California scrolls past the window in fragments—palm trees swaying against a darkening sky, highways wider than any I've seen, billboards advertising things I couldn't afford in three lifetimes.
The flight was my first. Economy class, cramped seats, recycled air. I spent most of it pretending to sleep, and Zack was polite enough not to disturb me.
Perks of grieving: people leave you alone.
Now the silence itches under my skin. I side-eye Zack at the wheel—study the line of his jaw, the way his hands rest easy on the leather, the quiet authority in his posture.
I break first.
"Thank you," I say, my voice cutting through the hum of the engine. "For what you did back there. With the journalists."
He glances at me, then back at the road. "You don't need to thank me."
"They knew your name." I watch his profile, the way the passing streetlights catch the sharp angles of his face. "They recognized you before you even said anything."
"They usually do," he says as the highway hums beneath us.
Who is this man? What does he do that makes journalists back off like scolded children? He's obviously wealthy but we flew economy class.
Is he greedy? Practical? Testing me somehow?
"Does that happen often?" I ask instead. "People with cameras following you around?"
"Often enough." He changes lanes smoothly, one hand on the wheel. "You get used to it. Or you get better at ignoring it."
"I'm not sure which sounds worse," I admit. "Getting used to being hunted or pretending it doesn't bother you."
His mouth twitches—not quite a smile, but close. "The latter takes practice. The former happens whether you want it to or not."
The casualness unsettles me. I came with a stranger, yes, but I didn't fully grasp that this stranger lives in a world where journalists circle.
I wonder, suddenly, if I've traded one kind of exposure for another—if I've escaped the spotlight only to step into someone else's.
It's only for the summer, I remind myself. Three months. Then college, then my own life, then I never have to see any of these people again.
The silence stretches, but it's less suffocating now. I watch the landscape shift outside my window—billboards giving way to trees, strip malls to gated communities.
Everything is growing larger, quieter. Like the world is making room for wealth I've only seen in magazines.
He breaks the silence this time.
"Mr Harrison mentioned you passed your exams." His tone is unhurried, conversational in a way that doesn't demand anything. "Any plans for what comes next?"
"I applied to a few colleges." I pick at a thread on my jeans, watch it unravel beneath my fingers. "I'm still waiting to hear back."
The truth is messier than that. I applied to five schools—three safeties, two reaches—and sent every application from the library computer.
My parents were on tour when the deadlines hit. I handled it alone, like I handle everything alone.
"What do you do?" I ask, because I'm tired of being the only one exposed. "For work, I mean."
"Restaurants, mostly. Some investments. Real estate." He lists them the way someone else might list groceries—just facts that exist. "My sons are more involved in the day-to-day now. You'll meet them when we arrive."
I wait for more—descriptions, warnings, anything—but he offers nothing. The omission feels deliberate, like he's leaving space for me to form my own conclusions.
Outside, the mansion emerges from the darkness. White walls catch the moonlight, floor-to-ceiling windows reflect the stars, and the whole structure perches above the Pacific as if it grew from the cliff itself.
Three stories of architectural perfection, surrounded by manicured gardens I can barely make out in the darkness. A fountain glimmers near the entrance.
I grew up in apartments where the heat didn't always work, where the carpet smelled like the previous tenants' cigarettes, where I learned to sleep through sirens and shouting neighbors. This is another planet.
"This is your house?" I ask, feeling my eyes widen.
"Home," he corrects quietly. "It's a house. Whether it becomes a home depends on the people inside it."
"Right." I let out a breath that's half laugh, half disbelief. "And here I thought the economy flight meant you were modest."
The corner of his mouth lifts. "First class doesn't get you there any faster."
It's already past midnight. The house is dark except for a few ground floor lights. Zack pulls into a garage that could fit my entire Oklahoma apartment building. We enter through a side door, and I brace myself—for what, I don't know.
A figure bounds toward us. Tall, honey-brown curls, a grin too wide for the hour. He pulls me into a hug before I can react, wrapping me up like we've known each other for years instead of seconds.
"Sister!" he announces, delighted. "Finally. I've always wanted one."
I stand frozen in his arms. My hands hover awkwardly at my sides. I look at Zack over his shoulder, half-expecting rescue. Zack's expression remains unreadable.
The hugger releases me, steps back, beams down at me like I'm the best surprise he's ever received. He has his father's height but none of his reserve—everything about him radiates warmth.
"I'm Derek," he says, extending his hand for a handshake before apparently deciding against it and pulling me into another quick squeeze. "The good-looking one, the charming one, the one you're going to like."
Who am I supposed not to like then?
"Derek," Zack says. A warning, maybe. Or just tiredness.
"What? I'm being welcoming." Derek throws an arm around my shoulders, already steering me toward the stairs. "Come on, I'll show you your room. You look exhausted. Are you exhausted? The flight from Oklahoma is brutal. Well, any flight is brutal, but especially red-eyes. Have you eaten? Rafael left food in the fridge—he's our chef, you'll love him, everyone loves him—"
I let myself be guided, too dazed to protest. Derek talks enough for both of us, filling the silence I'd been drowning in all night.
He points out rooms as we pass—living room, library, "that's Dad's office, don't go in there without knocking, trust me"—and I absorb almost none of it.
The hallway is long, lined with art I don't recognize. Derek stops at the end, pushes open a door, and gestures grandly.
The room is huge. Ocean view, private bathroom, a closet someone could sleep in. I set down my single suitcase—everything I own—and feel like an imposter.
"This is mine?" I ask, turning in a slow circle. "All of this?"
"All of this," Derek confirms. "Dad wanted you to have the good view. Said you deserved to wake up to something beautiful after everything you've been through."
The kindness catches me off guard. I don't know how to respond to it.
Derek lingers in the doorway, still smiling. Then his eyes shift, and I realize he might be more perceptive than his chatter suggests.
"Hey." His voice drops, loses some of its performance. "I know this is a lot. New place, new people, everything changing at once. But we're not so bad once you get used to us." A pause. "Well, I'm not so bad."
"And the other one?" I ask. "Tyler?"
Derek's smile flickers—just for a second, just enough for me to notice—before it returns at full wattage. He runs a hand through his curls, a gesture I'm already recognizing as a tell.
"Tyler's an acquired taste," he says carefully. "You'll see."
He nods, wishes me goodnight, and closes the door behind him.
I stand alone in the enormous room, surrounded by luxury I didn't earn, and wonder what kind of taste, exactly, I'm about to acquire.
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