finger raised. I looked at him standing there — shirt gone, completely unbothered by the noise of a hundred people watching him, eyes fixed on mine like the crowd didn't exist — and I thought about three years. Three years of being the punchline, the charity case, the girl who ate the stage floor. Three years of watching him from a careful distance and hating myself for the watching. I thought about Adam's message sitting on my phone. I'll miss you more than you know. Everyone was leaving or had already left or had never really been there to begin with. And Ryker Vaughn was standing in front of me asking me a question that no one in three years had bothered to ask. Before I could finish the thought, his hand came up and brushed a strand of hair back from my face. His fingers grazed my cheekbone — barely, just the lightest drag of warmth across my skin — and I felt it in my spine. I had never let myself be this close to him. Not once in three years. "Last chance," he said quietly. Then in the snap of a finger, his mouth found mine, kissing me softly. It was nothing like I had imagined in the careless privacy of my own head — and I had imagined it, more times than I would ever admit to anyone, including myself. I had imagined something clumsy or cold or deliberately cruel. Something that would finally cure me of the wanting. It wasn't any of those things. It was warm and certain and devastatingly unhurried for the first two seconds — like he had all the time in the world and had decided to spend it here. Then his hand sliding to the nape of my neck, fingers pressing gently into my hair, and the kiss deepened into something that wiped every coherent thought I had clean off the surface of my mind. I kissed him back with three years of carefully suppressed longing that I had been so disciplined about and was apparently not disciplined about at all when it came down to it. When he finally pulled back, the crowd was a blur of noise I couldn't parse. His eyes searched mine — dark, intent, still with that quality of arriving at a conclusion. "So," he said, his voice rough at the edges now in a way it hadn't been before. "Yes?" I knew what I was doing. I was fully aware that this was Ryker Vaughn and I was Lynn Hawthorne and tomorrow the world would look exactly as it always had. I was not confused about any of that. I nodded anyway. "Condoms, please!" Zane's voice shattered the moment like a brick through glass, and the hall collapsed into laughter and chaos. Ryker didn't react to any of it. He just looked at me for one more second, then reached down and took my hand. His grip was warm and steady and certain — the hand of someone who had made a decision and wasn't questioning it. He didn't look back as he walked. I followed him through the thinning crowd, through the corridor that smelled of alcohol and bass and other people's perfume, toward the door at the far end of the hall. My heart was so loud I could feel it in my fingertips. The bathroom door opened. He held it. I stepped inside. The mirror above the sink showed me a girl in a gold dress with her hair slightly undone and her eyes too bright — a girl who had walked into this party invisible and was somehow here, in this moment, with this boy. I barely recognised her. The door clicked shut behind us. Ryker's eyes met mine in the mirror. The noise of the party fell away to almost nothing, just the distant thud of bass through the walls and the sound of both of us breathing. He moved slowly, deliberately — none of the performance of the crowd left in him now, just something quieter and more direct. His hands settled at my waist, drawing me back against him, and his mouth found the side of my neck with a patience that made my knees uncertain. "Still want to run?" he murmured against my skin. "No," I said. And I meant it. ~ 5 ~ 5 ~ Lynn ~ His hand snaked around my waist, yanking me against the hard length of his body; the other swept my hair aside, baring my neck. His mouth found the pulse hammering there, devouring me with soothing kisses, while I gripped the edge of the sink to stay upright. “Turn around,” he muttered against my skin. I obeyed, breath hitching as he spun me to face the mirror. The glass was cool under my palms when he pressed me forward, bending me over the sink. He lifted my gold dress up with the motion; and for a moment I thought of what Brielle is going to do if she found out I did this. She must never know! His hands found my panties with the speed of light, making me certain he must have done this a million times with Vanessa, the thought distracted me for a second. His fingers hooked the into lace of my panties and tearing it down my thighs in one impatient tug. I watched him in the reflection wondering if I was dreaming or this is actually reality and I am making a costly mistake. He unbuckled his belt and it dawned on me that I was actually about to have sex with Ryker Vaughn in a club restroom. I felt heat flooding between my legs, I was dripping from moisture of desire for Ryker. This is my dream. He freed his d*ck and I almost gasped at how thick and heavy it was in his hand, and the first brush of him against my p*ssy drew a broken moan from my throat. “Eyes on me, kitten,” he ordered, voice low and lethal when my eyes fluttered shut. I forced them open, meeting his stare in the mirror. His thrust drove slowly at first, letting me feel every inch stretch me open, until I was trembling. Then he snapped his hips forward, burying himself to the hilt in one brutal thrust that tore a cry from my lips. My back arched; his hand splayed across my stomach, holding me pinned as he pulled out and slammed back in, setting a punishing rhythm that had the mirror rattling against the wall. Every thrust drove deeper, harder, until pleasure coiled so tight I thought I’d shatter. Minutes later a guttural sound ripping from his chest as forehead pressed between my shoulder blades. For a moment, the only sounds were our ragged breathing and the distant thump of bass through the walls. Then he straightened, hands gentle now as he turned me to face him. His thumb brushed my swollen lower lip, eyes searching mine. Then he took a deep breath, adjusted my dress and pulled away, adjusting his trousers. The world came back in pieces. The distant thud of bass through the walls. The hum of the bathroom light overhead. The sound of my own breathing, still unsteady, trying to find its normal rhythm and not quite getting there. I looked at myself in the mirror. The gold dress was back in place. My hair had come loose from Brielle's clip, which now sat on the edge of the sink, and a few strands fell across my face. My lips were swollen and my eyes were too bright and I looked — I looked like someone something had happened to. Not badly. Just significantly. The kind of look that doesn't wash off immediately. I reached for the clip. Behind me, Ryker was quiet in the particular way he was quiet. I watched him in the mirror without turning around, he started almost like he was going to say something. His jaw moved slightly. His brows drew together a fraction. Then the door burst open. Zane practically fell into the room, catching himself on the door frame with the gracelessness of someone who had been leaning against it for an indeterminate amount of time. He straightened, looked between us, and produced a slow, wide grin that made my skin crawl. He held up a small foil packet (condoms) between two fingers. "Little problem," he said. The unguarded thing in Ryker's expression vanished instantly. His eyes dropped to the condom in Zane's hand and went flat. "You forgot something," Zane added, tilting his head at me with a smirk that was doing its best to be charming and landing somewhere closer to repulsive. He pitched his voice low, a mocking echo: "Eyes on me, Kitten." The laughter that came from the hallway told me there were more people listening than just Zane. Ryker was silent for exactly two seconds. Then he moved. His hand closed around my arm and he pushed me back against the wall — not gently, the tile cold and hard through the thin fabric of the dress, the impact sharp enough to pull a sound from my throat. "Ryker…" "Are you clean?" he said. His voice was flat. Clipped. The voice he used in class when he was bored, or in the hallway when he was dismissing someone. I had heard it aimed at other people for three years. Receiving it felt exactly as bad as I would have predicted. I looked at him and saw nothing of the person who had brushed hair from my face twenty minutes ago, nothing of the quiet certainty in his eyes when he took my hand. His gaze was distant and cooling and I was apparently already somewhere in his rearview mirror. The humiliation moved through me like cold water. "I should be asking you that," I said. It came out steadier than I felt. I was grateful for that. He made a sound that wasn't quite a laugh — dismissive, barely there — and released my arm. He turned toward Zane and said nothing else. Just slung an arm around Zane's shoulders and walked out into the hallway like I was a room he had finished being in. Zane glanced back at me over his shoulder, still grinning. The door swung shut behind them. I stood against the wall for a long moment and breathed. So. There it was. The part I had known was coming and had chosen to walk into anyway, with my eyes open and Grandma's voice in my ear and a borrowed gold dress and three years of wanting someone who had never once seen me as a person. I had no right to be surprised. I had no right to feel anything except what I felt, which was the specific, deserved sting of a thing you walked into knowingly. I picked up Brielle's clip from the edge of the sink. I fixed my hair. I waited until I was certain Ryker and Zane were back in the main hall before I opened the door and left the club, ensuring no one saw me leave. I was ashamed of myself. … Two months out of Ravencrest and sex with Ryker Vaughn and my life looked exactly like it had before I ever set foot in that school — early mornings, fish baskets, Grandma humming beside me in the salt air. No college. Not without money. Not yet. Maybe not ever. I had stopped letting myself finish that thought. But my body was not cooperating with the business of moving on. It started as a wave — low and rolling, building before I could identify it — and then my stomach turned over completely and I bent forward and was sick on the ground before I could do anything about it. "Lynn!" Brielle's voice, sharp with alarm. She had come to help with the morning baskets, as she sometimes did, and was at my side before I had finished wiping my mouth. I straightened slowly, one hand braced on my knee. My throat burned. The morning light felt too bright. I heard Grandma go still behind me. I didn't turn around immediately. I wasn't ready for her face yet. "I'm fine," I said, to both of them, to neither of them. "It's just — the smell this morning is strong, I think…" "Lynnette." Grandma's voice. I turned around. She was standing with a basket half-packed in her hands, and she was looking at me with an expression I had never seen on her face before — a complicated collapse of emotions moving across her features in quick succession. Fear first, then grief, then something that looked very much like a door closing. Her eyes went to my stomach. Just for a second and I felt the bottom fall out of everything. "Come inside," she said quietly. The basket went down. Her voice was controlled in the way that voices are controlled when the alternative is falling apart in public. "Right now, Lynnette. Come inside." Brielle looked between us, her brow furrowed. "Grandma, what's wrong? She just felt sick, it's probably…" "Brielle." Grandma's voice was gentle but final. "Give us a moment." Brielle went quiet. I followed Grandma into the house on legs that didn't feel entirely like mine. The door closed behind us. She stood in the small kitchen with her back to me for a moment, her hands flat on the counter, her shoulders doing the thing they did when she was gathering herself. Then she turned around. Her eyes were wet. She pressed her lips together, and when she spoke her voice broke cleanly down the middle. "How could you, Lynnette?" she whispered. "How could you do this?" I opened my mouth. Nothing came out. Because I already knew what she was asking. I had known for two weeks — known with the quiet, cold certainty of someone who has been ignoring a truth because naming it makes it real. The nausea that hit in waves. The exhaustion that sat differently from regular tired. The way certain smells had been turning my stomach since — since… Oh God. I pressed my hand flat against my stomach without meaning to. Grandma saw the gesture. Her face crumpled. "I'm going to get a test," she said, already moving toward her bag. Her voice was very quiet now. Very steady in the way that costs something. "And then we are going to figure out what comes next." I stood in the kitchen of our small home, in the morning light, with the smell of fish and salt coming through the window and Brielle's muffled voice outside asking if everything was okay. I'm pregnant. The words formed in my mind slowly, the way you say something out loud for the first time even when you're only saying it to yourself — testing the shape of it, the weight. I'm pregnant. And the father is Ryker Vaughn.

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Four years in prison forged her into steel. Now she’s back—beautiful, brilliant, and utterly untouchable. ===== Chapter 1 Four Years After Her Imprisonment Inside Wront Prison, the July heat hung so heavy that it was hard to breathe. Just as she let her sleeve drop to cover the glaring scar on her arm, Maia Watson -- once known as Maia Morgan -- heard a correctional officer call out, "Maia, someone from the Morgan family is here to pick you up!" Her hand froze midway through the motion. Hearing "Morgan family" again was like tasting something bitter and familiar all at once. She had once been the daughter of the Morgan family. Everything fell apart four years ago, when the police knocked on their door and announced they'd tracked down Richard Morgan and Sandra Morgan's real daughter -- Rosanna Morgan. In the blink of an eye, Maia's identity was ripped away. She was branded a fraud, a fake. Her real parents had died long ago. To keep up appearances, the Morgans made a show of acceptance. They told the world that they still saw Maia as family. But anyone who had watched them for seventeen years would know better. Richard and Sandra had always been preoccupied with business ventures. Maia had been more like a guest in their home than a daughter. Then Rosanna came back, and suddenly, their entire world revolved around her. Then came the incident with Radiant Jewels. Rosanna stole a prized treasure and pinned the blame on Maia. It was an obvious setup, but the Morgans didn't care. They believed Rosanna without question. In fact, they helped her. They made public accusations and did it with such ease that Maia never stood a chance. Radiant Jewels belonged to the Cooper Group. The Coopers weren't just powerful. In Wront, they were practically royalty. The Morgans couldn't risk offending them -- not for someone who wasn't even their real daughter. They erased Maia's name from the Morgan family, told the public that she was taken in from a struggling family called the Watsons, and sent her straight to prison. At the memory, Maia's knuckles tightened until her nails bit into her skin. She had survived four years behind bars for a crime Rosanna committed. And now, that sentence was over. She was finally getting out. ... Just beyond the prison gates, the crowd of reporters buzzed with restless energy. Heat rippled through the air, and impatience showed on every face. Then, at last, the massive gates creaked open. Maia walked out into the sunlight, dressed in the same plain outfit she wore the day she was locked away. The second Sandra caught sight of Maia, her face lit up like she had just spotted a long-lost child. She rushed over, surrounded by a swarm of reporters waving microphones and flashing cameras. Maia watched the entire spectacle and nearly rolled her eyes. "Maia, my dear daughter, I came to bring you home," Sandra said, her voice catching as tears shimmered in her eyes. Even a few of the reporters nearby couldn't help but murmur in sympathy at the emotional performance. Unfazed, Maia stared her down and said coldly, "You must be mistaken, Mrs. Morgan. I'm not your daughter." Sandra stiffened where she stood. She quickly recovered and painted sorrow across her face. "How could you say that, Maia? I was the one who raised you. You lived under my roof for more than ten years. I've never once stopped thinking of you as my daughter." Maia's lips twitched into a cold smirk. "Is that right? Then remind me -- four years ago, when you framed me and cast me out, didn't you call me a Watson? You let me go to prison without a second thought. I stopped being your daughter the day you erased me from your family." Framed? To top it off, they said she wasn't even a Morgan -- she was a Watson? Maia's few words hit like a bomb. Reporters traded stunned looks, then chaos broke loose as they rushed forward, shoving microphones closer, eager to catch every word. With cameras pointed her way, Sandra had no room to lash out. Her face tightened, but she forced down the anger bubbling inside. Right then, a voice sliced through the commotion. "Maia! What kind of lies are you feeding everyone? The treasure from Radiant Jewels was found right in your bag -- you were caught red-handed! How dare you claim you were framed? You spent four years behind bars, and we still dragged ourselves through this heat to pick you up. And this is how you thank us? You sound like someone spitting at the hand that once fed you!" Jarrod Morgan was the one speaking -- the oldest son of Sandra and Richard. Maia had always thought of him as a big brother. But when the truth was twisted against her, he turned on her without hesitation to defend Rosanna, even going as far as shoving her to the floor. She had landed hard. Her arm struck the sharp corner of a table, ripping her skin open and leaving behind a scar that never truly faded. That infamous jewel? Rosanna had slipped it into Maia's bag while she was washing her hands in the restroom. At the time, Maia had genuinely believed that Rosanna meant well. She had seemed warm, honest, and eager to be friends. That was why, when Rosanna offered to help, Maia handed her the bag without a second guess. The thought that someone so soft-spoken and sweet could harbor such petty cruelty had never crossed Maia's mind. The reason behind it was that she saw Maia as a threat. Afraid that Maia might become more beloved in the Morgan family, Rosanna decided to eliminate her. That was the day Maia's eyes were opened to the truth about the Morgan family. Since then, her heart had been hardened by betrayal. "She must still be upset with me. That's why she's twisting everything..." Rosanna clung to Jarrod, her voice trembling as her lashes fluttered through misty eyes. "Maia, I swear I never came back to steal your place in the family. Please don't hate me for this." Tears spilled down her cheeks as her slender frame shook. Jarrod couldn't stand to see her cry. He pulled her close and said, "This isn't on you, Rosanna. Maia stole a life that was rightfully yours for seventeen years. She's the one who did wrong. If she can't admit it, then maybe more time behind bars will teach her." "That's enough!" Sandra gave him a sharp look, flicking her eyes toward the hovering press. With this many cameras rolling, she couldn't afford to lose control. Facing the press, she quickly put on a diplomatic smile. "It's been four years since Maia lived with us. She's clearly still adjusting, and I can understand her emotions. If she can acknowledge her mistakes and show some changes, she'll always be part of my family." Part of her family? Maia let out a laugh that was anything but amused. She arched a brow and looked her dead in the eye. "Mrs. Morgan, didn't you sign off on the paperwork that cut all ties between us? Is that it? You're saying you actually want me back in your family now?" Chapter 2 Her Husband Sandra's face darkened instantly. Back then, in order to cut off any connection with Maia, the Morgans had forced her to sign a severance document -- with a representative from the Cooper Group as witness, just to clear their name from any future accusations. It had been an act of desperation, not dignity. A swarm of reporters rushed in, shoving microphones toward Sandra. "Mrs. Morgan, is this true? You once said you wouldn't abandon Maia, that she was still your daughter even after reuniting with your biological child." Trying to keep her composure, Sandra mustered a smile that barely held. "That's… not true. Of course not." With a sly grin, Maia said, "So, Mrs. Morgan, do you have the nerve to call someone from the Cooper Group and find out if that severance document exists or not?" "Maia, don't go too far! The people from the Cooper Group aren't someone we can just summon at will!" Jarrod shouted, his anger flaring from the sidelines. With a smug tilt of her brow, Maia glanced his way. "So you're admitting you won't call them." Jarrod was left speechless. The image they had worked so hard to maintain was starting to fall apart, and Sandra scrambled to play the sympathy card. Her body shook with a sudden cough, loud and dramatic. Catching on quickly, Rosanna hurried to her mother's side and rubbed her back in gentle circles. "Mom, what's wrong? Are you okay?" Her gaze then shifted to Maia, filled with exaggerated grievance. "She's been worried sick ever since you were locked up. She cries every night, Maia. The doctor warned us that her health is getting worse. And if you still care -- even a little -- for everything she did for you growing up, don't make this harder. Just come back with us." Maia felt nauseated by Rosanna's pretentious act. Come back with them? Those words used to bring comfort to her. But now, they meant nothing anymore. The last thing she wanted was to get caught up with them again. There was no mistaking the resolve etched across her face. "That girl you all knew -- she died four years ago. And the Morgans were the ones who buried her." Maia said her piece, then strode through the crowd and walked away without looking back. The moment she was gone, Sandra dropped to the ground, putting on a show of sobs like her heart had just shattered. She took a dramatic, deep breath before collapsing in a faint. Panic erupted instantly as gasps and shouts filled the scene. Wasting no time, Jarrod lifted Sandra into his arms, while Rosanna trailed right behind him. The second the car doors shut and the cameras were behind them, Sandra's eyes snapped open, and she straightened up without effort. Had she not faked that collapse, everything might've unraveled beyond repair. This whole mess, in her mind, traced back to one person -- Maia. They had shown up at the prison, making a public effort to welcome her back with grace. And how did she respond? By dragging the entire Morgan name through the dirt in front of a crowd. There wasn't a single ounce of gratitude in that girl. "She's outrageous! We gave her everything and she turns on us like this!" Jarrod cursed angrily, gripping the steering wheel. The warmth in Sandra's face vanished, replaced by a sudden chill in her eyes. A bitter laugh escaped her lips. "No money. A criminal record that sticks to her like glue. She's got nothing to her name. Without us, she's done. There's no doubt Maia will return -- and when she does, I'll have more than enough ways to handle her!" ... Later that afternoon, Maia stood alone in front of City Hall in Wront, with some documents required for marriage registration in her handbag. There was still time before her appointment, so she leaned casually against a tree, eyes downcast, thoughts drifting far from the present. Back when she first stepped into prison four years ago, the torment seemed relentless, etched into every corner of her memory. one night, when she was nearly beaten within an inch of her life, someone had stepped in to save her. It wasn't a guard. It was a woman -- an inmate with more influence than anyone else. Her cell looked more like a private suite, and even the correctional officers stayed out of her way. Most inmates feared her and kept far out of her path. But for some reason, she had taken an interest in Maia. She offered protection -- but it came with a condition. If Maia wanted that safety, she had to accept a marriage agreement and carry out a task afterward. Back then, trapped in a nightmare with no way out, Maia had no room to refuse. Survival meant sacrifice. Without hesitation, she agreed to the deal and pledged her loyalty to the woman who'd saved her. Fulfilling that promise had become her top priority now that she was free. That meant going through with the marriage agreement she'd accepted in prison. Not far away, a stretch Rolls-Royce Phantom was parked in the shadows. "Is that the one your aunt picked for you to marry, sir?" asked Brad Curtis, Chris Cooper's special assistant. The view through the car window revealed a woman with lowered eyes and a slim frame. Dressed in a plain white shirt and low-rise jeans, she moved with ease. When she stretched, her slim waist showed for just a moment. There was a boldness in her silence. An edge of defiance that didn't ask for approval. Pretty as she was, her past carried a criminal record that couldn't be ignored. Brad couldn't understand why Zoey Cooper had pushed for this match. What could she possibly see in a woman who had served time? Even more puzzling was the fact that Chris hadn't objected. Reclining in the back seat, Chris rested his arm with easy confidence, his rolled-up sleeve showing off a well-toned forearm. His eyes, narrowed slightly, settled on the woman's exposed waist, and an amused glint danced across his face. Without a word, he shoved the car door open and stepped out. "Are you Miss Maia Watson?" Maia turned when she heard someone call her name. She stood still for a second, caught off guard. A man in a fitted black shirt stood before her, tall enough to block the sun from her face. He looked unreal. Handsome in a way that made her pause. Each feature flawless, almost sculpted. Could this really be the illegitimate son of the Cooper family Zoey had mentioned? The one with a bad reputation and a trail of reckless rumors following him? A flicker of discomfort ran through her chest. "Are you... Mr. Chris Cooper?" she asked, uncertain. He gave her a small nod. Her eyes wandered back to him, studying every detail. His clothes were simple, but something refined clung to him. That faint smile hovered on his lips, never quite touching his eyes, leaving just enough mystery to stir her curiosity. "You've been staring for a while now, Miss Watson." Chris let out a soft laugh. Snapping out of it, Maia quickly turned her head, realizing just how obvious she'd been. "My bad… Should we head inside?" she asked, trying to recover. Together, they made their way into City Hall. When they came back out, a marriage certificate rested in Chris' hand. "I'll keep my end of the bargain, Mr. Cooper. Once Zoey's request is fulfilled, I won't stick around. I'll file for divorce right after," Maia said. Feelings weren't part of their arrangement, and she wasn't delusional. Most men wouldn't sign up for a life with someone who had a prison record. Chris tilted his head, casting her a look. Her dark hair danced in the breeze, and while her face was striking, there was something clear and honest in her eyes. Instead of answering her directly, he asked, "Is my aunt doing okay in there?" Thrown off by the change in topic, Maia answered quickly, "She's healthy. Nothing bad has happened to her." After a short pause, she pressed her lips together. Truth be told, Zoey didn't just survive in prison -- she thrived. It was practically her comfort zone. "Glad to hear it." Chris didn't ask anything more. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a sleek credit card, and handed it to her. "Here. A little something to welcome you in." Maia shook her head, hands raised in protest. "That's not necessary. I've got my own money." Sure, they were now legally married, but it was still their first day meeting. And from what Zoey had shared, Chris might've had the Cooper name, but he was treated like an outsider. His standing in the family and at the Cooper Group was practically nonexistent. From what she'd heard, he held no serious job title and spent most days drifting aimlessly. She figured that he probably didn't have much saved up either. The thought of accepting anything from him made her uncomfortable. But Chris didn't waver. He took her hand, placed the card firmly in her palm, and didn't let go. His eyes locked onto hers -- cool, enigmatic, and impossible to read. "We just completed the marriage registration, which technically makes me your husband now. That gives you every right to use my money. Or is it that you're turning it down because you're not ready to admit I'm your husband?" Hearing that word -- husband -- sent a faint flush across Maia's otherwise composed features. "I'm not saying that..." Maia began, trying to explain, but her voice trailed off before she could land on the right words. Without another word, she took the card and gave him a quiet, polite thank you. Seeing her relent, Chris showed a smile of approval. "So, where are you heading? I'll give you a ride." At that moment, a weight settled in Maia's chest. Her plan was to return to the Morgan family home. It wasn't the house she cared about. What mattered was the bracelet -- the last gift to her from her grandmother, Vicki Morgan. Back when Richard and Sandra treated her like an afterthought, Vicki had been the one constant. She had taught Maia everything from table manners to standing tall in a crowd. Though no blood tied them together, Vicki's love had been as real as any grandmother's. Maia knew, without doubt, that if Vicki had still been alive, she would've defended her with everything she had. That thought brought a quiet ache Maia didn't show. Still, she shook it off and gave Chris a calm smile. "There's something I need to handle, Mr. Cooper. I'll be fine on my own." "No problem. Just call if you need anything." He handed her his number, then stayed behind as she walked off. When her silhouette finally disappeared around the corner, he glanced down at the marriage certificate still in his hand. A knowing smile curved his lips. Divorce? Not happening. Nobody could guess how long he'd been waiting for this moment. Chapter 3 Returning To The Morgan Estate Again Maia stood outside Vista Villas, her finger pressing the doorbell of the Morgan estate. She had picked this time carefully -- she remembered how afternoons were usually quiet, each family member off chasing their own distractions. When the door creaked open, it was Tricia Scott, the longtime housekeeper. Her eyes flew wide at the sight. "Is that really you, Miss Morgan? I... I can't believe you're here!" The moment the words spilled out, Tricia covered her mouth with her hand, instantly regretting them. The title belonged to Rosanna now. As far as the Morgans were concerned, Maia didn't exist anymore. And if Rosanna happened to hear how Tricia had spoken to Maia, the fallout would be brutal. With a quiet, measured tone, Maia said, "I'm just here to pick up a few of my things." Then she walked in as if she'd never been gone. Just as she'd expected, the place felt empty -- eerily so. No voices, no footsteps. As she made her way toward the stairs, Tricia rushed after her in a fluster. "Miss... uh, Maia, what exactly are you looking for? I can help you search." "It's alright, Tricia. Everything I need should still be in my room. I'll just be a moment." But before she could take another step, Tricia blocked her path. Her gaze darted everywhere but Maia's face. "Well, um… about that…" A crease formed on Maia's forehead. Something didn't sit right. Her voice lost its calm edge. "Tricia, what happened?" With her shoulders sinking, Tricia finally gave in. A weary sigh escaped her. "Miss Morgan cleared everything out after you were imprisoned. And your old room -- it's not yours anymore. It's just a storage room now." Maia froze. Her eyes grew wide, disbelief settling in. "Everything?" So was the bracelet that Vicki had given her thrown away, too? A slow, regretful nod from Tricia confirmed what Maia had feared. The truth hit Maia hard, sudden and brutal, like a lightning strike. Someone like Rosanna wouldn't have had the guts to toss out her things unless Richard and Sandra were in on it too. Trembling from head to toe, Maia clenched her fists tight. That bracelet had been Vicki's last gift to her -- a symbol of love in a house that had offered her none. Anger swelled inside her, fierce and uncontrollable. She had tried to walk away from the Morgan family, to leave the past buried. But now, all that anger came roaring back. From behind, a voice she hadn't missed in the slightest cut through the room. "I knew you'd show your face again, Maia!" Maia turned to look. Jarrod was there, standing a short distance away, that same smug grin plastered across his face. Rosanna was by Sandra's side, gripping her arm as if playing the dutiful daughter for the cameras no one could see. Without saying another word, Tricia slipped out of the room, sensing the tension. Jarrod closed the space between them, towering slightly over Maia as he looked down with smug contempt. "You were really bold outside the prison this morning. What's the deal now? Sneaking back in like this? Let me guess. With a record like yours, no one's gonna hire you. So you came crawling back. We're the only ones still willing to throw you a scrap, aren't we?" With a lifted brow and a voice filled with sarcasm, he said, "Here's a thought -- admit everything now. Post a public apology to the Morgan family, and maybe we'll let you stick around out of pity. Sound fair?" Jarrod had been simmering with rage ever since that morning. That stunt Maia pulled with the press had bruised the Morgan name, and while he hadn't lashed out then, he was done holding it in. Now that she had walked straight into their home, he planned to crush whatever defiance she still had left from prison. Putting Maia in her place felt long overdue, and now that she had returned to the house, Jarrod believed it was his right to set her straight. An apology, a fresh start, and keeping her distance from Rosanna -- that was all it would take for him to consider letting Maia back into the family. The cost of keeping her around barely made a dent in the Morgan finances. Feeding her and offering shelter was no different from tossing away loose change. Still, even freeloaders usually had the sense to be polite. A bit of humility wasn't too much to expect. But Maia acted like the world owed her a debt. That attitude made his blood boil. When Maia stepped forward, Jarrod lifted a brow and folded his arms, fully expecting her to stop and beg for forgiveness. Instead, she walked right past him without a single glance, heading straight toward Rosanna. His smugness vanished in an instant. Then again, Rosanna was the one Maia had insulted publicly. Maybe this was her way of making things right. But what came out of Maia's mouth next shattered that assumption. "Where are my things, Rosanna?" Rosanna stiffened on the spot. A flicker of surprise passed through her eyes before she painted on a look of pure innocence. "What things? Maia, I have no idea what you're going on about." A cold fire lit up Maia's eyes, the kind that didn't just glare -- it cut. Her stare locked onto Rosanna like a blade, and her tone came out flat, stripped of emotion. "This is the last time I'll ask. Where did you put everything that was in my room?" Instantly, Rosanna's face crumpled into a pitiful expression, and tears spilled down her cheeks. "I didn't mean anything by it, Maia. I just… I thought they'd wear out if I left them there too long. I figured I'd replace them once you came back, so I--" Before she could finish, a loud slap cracked through the room, cutting the air like lightning. Chapter 4 It Ends Here Rosanna's cheek flared red with a vivid mark where Maia's hand had struck. Frozen in disbelief, she barely registered Maia's voice cutting through the moment like a whip. "Who gave you the right to go through my things?" Jarrod's expression twisted in shock, his eyes darkening with fury. In a rush, he moved in front of Rosanna, shielding her with his body. One look at her tear-streaked face, swollen from the rising bruise on her cheek, and something snapped inside him. His hands curled into fists. Maia striking Rosanna was enough to make his blood boil. It was clear she had no respect for him whatsoever. If she wouldn't listen, he'd make her. Today, she'd pay for that disrespect. He raised his hand, ready to strike -- but before it could fall, Maia's hand shot up and caught his wrist, stopping him cold. With one swift motion, she shoved him hard. Jarrod stumbled backward, nearly losing his balance. He stared, stunned, at the woman standing before him. The person he saw now felt like a stranger. The Maia he remembered had always trailed after him when he occasionally visited home, like a little shadow. But that version of her no longer existed. Four years behind bars had carved out someone sharper, someone who stood on her own. Where had this strength come from? He couldn't say. Back in her early days in prison, Maia faced constant bullying and abuse -- fresh bruises forming before the old ones even had a chance to fade. Still, she never cried for help. Never lowered her head. One day, pushed too far, she snapped. With pure rage, she sank her teeth into the prison's top dog and wrestled her to the floor. Blow after blow landed on her back, but Maia never let go. Over time, and with Zoey's relentless training, Maia sharpened her instincts and became a fighter no one dared to provoke. Eventually, the threats faded. She'd earned both her place and their fear. Jarrod stayed put, placing himself between Maia and Rosanna, his glare sharp and unwavering. "Maia, you've completely lost it! We're talking about some old clothes and random junk -- nothing worth a fight! And you hit Rosanna over that? Apologize. Now!" Maia's sudden outburst caught Sandra off guard. After a short pause, she wrapped Rosanna in her arms, worry etched across her face. She glared furiously at Maia as she said, "I'm the one who gave permission to throw out your things! Rosanna only meant well. She was going to buy everything back -- new and fresh -- so you wouldn't be haunted by the past! But you? You didn't just reject that. You hit her! After everything, I never thought you'd sink this low. Maia, you've truly disappointed me!" Disappointed? A cold laugh slipped from Maia's lips. That same line had been used four years ago -- right after they framed her. They'd shielded Rosanna back then too. And Maia? She'd been the target. If anyone deserved to feel disappointed, it was Maia. She had already buried every last bit of hope she once held for the Morgan family. Her eyes settled on Sandra -- the woman she used to call "Mom." There was a time Maia loved and respected Sandra, even if Sandra rarely showed she cared. Now, that love twisted into something sharp in her chest. "You've always known I can't stand people touching my belongings," Maia said, her voice tight with restraint. "And still, you let her throw them out. Did you even realize that Vicki's bracelet was among them?" Sandra had always been busy and seldom paid attention to Maia's life, but this particular habit of Maia's was something she knew clearly. But when it came to Rosanna, Sandra's judgment blurred. Years of guilt over being absent in Rosanna's life made her overcompensate. And when Rosanna wanted something, Sandra never said no. For more than ten years, Maia had lived the life that should've been Rosanna's -- or so Sandra believed. So what harm was there in throwing out a few of her things? To Sandra, even if Rosanna had been the one who stole the treasure from Radiant Jewels, she still thought that Maia should've taken the blame. That thought alone washed away any lingering guilt Sandra had ever felt toward her. "Let me remind you of your place, Maia. You're not one of us. You were only raised by us -- nothing more. That keepsake from Vicki? It was always meant for a true Morgan. Even if it were still around, Rosanna would have every right to it. Who do you think you are to lay claim to it? If she wanted to burn it, that would still be her right." A stabbing pain twisted in Maia's chest. She could sever ties with every Morgan in that house -- but not with Vicki. That woman had loved her, protected her, and made her feel like she belonged. And now Maia had failed to guard the one thing that still connected them. The ache in her heart deepened, sharp and unrelenting. From the sidelines, Jarrod let out a cruel laugh. "So that's why you flipped out over some garbage. Let me guess -- you're broke, and you came crawling back here to pawn whatever you could find!" Though he had once seen the bracelet, it looked cheap to him. He never imagined that it held any real value. With a sneer, he pulled a few bills from his wallet and tossed them at her feet. "This enough for your little trinket? Take the rest -- it's on me. Consider it charity." Maia's eyes burned with anger, rimmed red as she stared down the people she once called family. There had been a time she believed she owed them gratitude. After all, they'd raised her for seventeen years. That belief had led her to help them through their darkest years, without hesitation. But now? That illusion had shattered. What was taken from her -- she would get back. And the Morgans? They had chosen cruelty. It was time they learned that she didn't forgive and forget. Maia let her anger subside. She took the cash Jarrod threw and smiled. Without hesitation, she shredded the money into pieces and threw them straight at his face. "Keep your filthy money. I'd rather have nothing than take anything from you." With that, she turned and walked straight out of the villa, not sparing anyone a second glance. Fury twisted Jarrod's face as he clenched his jaw, burning with humiliation. His finger jabbed toward Maia's back as she disappeared through the doorway. "You'll regret this, you ungrateful bitch! Without us, you're nothing! You'll come crawling back -- I'll make sure of it!" Sandra's face flushed red with anger, her voice rising. "We picked you up from prison this morning, Maia! That was out of the goodness of our hearts! No one forced you to walk away -- you did that yourself. Don't bother returning once you leave. You made your choice. It ends here!" A cold, humorless laugh escaped Maia's lips. Even now, Sandra clung to the story that made her look like the victim. Her audacity was almost laughable. Turning slowly on her heel, Maia leveled the family with a chilling stare. "Drop the act. You're not fooling anyone. You called the press yourselves. Was that supposed to be a warm welcome? Or just a performance to make yourselves look like saints in front of the cameras? You know exactly what you were doing." And with that, she walked away, never once turning back. Behind her, the illusion shattered, leaving the Morgans standing stiff and speechless. Their masks had cracked wide open. Rosanna buried her face in Sandra's shoulder, voice trembling with tears. "This is all my fault. we could've been a real family." Instead of reflecting, Jarrod and Sandra focused on comforting Rosanna, acting like Maia didn't exist. Chapter 5 I Just Wanted To Make Sure You Were Alright Not a minute after stepping out of the Morgan estate, Maia pulled out her phone and made a single call. "Cut off all dealings with the Morgan family. Effective immediately." The call ended, and she slid the phone back into her coat pocket, turning around to give the house behind her one last, lingering look. That place no longer felt familiar. It might as well have belonged to a different lifetime. Everything that tied her to the Morgans was over. From here on, there would be no turning back. Drawing in a slow breath, Maia gathered herself. But just as she turned to walk away, she collided hard into a solid figure. The sudden impact made her stumble, but before she could fall, a hand reached out and caught her firmly by the arm. "Maia?" a deep voice asked. Her head tilted up, and for a rare moment, emotion flickered across her usually unreadable gaze. She hadn't thought her heart could still react like that. Yet somehow, it skipped more than just a beat. Of all people, it was Vince Ward standing in front of her -- the son of Wront's powerful Ward family, her ex-fiancé. Out of instinct, she yanked her arm free and put a few paces of space between them. Vince's brows tightened ever so slightly as he took in her cold, unreadable face. The woman standing there hardly resembled the bright, cheerful girl from the Morgan family Maia used to be. "You... came back," he said softly, choosing his words with care. He didn't say "got out" -- perhaps to spare her dignity -- but the gesture only made her chest tighten with disdain. There had been a time when she loved him out loud, without shame. She had spoiled him, learned to cook just to see him smile, done everything to win his affection. But he had never given her more than silence. He never once claimed her in public, never called her his. Still, she held a firm belief, convinced that kindness would melt the wall he kept so firmly built. And yet, on the day her world collapsed -- when she was framed and wrongly accused -- he stood right there. But he had stood by Rosanna's side, and the disgust and warning in his eyes matched those of the Morgans perfectly. Not a single word of defense had come from Vince when she needed it most. Years ago, it was Rosanna's grandfather who had pulled Vince's father from the wreckage of an accident. That one act of heroism had sealed a marriage promise between two families. Back then, the Morgan family's daughter had been Maia. Now, the daughter was Rosanna. Naturally, the arrangement had fallen onto Rosanna. So Vince siding with Rosanna wasn't surprising -- it was expected. But even now, whenever Maia thought back on it, a soft ache tugged at her heart. She tucked that pain away behind a polite smile, lifting her chin. "You must be here for Rosanna, Mr. Ward. I hear the engagement's coming up. Congratulations." She used to call him "Vince" with warmth, and now, being addressed so formally made him realize that the gap between them had been wider. Something twisted in Vince's chest, sudden and sharp. He stared at her, his voice rough around the edges. "Four years, Maia... and that's all you've got to say?" Back then, Maia would talk his ear off whenever she was near. Now, all he felt from her was a chill and a wall he couldn't get past. Her silence made his frown deepen, the quiet stretching too long. After a beat, he nodded toward the Morgan family villa behind her. "I heard your family came to pick you up today. Why are you already walking away?" Maia replied, "That's none of your business." Though her tone was cool, her eyes -- bright and guarded -- flickered with something unspoken. Those words struck Vince harder than he expected. "I just wanted to make sure you were alright." A bitter laugh escaped Maia's lips. "Seems like your concern's pointed in the wrong direction, Mr. Ward. Shouldn't it be aimed at your girlfriend? You're nearly engaged, aren't you? Imagine Rosanna catching you circling around me -- how do you think she'd take that? So, is the plan now to turn your back on the real Morgan daughter just to chase after someone like me -- a woman branded by a criminal past?" No words followed from Vince. There was just silence -- the same kind that had cut through her four years ago. Maia let out a sharp, humorless snort. "Why don't you do us both a favor and stay out of my sight, Mr. Ward?" But Vince's hand shot out, grabbing her wrist before she could take another step. He held on, refusing to let go. His voice dropped to a hush, rough with emotion. His eyes were turning red. "Maia, it's true. Rosanna and I are getting engaged. But things don't have to be any different -- if you're willing, we could still go back to the way things were." &12&

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I slid the divorce papers between the quarterly laundering reports and his latest arms shipment invoice — and my husband signed them without reading a single word. Lorenzo Marchetti sat behind his father's mahogany desk in the study of the Marchetti estate — the nerve center of the most powerful crime family on the Eastern Seaboard — three burner phones lined up like bullets, each one buzzing with messages from his capos and the federal judges he owned. Those black eyes, cold as the barrel of the gun he kept in his desk drawer, scanned mechanically over the documents I placed before him. Never lifting to meet mine. They never did anymore. "The usual?" he asked flatly, already reaching for his Cartier pen — the same one he used to sign shipping manifests and death orders. "The usual," I lied. My hands didn't shake. Six years of marriage to the most dangerous man in New York had taught me how to wear calm like armor. How to stand in a room full of killers and let them see nothing. His phone lit up. Her name flashed across the screen: Valentina. No last name needed. Everyone in the Marchetti family knew who she was — his first love. The woman who'd left him at the altar for a rival family's son. The woman who'd crawled back six months ago, suddenly widowed, suddenly desperate, suddenly everything Lorenzo had ever wanted again. He snatched the phone immediately. His left thumb swiped the screen while his right hand dragged his signature across the divorce papers without a pause. That signature controlled a billion-dollar empire. It had ended bloodlines. Collapsed rival families. Bought senators and buried prosecutors. And now it had ended our marriage. He had no idea what he'd just signed. Lorenzo thought I was what everyone thought I was — a quiet accountant's daughter his father had chosen for him. Strategic. Useful. Forgettable. A wife who balanced the books and stayed out of the way while the real business happened. He'd never suspected the truth. I wasn't an accountant's daughter. I was Arianna Castellano. The only surviving heir of the Castellano family — the dynasty the Marchettis had believed they'd destroyed twenty-three years ago. My father hadn't died in that warehouse fire. He'd hidden me in plain sight, raised me to be invisible, taught me every secret of the empire-building trade before placing me exactly where I needed to be. Inside the Marchetti family. Lorenzo thought he'd built this empire. The shipping routes through the Mediterranean, the alliances with the Colombian cartels, the real estate portfolio that laundered three hundred million a year — he thought those were his achievements. They were mine. Every deal. Every connection. Every perfectly structured transaction that kept the FBI chasing ghosts — I'd designed them all from behind the mask of a dutiful wife. "Done." He grunted, pushing the stack toward me, already laughing at something Valentina said. I collected the papers carefully. Six years of marriage dissolved in forty seconds, and he didn't even notice. I gathered the documents but didn't leave. I stood there for one more moment, watching him — this man I'd loved despite everything, despite the mission, despite the lies. He was already gone. Phone pressed to his ear, voice dropping into that low, intimate register I hadn't heard directed at me in over a year. "Come to the penthouse tonight," he murmured to her. "I'll send Marco." Then he glanced up at me, as if remembering I existed. "My mother's expecting us for dinner at the main house. Be ready at eight." Not a question. Not a request. An order, delivered with the same casual authority he used on his soldiers. "Alright," I said, letting just enough compliance soften my voice. He nodded and looked away. I turned and left the study. The door clicked shut behind me, sealing away the buzzing phones and the sound of her laughter still ringing through his speaker. In the hallway, I paused. My reflection stared back at me from the gilded mirror — composed, elegant, invisible. Not for much longer. The woman Lorenzo married was about to disappear. And the one he'd never known existed was about to burn his empire to the ground. Chapter 2 An hour later, we were in the car. The motorcade pulled out of the Marchetti compound in formation — four black SUVs, armed soldiers in each one. Lorenzo sat beside me in the back seat, loosening his tie, scrolling through messages like a man who still controlled everything. Twelve minutes into the drive, his phone rang. He glanced down. His jaw tightened, then relaxed — a reflex so practiced most people would miss it. Valentina. He answered without hesitation. Without even turning away from me. "Where are you?" His voice shifted — lower, rougher, threaded with something possessive and protective that I hadn't heard directed at me since our first year. Her voice came through the speaker, slurred and breathy. Music pounding behind her. "Out. Celebrating." "Celebrating what?" "Us." She giggled. The sound was calculated — I'd studied enough people to know performed vulnerability when I heard it. "I missed you today." "Go home, Valentina. Now." "Come get me." I stared out the window. Rain had started — fat drops sliding down the glass like the tears I'd stopped crying two years ago. The soldiers in the front seat kept their eyes forward. Professional. Pretending they couldn't hear their Don choosing another woman over his wife with his wife sitting right there. "Don't be stupid," Lorenzo said, but his voice carried more worry than anger. More tenderness than he'd shown me in months. "Tell me where you are. I'm sending someone." "No. You. I want you." Silence. Two seconds. Three. "Pull over," he told the driver. The motorcade stopped. His lieutenant was already out, jogging through the rain to open Lorenzo's door. He turned to me. Not apologetic. Not even guilty. Just efficient. "Take the car to the main house. Tell my mother I'll be late." He stepped out into the rain without waiting for my response. I sat there, watching through the window as he climbed into the second SUV. Watched it pull away, taillights bleeding red through the downpour. His lieutenant appeared at my door. "Mrs. Marchetti, we should go." I didn't move. Not yet. "He signed the papers," I said quietly. To no one. To myself. The lieutenant hesitated. "Ma'am?" "Nothing." I straightened my coat. "Let's go." The car started moving. Rain hammered the roof. I took out my phone and opened Instagram. Valentina's latest post: a selfie in some VIP lounge, red lips, diamond earrings I recognized from Lorenzo's personal safe. Caption: Some things are worth waiting for. 💎 I checked the comments. Thousands of them. Half the city's socialites fawning over her, calling her lucky, calling her gorgeous. No one mentioned the wife. No one ever did. I closed the app and pulled up the divorce papers on my phone — the scanned copies I'd saved. Lorenzo's signature, bold and careless, right above the line that read: Irrevocable Dissolution of Marriage. Irrevocable. He couldn't take it back even if he wanted to. When we arrived at the main house, I didn't go inside immediately. I sat in the car for one full minute, letting the silence settle. Then I sent a text to a number I hadn't used in three years. The package is signed. Begin Phase Two. The reply came in four seconds. Understood. Welcome home, Arianna. I deleted the thread, stepped out of the car, and walked into the Marchetti family home with a smile on my face. Tonight, I would play the dutiful wife one last time. Tomorrow, the game would change entirely. Chapter 3 Dinner at the main house was a performance, like everything else in this family. Lorenzo's mother, Donna Marchetti, sat at the head of the table — seventy years old, sharp as a stiletto, the real power behind the family for decades before handing the reins to her son. She watched me all evening with those calculating eyes. "Lorenzo is late again," she observed, cutting her veal with surgical precision. "Business," I said. "Business." She repeated the word like she could taste the lie. "And how is his business with the Ferraro widow?" I met her gaze without flinching. Donna had always known about Valentina. She disapproved — not out of loyalty to me, but because Valentina was a liability. Emotional. Reckless. The kind of woman who posted diamond earrings on Instagram when discretion was the only currency that mattered. "That's Lorenzo's concern," I said. "It's the family's concern." She set down her knife. "You've been good for this family, Arianna. Steady. Smart. You understand how things work." If only she knew how well I understood. "I appreciate that, Donna." "Don't let her replace you. Fight for your position." I almost laughed. Fight for my position. As if I were competing for a promotion rather than watching my husband fall in love with someone else. "I'll handle it," I said. She studied me for a long moment, then nodded and returned to her meal. Lorenzo arrived at ten, smelling like Valentina's perfume — jasmine and vanilla, sickeningly sweet. He kissed his mother's cheek, sat down, and ate as if nothing was wrong. After dinner, he found me in the kitchen. "Happy anniversary," he said. I froze. I hadn't thought he'd remember. He placed a small velvet box on the counter and pushed it toward me. I opened it. A bracelet. Thin gold chain, a few small diamonds. Pretty. Modest. The kind of gift you buy when you remember at the last minute. "Thank you," I said. He nodded, already checking his phone. "Valentina's ring was beautiful," I said. His hand stilled on the screen. "What ring?" "The one she posted last week. Emerald-cut diamond. Four carats, at least." I kept my voice light, conversational. "From your personal collection, if I'm not mistaken. The one you keep in the safe behind the Modigliani." His jaw tightened. "She was upset. She needed —" "Reassurance. Yes. You always give her reassurance." I held up the bracelet box. "And you give your wife this." "Arianna, don't start." "I'm not starting anything." I closed the box and set it on the counter. "I'm finishing something." His phone rang before he could respond. He looked at the screen, then at me. "I have to take this." "Of course you do." He left the kitchen. I heard his voice in the hallway — low, urgent, shifting into that protective tone. I picked up the bracelet and walked to the trash can. Dropped it in. No hesitation. Then I went upstairs, packed one bag — clothes, my real passport, a flash drive containing every financial record of the Marchetti empire for the last six years — and waited. At midnight, my phone buzzed. Car is outside. East gate. You have twelve minutes before the shift change. I looked around the bedroom one last time. The silk sheets. The closet full of designer clothes. The framed wedding photo on the nightstand — me in white, Lorenzo in black, both of us pretending. I picked up the photo and laid it face down. Then I walked out of the Marchetti estate, through the east gate, and into the waiting car. The driver didn't speak. He didn't need to. He drove. I watched the mansion shrink in the rearview mirror until the iron gates disappeared into the dark. My phone buzzed again. Lorenzo: Where are you? My mother says you left. I typed back three words. Check your documents. Then I turned off the phone, removed the SIM card, and snapped it in half. In the front seat, the driver glanced at me in the mirror. "The jet is fueled and waiting, Miss Castellano." Miss Castellano. I hadn't heard that name spoken aloud in six years. It sounded like freedom.

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---Chapter 1 The Awakening He drew in a sharp breath. Half asleep, Julian Vance felt warm breath tickling his ear, the tingling sensation sending an involuntary rush of heat through his body. He jolted in shock. His eyes snapped open. Sure enough, it was the girl from last night. She was draped over him, gazing down with a hazy look in her eyes. Her beautiful face still carried a trace of last night's intoxication. This isn't a dream. I really am back from the dead. That was the first thought that crossed Julian's mind. He only remembered scaling Mount Everest when Serena sneaked up, unhooked his safety harness, and shoved him off the cliff. Serena Quinn, his fiancée. She was the untouchable beauty of the financial world. I still don't get it. We are about to get married. I am ready to hand over the billions I bust my *ss for all my life. Why does she want to kill me? As the founder of Vance Capital, I am worth billions, known as the ultimate good guy in the industry. Marrying me is a jackpot, isn't it? While Julian was racking his brain, a soft moan broke his train of thought, followed by the press of smooth, soft skin. The girl actually took the initiative, wrapping her limbs around him. Catching her seductive expression and the overflowing desire in her unfocused eyes... Julian threw his restraint out the window and pulled her fiercely into his arms. Time faded away. An hour later. The girl finally drifted into a deep sleep, a satisfied smile on her lips. Julian checked the time. It was only three in the morning. They had already gone at it multiple times last night! Her stamina is off the charts. Studying that gorgeous, delicate face, Julian felt a bit puzzled. Does a stunner like her really need to go out looking for a thrill? If she just nods, countless guys will line up to be her lapdogs. Recalling the bone-deep pleasure from moments ago, Julian sighed. In his past life, he played the good guy and barely touched any women, so that sensation was a total first for him! Hitting the jackpot on day one of my second life. Guess the man upstairs is looking out for me. Pulling her near-perfect body into his embrace, Julian curled his lips into a smile and finally fell asleep. Morning soon arrived. "Ah!!!" Early the next morning, a piercing scream echoed through Cupid's Arrow Motel. The shriek was loud enough to wake the dead, jolting Julian from his sleep. Julian opened his eyes to see the girl from last night staring at him, pale and completely freaked out. She clutched the blanket tight, wrapping herself up like a burrito! "Who... who are you?! "How... how did I get here?!" "Look, gorgeous, you came onto me last night, and you made the first move in bed... Don't tell me you blacked out." Julian was lost for words. He was just having a drink at Subzero Bar last night when she slid into the seat across from him. Sure, she had a few too many, but she definitely initiated things! Later on, she was all over him, hands roaming everywhere. Otherwise, with his self-control, there was no way he'd just bring a random girl to a motel! "I came onto you?" Her face dropped further at Julian's words, her brows furrowing as she racked her brain. As snippets of the night before started coming back to her, all the color drained from her face and she froze like a statue. Seeing her blank stare, Julian shook his head in defeat, lighting a cigarette and hanging it between his lips. After a long pause, she snapped out of her daze, her expression returning to an icy calm. She looked up at Julian, totally deadpan. "Turn around." "What?" Julian blinked in confusion. Her expression grew even colder. "I need to get dressed. Turn around!" "I've already seen everything, what's there to... alright, alright, turning around." Before he could finish, a death glare cut him off, leaving Julian no choice but to face the wall. A few minutes later. Fully dressed, the girl grabbed her purse and headed straight for the door. Right at the threshold, something clicked. She spun around, locking her icy gaze on Julian, her voice freezing. "We have absolutely nothing to do with each other from now on! "And I don't want a single soul finding out about last night!" Dropping that bomb, she walked out without giving Julian a chance to respond. "D*mn, quite the switch from begging to rip my clothes off last night... She really is gonna act like nothing happened afterward." Julian stood up, rolling his eyes as he put his clothes back on. Suddenly, his eyes locked onto a crimson stain on the bedsheets, his gaze sharpening as he froze in his tracks. "Holy sh*t?! "How... how is that possible?!?" Chapter 2 The Campus Queens Unable to figure out what had actually gone down, Julian pushed the girl out of his mind and walked out of the motel. Looking at Lincoln College of Finance just down the block, Julian finally accepted the hard truth: he had time-slipped back to the past. Strolling through the familiar campus, taking in the young faces and the raw teenage hormones in the air, Julian felt a wave of nostalgia. He never thought he'd end up back here after all these years. To all the hot professors and campus queens from back in the day, I wonder how you're doing... "Hey! Julian!" A voice called out from nearby, making Julian look up. Two girls were standing a few feet away. The one in front was rocking a white dress. She had fair skin, hair cascading down her shoulders, and a stunning, delicate face. Topped off with light makeup, she was a total knockout to the average college guy. Spotting her, Julian stopped dead in his tracks. Memories came flooding back. In his past life, he had only ever chased two women. One he chased for all four years of college, only to be strung along with the excuse, "I'm not looking to date in college." He had thought true love would win her over. But on graduation day, she hopped right into a middle-aged sugar daddy's BMW! The other was Serena Quinn, the untouchable beauty he met only after grinding through hell to build Vance Capital. It was that seemingly innocent girl who made him believe in love again. But it blew his mind. Right when he trusted her the most, she pushed him off a cliff! Good guys finish first? What a load of absolute bullsh*t. Julian looked at the pretty girl in the white dress, scoffing on the inside. That's right. This is Chloe Jenkins, the department beauty I wasted four years simping over! "Julian, I might have been a bit harsh the other day, but I'm really not ready for a relationship right now." Chloe walked up to him, glancing at the guy who supposedly skipped class for two days because of her rejection, and spoke coolly. "But it's my birthday tonight, and you can totally swing by my party..." A birthday party? The old Julian would have been over the moon hearing that, bouncing back in a heartbeat! Then he would've run off like a good little lapdog to buy her a present. Too bad the current Julian was a completely different beast. Hearing Chloe's words, Julian found it almost comical. He remembered how it went down in his past life. She pulled this exact same stunt, keeping him on the hook without saying yes or no, tossing him breadcrumbs of hope, ,aking him waste four golden college years on her! And draining not just his time, but over half of his allowance and all the hard-earned cash from his part-time gigs! Dining out. Phones. Clothes. And all sorts of high-end makeup. He poured everything into her. Yet in four years, he barely even got to hold her hand. Then, on graduation day, she didn't bat an eye before riding shotgun in some rich guy's BMW! That was the day he finally snapped out of it and started his grind... "Hey, Julian!" Seeing Julian spacing out, Nina Lewis lost her patience. "Are you deaf? Chloe's having her party at Le Cordon Restaurant tonight. Don't forget to bring a gift!" A gift? Classic. Julian smirked, knowing Chloe was a total gold digger, and gave a brief nod. "That's more like it." Seeing him agree, Nina muttered under her breath before leaning in close to whisper, "Chloe's been dying for a new iPhone lately. It's all on you now..." With that, she dragged Chloe off toward the lecture hall. An iPhone? Julian paused. Right then, the memories of his past life rushed into his brain like a high-def movie! Wait, what is going on?! Am I watching a movie? Julian stood frozen, experiencing the crystal-clear video playback in his head. Even... Even every dirty detail of him and Serena in bed was in 4K resolution! Every look of pure bliss. Every twitch and shiver of her body. Even those soul-stirring moans... Holy crap, is this the perk of getting a second chance? He inhaled sharply. Feeling his teenage hormones kicking into overdrive, Julian took a deep breath! He quickly shoved his hands in his pockets to adjust himself... Connecting the dots between the iPhone and the birthday party, Julian locked it in: he had slipped back to 2012. He was a sophomore at Lincoln College of Finance. He was currently chasing Chloe like a madman. Today was Chloe's birthday. In his past life, on this exact day. He scraped together every penny, even dipping into his next few months of living expenses, just to buy her an iPhone 4S. But at the party, she threw a fit because it wasn't the latest iPhone 5. Chloe even accepted an iPhone 5 from a rich kid right in front of him. And then gave him the cold shoulder for months. She only talked to him again on Christmas, after he busted his hump to buy her a luxury makeup set. Man, I was the ultimate simp! Julian wanted to facepalm just thinking about his old self. "Look, it's Julian, the hopeless romantic!" "Hopeless romantic my foot, he's just a lapdog... Hehe, look at him, panting like a stray. So pathetic..." "Hey, you gotta admit, the simp is pretty cute though..." A group of girls walked past, gossiping about him. Julian snapped back to reality, wanting to cry after hearing their chatter. Is this really how everyone saw me back then? "Heh, playing the good guy really is a dog's game!" Thinking back on his pathetic past life, Julian wanted to smack himself. "Screw it, since I've got a second chance, I am not wasting this life like the last one! "A birthday gift, huh?" Thinking about Chloe's party tonight, a mischievous smirk played on Julian's lips. Just then, the gossiping girls caught sight of someone approaching and scurried off in a panic. "Oh snap, it's Evelyn Harper, let's get out of here..." Down by the library, a breathtakingly elegant figure strolled their way. Standing tall at five-foot-seven. Wearing a simple white dress. Fair, slender legs and hair tied up in a high ponytail. Her skin was pale as snow, her flawless face exuding an untouchable, frosty aura. She gave off a vibe that screamed "look but don't touch", making anyone near her feel hopelessly out of their league. Compared to Chloe, she was on a completely different planet in both looks and class. The student council president, universally crowned the top campus queen of Lincoln College. Evelyn Harper. But seeing this college goddess, Julian dropped his jaw. "Huh? General Manager Harper?"