My stepbrother swore he'd make me pay for ruining his love life.

I heard him say it myself.

I'd just gotten back to the Ashcroft estate. My backpack was still on my shoulder.

His bedroom door was cracked open. Camden Ashcroft never shut a door all the way. He liked people to hear him. But this time, he just forgot that the conversation should have been private.

"No, I'm serious." His voice was lazy and cruel. "I want her ruined."

I stopped on the second-floor landing.

I couldn't hear whoever was on the other end. Only silence, then Camden's laugh.

"She's a fake. Both of them are. You should've seen them the first week they moved in. Big eyes. Soft little voices. 'Thank you, Graham.' 'You're too generous, Graham.'" He made his voice high and sweet. "It's an act, man. They're here for the money. That's it."

My fingers tightened around my shoes.

"Laurel plays the grateful widow. Calla plays the good girl. And my dad eats it up." A pause. "Yeah. Exactly."

"You know what she did to me with Dahlia."

There it was.

My stomach dropped and then settled, cold and heavy. Last month. Of course.

Camden had been dating Dahlia for almost a year. She was nice to me. She was the only one in his circle who ever said hello to me. Then I saw Camden in the parking lot behind the country club with his hand up some other girl's skirt.

So I told Dahlia.

She dumped him that same night, in front of half their friends.

"It's none of her business," Camden said into the phone. "But she walked up and showed Dahlia the picture. Like it was." His voice went low. "So now I'm making her my business. Do whatever to ruin her."

I backed away from the door before he could hear the floor creak.

---

It wasn't our first fight.

The first one happened at dinner, two weeks after we moved in. Graham was on a call in his study. The staff was clearing plates.

Camden leaned back in his chair and smiled at my mom.

"So how long did it take you to find a billionaire, Laurel? Did you have a list?"

My mom's fork stopped halfway to her mouth.

"Camden," she said quietly. "I don't think—"

"It's fine. Everybody knows." He waved a hand at the maid behind him. "Right, Rosa? You know what a parasite looks like."

Rosa stared at the floor.

I picked up my wine glass. Graham let me have half a glass at dinner. It was supposed to make me feel like family.

I threw all of it in Camden's face.

The red ran down his chin and into his white collar. For a second, nobody moved. Then he shoved his chair back and grabbed for my wrist.

"You little—"

I twisted out of his grip, hooked my foot behind his ankle, and pushed.

He hit the marble hard.

My dad taught me that before he died. *If someone bigger grabs you, Cal, don't pull. Drop them.*

Camden lay on the floor, gasping, wine in his hair. And I laughed. I couldn't help it. It came out of me like a hiccup.

That was a mistake.

---

An hour later, Camden stood in Graham's study holding an ice pack to his elbow.

"She attacked me," he said. "Out of nowhere. Ask anyone."

Graham rubbed his forehead. He looked at me like I was a bill he hadn't planned to pay.

"Calla? Is that true?"

"He called my mom a parasite."

"I was joking." Camden shrugged. "She's sensitive."

My mom touched my arm. Her hand was shaking.

"Sweetheart," she whispered. "Please. Just apologize."

I turned to her. "Mom."

"Please." Her eyes were wet. "For me. I don't want trouble. Not here."

So I did it. I lowered my head and said, "I'm sorry, Camden."

He stepped closer, like he was going to accept it like a gentleman. Then he bent down so only I could hear.

"You'll never belong here," he breathed against my ear. "Neither of you."

I kept my head down until he left the room. My nails left four little half-moons in my palm.

---

"He said *what*?"

Greer nearly dropped her iced coffee. We were sitting in her car just off campus the next morning. Greer Calloway had been my best friend since we were ten, back when my house had one bathroom and no staff.

"'Do whatever you want with her,'" I repeated. "That's what he said."

"Okay." She set the coffee in the cup holder. "Okay. But what does that even mean? Like, he wants this guy to spread rumors about you?"

"Or hire somebody to beat me up." I picked at the strap of my bag. "Or worse."

"Worse like—" She stopped. Her face changed. "Cal. No. You think he'd get someone to…"

"Rape me?" The word sat between us. "Yeah. I think he'd let it happen."

Greer shook her head fast. "That's insane. He's an asshole, but he's a rich-boy asshole. He'd mess with your car. Key it. Post something gross online."

"You don't know him."

"I know he's a spoiled brat who cries when his latte is cold."

"He smiled at my mom while he called her a gold digger, Greer." My voice came out sharper than I meant. "And then he lied to his dad's face. He's not loud. He's patient. That's what scares me."

She was quiet for a long time.

Then she picked her coffee back up and took a long, angry sip.

"Fine," she said. "Then I'm your bodyguard."

"You weigh a hundred and ten pounds."

"I weigh a hundred and ten pounds of *fury*. I'm picking you up every morning. I'm driving you home every day. No arguments."

For the next few days, she did exactly that. Every morning her car was at the gate. Every afternoon she was waiting at the curb with music too loud and snacks on the passenger seat.

Nothing happened.

---

On Thursday, Greer had her organic chemistry midterm.

"It's two hours," she said, gripping my shoulders outside the science wing. "Stay in the library. Do not leave. Do not talk to strangers. Do not accept candy."

"I'm nineteen."

"Nineteen-year-olds love candy. Library. Go."

So I went.

The library was nearly empty. A few freshmen were asleep on their textbooks. I took the table by the back window and opened my history notes.

I read the same paragraph four times.

Every time the door swung open, my eyes jumped to it. A librarian. A kid with a cart. A girl looking for the bathroom.

*Relax*, I told myself. *He's not going to do anything in a library.*

I'd almost believed it when a shadow fell across my page.

"Is this seat taken?"

The voice was low and easy. Close.

My pen stopped moving.

There were empty tables in this room, but he wanted the chair next to mine.

I slowly lifted my head.

He was tall. Dark hair pushed back like he'd run his hand through it. A gray Ravens hoodie with the sleeves shoved up his forearms. He was smiling at me like we already knew each other.

And I knew him.

Everyone on campus knew him.

His face was forty feet tall outside the gym, printed on the giant banner that hung over the doors. Number seven. Arms crossed. That same smile.

*Weston.*

He pulled out the chair without waiting for my answer.

"You got a pen?"

He was already sitting down. His knee bumped mine under the table.

"You're in a library," I said. "With no pen."

"I forgot it." He held up both empty hands. "Tragic, right? Star athlete, zero school supplies."

I pushed my spare pen across the table. He didn't take it from the table. He took it from my fingers, slowly, and his thumb dragged across my knuckles.

Then he leaned in to read my notes.

He smelled like cedar. Cedar and the blue sport body wash every guy in the locker room seemed to use, except on him it didn't smell cheap.

"French Revolution," he said. "Brutal."

"It's a history test. Not a crime scene."

"Same thing, if you think about it."

I went back to my notes. The paragraph on the Estates-General swam in front of me. I read the first line. Then I read it again.

Why was the star here? Why me?

His elbow settled next to mine. Heat came through his hoodie sleeve.

I underlined a sentence I hadn't read.

"Hey." He tapped the paperback sitting by my bag. "*The Glass Orchard*. You finished it?"

"Last night, but I haven't finished it."

"Who do you think to be the murderer?"

I studied him. Football. Banner. Number seven. He didn't read novels. Guys like him read playbooks and their own press.

"Kind of obvious," I said. "Her sister."

He laughed. That made the freshman two tables over lift his head off his textbook.

"The sister? No way. The sister was the red herring the whole time." He flipped the book over and pointed at the back cover like the answer was printed there. "It was the groundskeeper. He poisoned the pears in chapter three. Remember the gloves? He's wearing gloves in *August*."

I stared at him.

"You actually read it."

"Twice." He grinned. "You lied to me."

"I tested you."

"Did I pass?"

I didn't answer. My face was doing it for me.

---

We should have stopped there. We didn't.

The book turned into the movie, which he said ruined the ending. Which turned into the worst movies ever made, which turned into an argument about whether sequels should be illegal.

"Not all sequels," I said.

"Name one good one."

"*The Empire Strikes Back*."

"Okay, fine. Name two."

I opened my mouth. Closed it.

"See?" He pointed my own pen at me. "Illegal."

Somehow we ended up on the coffee cart outside the gym.

"It tastes like a penny," I said.

"A wet penny." He shook his head gravely. "Someone dropped a penny in a puddle and served it to me for four dollars."

I snorted. Loud. I slapped a hand over my mouth.

He looked pleased with himself. Way too pleased.

That was the thing. He kept watching my mouth when I laughed. He kept finding reasons to lean closer. Twice he touched the edge of my notebook like he wanted to touch my hand instead.

And I kept letting him.

I liked how he talked. Fast, then slow. I liked the little scar through his left eyebrow. I liked that he'd read a book twice.

*Stop it,* I told myself. *You know who he might be.*

I didn't stop.

---

I glanced at the clock. Greer's exam would be done in ten minutes.

I held out my hand. "Pen."

"Oh, this?" He spun it once between his fingers. Then he clipped it to the collar of his hoodie, right at his throat. "I'll give it back next time."

"There's a next time?"

"There is now." He stood, pushed in the chair, and smiled down at me. "See you, Calla."

He walked out like he owned the building.

I sat there with my notes open and my face hot.

He'd stolen my pen on purpose. He'd built himself a reason to find me again.

The worst part was how badly I wanted him to.

---

That night, the hallway was dark except for the light under Camden's door.

His door was open three inches. Of course it was.

"So?" Camden said. "Did you see her?"

I froze with my hand on the stair rail.

He had his phone on speaker. A voice came through it, crackly and relaxed.

"Yeah. I saw her." My stomach turned over.

"And?" Camden sounded hungry.

"Honestly?" Weston laughed. "Smoother than I expected. She talked to me for almost an hour. She laughed at my coffee joke."

"Your coffee joke is terrible."

"She laughed anyway."

Camden's chair creaked. I could picture him leaning back, feet on the desk, smiling at the ceiling.

"Told you," he said. "She acts so smart. Like she sees through everybody. But put a guy like you in front of her and she's just like every other girl. Give it two weeks. She won't know which way is up."

"Two weeks is generous."

They both laughed.

I stood very still. My nails bit into my palm, deeper than they had in Graham's study. Deep enough to sting.

*Smoother than expected.*

The joke. The pen at his throat. The way he'd watched my mouth.

All of it, homework.

I walked to my room without making a sound. I didn't cry. I sat on my bed and stared at the dark window until my reflection stared back.

Then I smiled.

---

The dining hall was loud the next day. Greer was stabbing at a salad and telling me about her chem exam when her fork stopped mid-air.

"Cal," she whispered. "Number seven, twelve o'clock."

He slid onto the bench across from me like he'd been invited.

"Hey."

"Hey yourself."

He unclipped the pen from his collar. Then he reached across the table, took my hand, turned it palm up, and set the pen in it. His fingers closed mine around it.

He held on a second too long.

Greer made a tiny strangled noise.

"Told you I'd give it back," he said.

"You did."

"So." He rubbed the back of his neck. Shy. It was a good act. It was a really good act. "You doing anything Friday night?"

Under the table, Greer kicked me. Hard.

I looked straight into his eyes. Brown, warm, a little gold near the center. The kind of eyes you'd trust.

I smiled at him. Slow. Sweet.

"I've been waiting for you to ask me."

His grin spread wide and easy.

He thought he'd won.

He had no idea I'd heard every word.

Weston pulled up at the gate at eleven-forty.

I'd changed three times. Then I'd stopped, because this wasn't a real date, and I wasn't going to dress up for a lie. Black top. Jeans. Hair down. Done.

He was leaning against a dusty black Jeep with his hands in his pockets. When I came through the gate, he straightened up and reached for the passenger door.

"You don't need to open it for me," I said.

"You look so good today."

"It's just a T-shirt."

"I noticed."

I climbed in before he could see my face.

---

The theater was old and half-empty. It smelled like butter and wet carpet. The movie was called *The Hollow Hour*, and the poster showed a girl screaming into a well.

"Midnight horror," I said, sliding into my seat. "Bold choice for a first date."

"You think it's a date?"

"You think it isn't?"

He just grinned and handed me the popcorn.

The lights went down. The screen went gray, then black, then a little girl walked into a cornfield alone. Everyone in the theater knew how that was going to end.

Somewhere in the first ten minutes, his hand found mine on the armrest.

He didn't ask. He just slid his fingers between mine and held on, warm and steady, like he'd done it a hundred times.

My pulse jumped. Stupidly. Like I was thirteen.

Then I pictured Camden in his desk chair, feet up, laughing at the ceiling. *Give it two weeks.*

Heat climbed my neck. Not the good kind.

So this was step one. Hold her hand in the dark. Check.

I didn't pull away.

I squeezed back.

---

Forty minutes in, the well came back.

The girl leaned over the edge. The music dropped out. Total silence.

Then something white and wet shot up out of the dark, straight at the camera, and the whole theater screamed.

Weston's arm was around me before I'd even flinched. He pulled me sideways into his chest, his hand cupped over the back of my head.

"I got you," he muttered.

My cheek was pressed against his hoodie. Under it, his heart was pounding.

Not steady. Not calm like his voice.

Fast. Then a skip. Then faster.

Huh.

Either the well scared him, or something else did.

I tipped my face up until my lips were almost touching his ear.

"Are you this sweet to every girl?" I whispered.

His arm went still.

On screen, someone was crying. Neither of us looked.

"I've never brought anyone to see a movie." He swallowed. I felt it. "I always go alone."

I laughed into his shoulder.

He didn't let go of me until the credits.

---

It was almost two when we walked out. The parking lot was empty except for his Jeep and a red pickup idling under the only working light.

He was still holding my hand. I was still letting him.

The pickup doors opened.

Three guys climbed out. Big. Letter jackets, green and gold. One of them had a bottle hanging from his fingers.

"Well, look at that," the one in front said. "Number seven."

Weston's grip on me changed. Tighter.

"Hey, Brody," he said. "Go home."

"Ridgemont doesn't go home." Brody's words ran together. "Ridgemont was supposed to make the playoffs. Remember? Till you ran that fake on fourth and two."

"It was a good fake."

"It was a *cheap* fake." The second guy laughed. "This your girlfriend? She know you're a cheat?"

"She's not part of this."

"Everybody's part of this, man." Brody tossed the bottle. It shattered by my feet. "Hey, sweetheart. Want a ride with some real players?"

Weston stepped in front of me. All the way in front. His back blocked out the light.

"Calla." He didn't turn his head. "Keys are in my left pocket. Take them. Get in the car and lock it."

"Weston—"

"Run."

His voice wasn't easy anymore. It was flat and hard.

Brody swung first.

Weston ducked it like he'd been waiting all night. He drove his shoulder into Brody's stomach and dropped him on the asphalt. The second guy grabbed his hoodie. Weston twisted, slammed an elbow back, and the guy folded over, wheezing. The third one hesitated half a second too long. Weston hit him once, clean, in the jaw.

Three bodies on the ground. One of them groaning. One of them crying a little.

It took maybe fifteen seconds.

Weston turned around, chest heaving, knuckles split.

I hadn't moved an inch.

"You didn't run," he said.

"You didn't need me to."

He stared at me under that buzzing yellow light. And something in his face slipped.

The smooth thing. The watching thing. The look he'd worn in the library, in the dining hall, at the car door when he counted his seconds. It just dropped away.

What was left was raw. Wide-eyed. Like he was seeing me for the first time and couldn't believe I was real.

Nobody had ever looked at me like that.

And that's when the thought came. Quiet. Sharp. Dangerous.

*What if it wasn't fake?*

What if I made Weston fall for me. Really fall. Hard enough that he forgot whose side he was on. Hard enough that Camden picked up the phone one night and his best friend didn't answer.

Camden wanted to take something from me.

I could take something back.

The idea tasted sweet. Too sweet.

"Your hand's bleeding," I said.

"Is it?" He didn't look at it. He was looking at my mouth.

Behind him, Brody rolled over and swore at the sky.

I stepped closer. One step. Then another. His breathing went shallow. I tilted my chin up, close enough to feel the warmth coming off his skin, close enough that one more inch would end it.

He leaned down.

I stopped.

A breath away. Our lips not touching. Not yet.

"Thanks for the movie," I whispered.

Then I turned and walked toward the Jeep.

One step. Two.

His fingers closed around my wrist.

He spun me back so fast my hair whipped across my face, and before I could say a word, his mouth was on mine.

Hard. Hungry. A little desperate.

This time, I didn't pull away.