The road stretched endlessly before them, a blur of asphalt and regret.
Noah sat stiffly in the passenger seat of her mother's luxury car, one booted foot propped against the dashboard, the other bouncing restlessly. She hated every second of this — the move, the silence, the shallow optimism in her mother's voice.
The city they left behind still clung to her like smoke: late-night laughter, rooftop kisses, mistakes made in the dark. She wasn't ready to let it go. But no one had asked her if she was ready. They had packed up and left because her mother fell in love — or worse, fell in money — with a man Noah didn't even know.
The car slowed.
Ahead loomed a massive iron gate, ornate and threatening, like it guarded secrets instead of a home. The gates creaked open to reveal the mansion. Cold white walls. Immaculate hedges. A driveway big enough to stage a parade.
Noah's stomach twisted.
Inside, the air was different. Sterile. Rich. The kind of place where silence felt expensive.
Rafaella glanced at her daughter. "At least try to smile, Noah."
Noah didn't answer. Her dark hair fell like a curtain across her face as she turned away. She was nineteen, sharp-eyed and rebellious. Her lips were full, often curled in sarcasm. She had fire in her — and no one was allowed to tame it.
She dropped her duffel bag on the polished floor with a satisfying thud. That's when she heard the voice.
> "She's here."
Low. Masculine. Slightly amused.
She turned — and saw him.
Leaning against the staircase like he owned it, in ripped jeans and a fitted black tee, was Nick Leister. He looked like trouble had kissed him and never let go. Hair dark and wild. A split on his lower lip. A cigarette tucked behind his ear.
He was beautiful — in a way that made your instincts scream don't.
> "You must be Noah," he said.
> "Congratulations, you can identify strangers," she shot back.
He smirked. Not out of politeness. Out of challenge.
Their eyes held — locked — like two predators circling in silence.
Noah's mother stepped between them, cheerfully oblivious. "Nick, this is my daughter. Noah, meet your new stepbrother."
Stepbrother.
The word hit the floor like a loaded gun.
---
Nick pushed off the railing, walked past her slowly. Too slowly. He smelled like cologne and gasoline. He didn't look at her — not directly — but she could feel the heat of his gaze trailing over her like hands.
> "You'll be upstairs," he said. "Last door on the right."
> "Thanks, but I don't need a tour guide."
> "No," he said, pausing at the foot of the stairs. "But you'll need a warning."
---
She didn't ask what that meant. She wasn't afraid of boys who thought they were dangerous.
But something in the way he looked at her — like he knew every reason she'd fall and every way he'd catch her too late — made her hesitate.
---
Upstairs, her room was too clean. White walls, white sheets. Lifeless.
She dropped onto the bed, exhaled, and stared at the ceiling.
Her body still buzzed from that stare. She hated that. Hated him. Hated this whole damn house.
And yet…
She couldn't get the sound of his voice out of her ears.
---
> Somewhere down the hall, a door slammed.
Somewhere inside her, something cracked open.