Chapter One: The Move

The rain hit the windows in rhythmic taps, like the sky itself was trying to soothe Noah’s nerves—offering a lullaby of water to ease the storm brewing inside her. But it wasn’t working. Nothing could. She sat curled up in the back seat of the black SUV, hoodie pulled up over her head like armor, earbuds in to block out the voices up front. Her fingers toyed with the cord of her earphones, but she wasn’t really listening to the music. She was watching the world outside shift into something unfamiliar.

They were entering a neighborhood that looked straight out of a glossy home magazine. The kind of place that smelled like power and polished marble. Massive gates parted like some ancient rite of passage, and as the SUV glided through, Noah felt like she was being swallowed whole.

Her mother, Rafaela, sat in the front seat, radiant in a way that made Noah ache with resentment. She was practically glowing, talking to William Leister with the kind of soft tone Noah hadn’t heard in years. William was all expensive suits, perfect posture, and a voice like smooth whiskey. He looked like he belonged on the cover of Forbes, not in Noah’s life.

What did her mother see in him? Was it love, or just desperation? Stability was a powerful drug for someone who’d lived paycheck to paycheck. But to Noah, it all felt like selling out. Like trading in their messy but real life for some artificial fantasy with a man who probably thought vinyl was just a kind of flooring.

She clenched her jaw as the SUV pulled into the driveway—a driveway, not a cracked sidewalk like she was used to. The mansion loomed ahead, all glass and sharp edges, like it had been carved from ice. Cold, perfect, and utterly unwelcoming.

Everything she’d loved—her gritty neighborhood, her music posters taped to chipped walls, the old couch where she’d nap after school—was gone. Torn away. Replaced with manicured lawns, hedges shaped like animals, and a place where even the silence felt rehearsed.

And then came him.

Nick.

He stood in the doorway as they pulled up, one shoulder leaning against the frame like he had all the time in the world. He didn’t move to greet them, didn’t smile. Just watched with that maddening confidence, a ghost of a smirk curling at the corner of his mouth. He looked like trouble. Tall, with that tousled dark hair that looked like it had been artfully messed up on purpose, and eyes that carried a dare.

Noah knew his type. Arrogant. Sharp-tongued. Probably drove too fast and thought rules were suggestions. She didn’t need to talk to him to know they’d hate each other. She just knew.

He didn’t offer to help with her bags. Didn’t say a word. Just let his eyes travel over her in a quick, unapologetic scan—judging, measuring—and then he turned and walked away.

“Nice to meet you too, stepbrother,” she muttered under her breath, heart hammering.

The house was a cathedral of wealth. Vaulted ceilings that seemed to echo every footstep, artwork she didn’t understand mounted like trophies, and floors so shiny they reflected her confusion back at her. Every surface was cold. Clean. Untouched. It was beautiful in a way that made her feel ugly.

Her new bedroom was bigger than their entire old apartment, but it felt like a hotel suite—designed, not lived in. She sat on the pristine bed and stared at the ceiling, arms crossed tightly around her ribs like they might hold her together.

She didn’t unpack.

She didn’t cry.

She just listened to the quiet and hated every second of it.

Later that night, bass thumped through the floor. Curious—and annoyed—she followed the sound like a thread down winding hallways until she found the source: the garage, now transformed into something between a frat house and a nightclub. Strobe lights, cigarette smoke, red cups littered like confetti. And there, in the middle of it all, was Nick.

Laughing, drinking, charming the room like he owned it.

“What is this? A frat house?” she scoffed, arms folded.

Nick turned, that infuriating smirk still in place. “Didn’t realize we had company from the convent.”

Noah raised an eyebrow. “You’re a walking cliché.”

“And you’re a walking attitude,” he shot back, grin widening.

It was the first of many fights. The first clash of what would become a daily routine—barbs tossed like darts, both of them hitting their mark with deadly precision. But underneath all that sarcasm and snark, something stirred. It wasn’t attraction—at least not yet—but it was something. Something dangerous. Like the air right before lightning strikes.

She stomped back to her room and slammed the door so hard the walls shook.

She told herself she’d never get close to him.

She didn’t know yet how much of a lie that would become.

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