The words are like a lit match over gasoline. Tyler's smile is sharp enough to cut, and I should walk away. I should retreat to my room, lock the door, and spend the morning staring at my Columbia acceptance letter until it starts to feel real.
Instead, I step closer.
"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" My voice comes out low, dangerous in a way I barely recognize. "Me engaging with your pathetic attempts at intimidation. Makes you feel powerful when you've got nothing else going for you."
"Nothing else?" He laughs, the sound scraping against my nerves. "I'm a Formula 1 driver, sweetheart. I've got more going for me in my left pinky than you'll accumulate in your entire sad little life."
"A rookie driver who hasn't won a single race." I tilt my head, watching his jaw tighten with satisfaction. "I read the articles. Promising talent, they called you. Which is journalist code for hasn't actually proven anything yet."
The anger transforms his face into something feral—nostrils flaring, eyes narrowing, the civilized veneer cracking to reveal something raw underneath.
He's handsome like this, I realize with a jolt of horror. And I want to keep pushing, keep peeling back his layers until there's nothing left but the animal beneath. The impulse terrifies me—how easily he burrows under my skin.
"At least I'm proving something." He moves closer, and we're in the corridor now, the living room entrance behind him, the stairs behind me. "What are you proving, Ellie? That you can mooch off my father's guilt? That you can spread your legs for my brother between his other conquests?"
My hand shoots out before I can think, shoving against his chest, but he barely moves.
"Don't you dare—"
"Dare what? Tell the truth?" He catches my wrist, fingers wrapping around the bone with bruising pressure. "You've been here, what, two weeks? And you've already worked your way through half the men in this house. Should I be expecting my turn, or does the mean brother not fit your victim fantasy?"
"Let go of me."
"Answer the question first." His grip tightens. "What's your endgame here? Seduce your way into the will? Get Derek to fall in love with you so you can play happy family? Or is it Dad you're really after—the big prize, the billion-dollar jackpot?"
I wrench my arm free, stumbling backward into the corridor wall. "You're disgusting."
"And you're transparent." He follows me, caging me against the wallpaper with his arms on either side of my head. "I've seen girls like you before. They circle this family like vultures, picking at whatever scraps they can get. The only difference is you've got a better sob story than most."
This close, I can see the flecks of silver in his pale eyes, the way his pulse jumps in his throat, the barely contained violence coiled in every line of his body.
Something dark and unfamiliar stirs in my chest—the urge to reach up and drag my nails down that perfect face, to leave marks on him the way his words leave marks on me.
I want to ruin him. The thought sends heat flooding through my veins, and I hate myself for it, hate how alive I feel when he's this close, hate that his cruelty awakens something in me I didn't know existed.
"Get out of my face, Tyler."
"Or what?" His breath is warm against my forehead. "You'll cry? Run to Derek and tell him the mean brother hurt your feelings? He won't care, you know. He's probably already forgotten your name. That's how he works—intense attention until he gets bored, then on to the next wounded bird."
"Like mother, like son, then." The words escape before I can weigh them. "Getting bored and moving on must be genetic in your family."
His whole body goes rigid. The air between us changes, thickens, becomes something volatile and unstable.
"What did you just say?"
"You heard me." I'm shaking, but I refuse to look away. "Your mother walked out and never looked back. Maybe Derek learned commitment from her example. Maybe you all did—that's why none of you know how to actually care about anyone."
"Shut your mouth."
"Truth hurts, doesn't it?" I shove at his chest again, and this time he staggers back a step. "You want to psychoanalyze me? Let's talk about you. Let's talk about the boy whose mommy abandoned him, who turned all that pain into cruelty because it's easier than admitting you're terrified everyone you care about will leave too."
"I said shut up."
"Make me." I throw his words back at him. "Isn't that what you said? Make me, Tyler. Show me how tough you are when someone actually fights back."
He moves so fast I don't have time to react. His hands grip my shoulders, spinning me around, pressing my back against the opposite wall hard enough to knock the breath from my lungs.
"You don't know anything about my mother." His face is inches from mine, those pale eyes blazing with fury I've finally managed to unleash. "You don't know anything about what it cost us to keep going after she left."
"I know she had enough money to stay comfortable for the rest of her life and she still chose to walk away." I'm breathless, trapped, my heart hammering against my ribs. "All that wealth couldn't keep her in the family. Couldn't make her love any of you enough to stick around. What does that tell you about money, Tyler? What does that tell you about everything you think makes you better than me?"
"At least my mother chose to leave." The words come out savage, deliberate, designed to wound. "Your folks just died. And let's be honest—they were barely present when they were alive. Two middle-tier skaters who never made it past bronze. Pathetic, really. All those years on the ice, and for what? A viral video of their deaths? That's their legacy, Ellie. That's what the world will remember."
My vision goes red.
"You son of a—"
I shove him with everything I have. He stumbles backward, and I'm moving before he can recover, my hands finding the first object within reach—a crystal vase on the hallway console, heavy and cold against my palms.
I hurl it at his head.
He ducks, barely, and the vase explodes against the wall behind him in a shower of glass and water and the dying remains of flowers that scatter across the marble floor.
For one suspended moment, neither of us moves.
Then I see it—the exact instant his control snaps. His eyes go dark, his jaw locks, and something predatory shifts in his expression that sends pure adrenaline flooding through my veins.
I run.
My bare feet slip against the marble, but I don't slow down. I take the stairs two at a time, hearing his footsteps behind me—heavy, fast, gaining ground.
The east wing stretches ahead, doors flashing past in my peripheral vision, and I have no idea where I'm going, only that I need to get away.
"Ellie." His voice echoes up the stairwell, and now my name sounds like a death sentence.
I push harder, my lungs burning, my legs screaming. Another hallway, another turn, and I can hear him getting closer, his breath harsh behind me, his footsteps thundering against the hardwood.
A door appears on my left. I grab the handle, wrench it open, and throw myself inside.
My back hits the far wall just as Tyler fills the doorway, chest heaving, eyes wild.
He steps inside and kicks the door shut behind him.
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