Birdsong drags me from the depths of sleep like a hook through water.
I surface slowly, reluctantly, my consciousness assembling itself in fragments. The weight of an arm across my waist. The warmth of a body pressed against my back. The particular soreness between my thighs that tells a story I'm not ready to fully remember.
Then I remember anyway.
Derek made me come five times before either of us finally surrendered to exhaustion. Once with his mouth, once with his fingers, three times with him buried inside me—each position a new lesson in what my body could do.
My eyes flutter open, and the morning light stabs directly into my skull.
I wince, pressing my face back into the pillow. The champagne from last night has curdled into a headache that pulses behind my temples with every heartbeat.
My mouth tastes like something died in it, and my stomach churns with the particular queasiness of poor decisions catching up.
Behind me, Derek's breathing is slow and even, his chest rising and falling against my shoulder blades. His arm tightens around my waist, pulling me closer even in sleep, and the gesture sends a complicated wave of emotion through my chest.
Guilt surfaces first.
Tyler. The name floats up, and with it comes the memory of pale blue eyes and sharp cheekbones and hands that gripped my hips hard enough to bruise.
He told me we weren't exclusive. He made the terms clear. But lying here in his brother's arms, I can't help wondering—
What if he didn't sleep with anyone in Monaco?
The thought is ridiculous. Tyler McKinney, surrounded by models and paddock girls and women who throw themselves at Formula 1 drivers like confetti, choosing celibacy for my sake?
That would require him to be someone other than who he is. That would require him to care in ways he's made clear he doesn't.
I brush the thought away like dust from a shelf.
The thirst becomes unbearable. My throat feels lined with sandpaper, and the thought of water consumes me with single-minded desperation.
I try to slide out from under Derek's arm, moving slowly, carefully—
His grip tightens.
"Where do you think you're going?" His voice is rough with sleep, muffled against my hair.
"Water." I push at his arm. "I'm dying. Let me go."
"No." He pulls me closer, nuzzling into my neck. "Stay. You're warm."
"Derek, I'm seriously dehydrated. I might actually die."
"Then I'll die with you. It's very romantic."
I squirm, trying to twist free, but his arm is an iron band around my waist. Every time I gain an inch of freedom, he reclaims it, his chest shaking with silent laughter against my back.
"This isn't funny." I shove at him harder. "I need water and possibly a new liver."
"Kiss me first."
"Absolutely not." I clamp my lips shut and turn my face away as he tries to find my mouth. "I bet we both have morning breath that could kill small animals."
"So dramatic." But he's laughing now, his grip loosening just enough for me to wriggle free. "Fine, go get your water. But come back. We're not done cuddling."
"We are absolutely done cuddling." I stumble toward the bathroom, my legs unsteady beneath me. "We may never cuddle again. I'm instituting a strict no-cuddling policy effective immediately."
"Liar," he calls after me. "You love cuddling. You practically purred last night when I—"
I shut the bathroom door on the rest of his sentence.
The water from the tap is cold and perfect, and I drink until my stomach protests.
My reflection in the mirror is horrifying—mascara smudged beneath my eyes, hair tangled into something that resembles a bird's nest, lips swollen and raw from hours of kissing.
I look thoroughly debauched.
When I emerge, Derek has sprawled across the entire bed like a starfish, his golden skin stark against my white sheets.
He watches me through half-lidded eyes as I grab my phone from the nightstand and settle into the armchair by the window.
Scrolling through notifications has become a morning ritual—a way to ease into consciousness before facing the day.
I tap the screen, expecting the usual nothing: maybe an email from Columbia I'll continue ignoring, maybe a news alert I don't care about.
Instead, my own face stares back at me.
I freeze.
The headlines multiply as I scroll, each one worse than the last. Photos from last night—me and Derek leaving the restaurant, his arm slung around my shoulders, both of us laughing at something I can't remember.
The images are grainy, clearly taken from a distance, but unmistakably us.
"McKinney Heir's Mystery Woman: Who Is the Brunette Stealing Derek's Heart?"
"Billionaire's Son Goes Public with New Flame—Everything We Know"
"From Tragedy to Romance: Orphaned Skater's Daughter Finds Love with Restaurant Mogul"
They know who I am. They've connected me to my parents, to the accident, to the viral video of their deaths that I've spent weeks trying to forget.
The articles speculate about our relationship, about how we met, about whether I'm a gold-digger or a genuine love match.
"Ellie?" Derek's voice cuts through my spiral. "You okay?"
I hold up the phone, my hand trembling slightly. "We're in the news. We're in a lot of news."
He's beside me in seconds, taking the phone, scrolling through the articles with an expression that shifts from curiosity to resignation.
His jaw tightens at some of the more invasive headlines, but he doesn't seem surprised.
"This happens," he says, handing the phone back. "Occupational hazard of being a McKinney. It'll fade in a few days. Some celebrity will do something scandalous, and they'll forget we exist."
"They know who I am, Derek." My voice comes out sharp. "They connected me to my parents. To the accident. If reporters start digging—"
"You haven't done anything wrong." He crouches in front of my chair, his hands finding my knees. "You're not hiding any dark secrets. The worst they can say is that you're dating me, and honestly, that reflects worse on your judgment than anything else."
The joke lands flat. I stare at the phone in my lap, at my own face multiplied across a dozen tabloid sites, and feel the walls closing in.
"Hey." Derek's fingers find my chin, tilting my face toward his. "We'll handle this. I've been dealing with press my whole life. I know how to make them lose interest."
I want to believe him. I want to trust that this will blow over, that my face will fade from the headlines, that I can return to the invisibility I've cultivated my entire life.
But the knot in my stomach says otherwise.
I take a breath, force myself to compartmentalize. There's nothing I can do about the press right now.
But there is something I can do about the next few hours.
"Get up." I stand, pulling away from Derek's touch. "We need to shower and eat and make ourselves presentable."
"For what?" He rises, stretching, his muscles shifting beneath his skin.
"Tyler's race." I check the time on my phone. "It starts in two hours. I promised I'd watch."
________________