Rain turns the mansion into a glass cage, and I've been pacing the halls for two hours.
The Pacific has disappeared behind sheets of gray, and the drumming on the windows sounds like impatient fingers tapping, tapping, tapping.
Derek's words about monogamy keep circling through my mind.
It goes against everything I watched my parents build—that consuming devotion, that all-encompassing partnership that left room for nothing else, including me.
I stop at the window at the end of the hallway, pressing my palm against the cold glass. The rain distorts the view, turning the ocean into an impressionist painting.
His philosophy appeals to me but why? Is that what I want? To float through connections without anchoring to any of them?
The Columbia acceptance letter burns in my phone. Full scholarship, fresh start, three thousand miles between me and everything that's happened in this house.
Two months are left until September. But two months is a long time when you have nothing to your name.
The diner money dried up the day I left Oklahoma. My parents' account held exactly four hundred and twelve dollars—enough to bury them, barely, with Christopher covering what I couldn't.
I have no savings, no income, no safety net for the life waiting on the other end of this summer.
You could ask Zack for help, whispers a voice I immediately despise.
No. Absolutely not.
I need a job. A real one, something that puts cash in my pocket and armor around my pride. Derek's restaurant worked well enough yesterday—maybe I could make it permanent.
Maybe I could spend the next two months building something that belongs to me, even if it's just a few thousand dollars and the knowledge that I earned every cent.
My feet carry me through corridors I've memorized by now, past the library with its ghost of my confrontation with Tyler, past the media room where Derek kissed me, past a dozen doors hiding a dozen memories I'm not ready to revisit.
Then I find myself outside the home gym.
Through the glass doors, Tyler moves across the basketball court with focused aggression. Each shot lands like a punishment, each rebound caught with hands that seem to be fighting the air itself.
His shirt is soaked with sweat, his hair plastered to his forehead, and every line of his body screams exorcism.
Every rational cell in my brain insists on retreat. Instead, I push through the doors.
The squeak of hinges makes him pause mid-shot. The ball bounces away, rolling to a stop near my feet.
"Lost, sissy?" The nickname lands differently today—less weapon, more habit.
"Bored," I correct, picking up the ball and turning it in my hands. "And it's raining, in case you hadn't noticed. The whole dramatic brooding-by-the-window thing got old after the first hour."
He studies me for a long moment, chest heaving, those pale eyes tracking my movements with the intensity I've come to expect from him. Then he holds out his hands for the ball.
I toss it to him instead—a clean pass that makes his eyebrows lift.
"Let's see what you've got," he says, and something in his voice sounds almost like a dare.
I search his face for the cruelty I've come to expect. But his eyes hold something different today—a restlessness that has nothing to do with me, a need to burn through whatever's eating at him from the inside.
I can work with that.
Tyler plays like he does everything—relentless, competitive, trash-talking between possessions with the kind of focused energy that transforms opponents into obstacles to be demolished. But there's no venom in it today, no cruelty lurking beneath the surface.
"That's traveling," he calls as I drive toward the basket. "This isn't hockey, sweetheart."
"That's defense," I shoot back, ducking under his arm and sinking the layup. "This isn't Formula 1, where you just sit there and let the car do all the work."
His laugh echoes off the gym walls—genuine, startled, nothing like the dark sound I heard in the guest bedroom.
I'm better than he expected. My small frame becomes an advantage, slipping through gaps in his defense, stealing the ball when he gets too confident.
Years of skating built agility into my bones, and basketball isn't so different—reading body language, anticipating movement, staying three steps ahead.
I sink a three-pointer from the corner, and his expression shifts into reluctant respect.
"Lucky shot," he mutters, retrieving the ball.
"Luck is what losers call skill they don't understand."
"Where did that come from?"
"Fortune cookie." I grin, breathless from exertion. "Or maybe I just made it up. Either way, the scoreboard doesn't lie."
The game ends 21-18, his favor—barely.
We collapse onto the polished floor, backs against the padded wall, lungs burning. The rain continues its assault on the windows, but the sound feels different now—less prison, more percussion.
"Not bad," Tyler admits, and the corner of his mouth curves into a genuine smile.
I haven't seen him smile like this before—without cruelty underneath. It transforms his face entirely, softens the sharp edges I've come to associate with danger.
"That sounded almost like a compliment coming from someone who told me I looked desperate and embarrassing less than a week ago."
"You were desperate and embarrassing." He tilts his head back against the wall. "Now you're just mildly tolerable. It's called character growth, Ellie. You should be proud."
"I'm overwhelmed by your generosity."
Silence settles between us, comfortable in a way that feels foreign.
My gaze drifts sideways without permission, tracing the line of his jaw, the curve of his mouth—the same mouth that pressed against mine in that guest bedroom before he ruined everything with words designed to wound.
I wasn't begging for anything, was I?
I watch the rain streak down the windows and find myself asking the question before I can weigh whether I have any right to it.
"Monaco is soon, isn't it? The race you've been training for."
His whole body stiffens, then slowly relaxes. "One week." He pauses, and when he speaks again, his voice has lost its edge entirely. "I've been dreaming about that race since I was twelve years old."
"And now you're actually going to do it." I turn my head to look at him. "That's incredible, Tyler. Most people spend their whole lives dreaming about things they'll never achieve, and you're about to live yours."
"The McKinney name comes with expectations." His jaw tightens. "My father built an empire from nothing, and everyone expects me to do the same on the track. One bad race, one wrong move, and I'm not Tyler the driver anymore—I'm Tyler who couldn't live up to his family's legacy."
"Screw their expectations." The words come out fierce. "You're not racing for the McKinney name or the press or anyone watching from their comfortable couches. You're racing because you love it."
He turns to face me, and the vulnerability in his expression makes my chest ache. "You don't have to say that."
"I know." I hold his gaze without flinching. "I mean it. I'll be watching, Tyler, and I believe you can win. Not because of your name or your money or your father's reputation—because I've seen how hard you fight for what you want. Monaco doesn't stand a chance."
The air between us shifts, thickens with a tension that has nothing to do with our basketball game.
His hand reaches up, fingers brushing a strand of hair from my face with a gentleness I didn't know he possessed. The touch sends electricity racing down my spine, and I don't pull away.
"You confuse me," he murmurs. "One minute I want to destroy you, and the next I want to—"
He doesn't finish the sentence. His mouth finds mine instead.
________________