Then I was sliding into the backseat of the Porsche beside Mr. Voss. The leather seats were butter-soft and cool. The whole car smelled of expensive cologne and polished wood. My palms were slick with sweat; my breathing came shallow and fast.
He scrolled through his tablet without looking at me once.
I stared out the window, trying to calm the questions screaming in my head.
Why does he want me in his house? Why now? Why didn't Mom question this? Does she know something I don't?
None of it made sense.
The city slid past the tinted windows—our cracked sidewalks and flickering streetlights slowly giving way to wide, tree-lined boulevards and gated estates in the most exclusive part of Luxuria.
When we finally pulled through massive iron gates, the Voss estate rose in front of us like something from a movie. Stone façade glowing under soft golden lights, perfectly manicured lawns, a fountain sparkling in the circular drive.
I'd never seen anything like it.
Staff in crisp uniforms were already lined up as we stepped out. I followed Mr. Voss closely, feeling like a lost puppy trailing a lion.
An elegant older woman with silver hair pinned neatly stepped forward. She had kind eyes but carried herself with quiet authority.
"Mrs. Dawn," Mr. Voss said, "this is Noah Callaghan. He'll be staying with us indefinitely. Please show him to the guest suite in the east wing and make sure he has everything he needs."
"Yes, sir." She turned to me with a polite, professional smile. "Welcome to the Voss estate, Mr. Callaghan. If you'll follow me."
I trailed her upstairs. The staircase was wide and sweeping, the hallway lined with original art and thick carpets that swallowed every footstep.
My room—suite—was enormous. King bed with crisp white linens, a private sitting area, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the gardens, and a bathroom that looked like a luxury spa.
Mrs. Dawn gestured gracefully. "Dinner can be sent up whenever you're ready. Just use the intercom by the bed."
"I'm… not hungry," I said, voice hoarse. "Thank you."
She studied me for a brief moment, then nodded. "Very well. Rest, Mr. Callaghan. You're safe here."
Safe.
The word almost made me laugh.
She closed the heavy door with a soft click, leaving me alone in the silence.
I sat on the edge of the massive bed, elbows on my knees, head in my hands. My heart wouldn't slow down.
Why does he want me here? Why did Mom agree so easily? Did she know Mr. Voss before? Is that why she was so… friendly with Seraphina? And why—why would Seraphina's father move me into his house if his daughter is the one making my life hell?
I had so many questions.
And no answers.
Seraphina was still at her party. She hadn't come home yet.
But she would. Soon.
And when she walked through that front door and learned that her favorite toy—her scholarship project, the boy she loved humiliating—had just been moved into her own house…
I didn't even want to imagine her reaction.
I lay back on the unfamiliar pillows, staring at the ceiling. Sleep felt impossible, but exhaustion eventually dragged me under anyway.
SERAPHINA
The party had blurred into a haze of music, laughter, and too many drinks. Tomorrow was Sunday—no classes, no consequences—so none of us cared. Tess was completely wasted, giggling uncontrollably on a lounge chair. Roman kept trying to pull me toward his car, murmuring about going back to his place, but I knew exactly how that night would end if I let him.
Instead, I slipped away long enough to text my driver.
Me: Thomas, come get me.
By the time the black Aston Martin pulled up, I was pleasantly tipsy—warm and loose, the world soft around the edges. We dropped a very drunk Tess off, then headed home.
I didn't want Dad to see me like this, so the second we reached the estate I kicked off my heels in the foyer and went straight upstairs, bare feet silent on the cool marble.
My bedroom door clicked shut behind me. The room spun gently as I collapsed onto the bed, grabbing the nearest pillow and hugging it tight against my chest.
It smelled… different. Cleaner. Like fresh laundry and something faintly masculine—shampoo or cologne I didn't recognize.
I frowned, nuzzling deeper into it anyway. Too drunk to care. Too tired to question why my pillow suddenly smelled like someone else.
Within seconds, the spinning world faded and I drifted off, still clutching the pillow like a lifeline.