Morning light pours through floor-to-ceiling windows, turning the Pacific into hammered gold. I've never woken up to an ocean view before.
The bed could fit four people. The sheets are softer than anything I've ever touched.
I take my time getting up. No parents to check on. No school to attend. No life demanding my presence.
My single suitcase sits where I dropped it last night, looking embarrassingly small against the expanse of hardwood floor.
Unpacking doesn't take long. Jeans, t-shirts, one nice sweater. At the bottom, wrapped in an old scarf, there is a framed photo of my parents.
I'm not ready to look at it.
I arrange everything in the massive closet, where my belongings occupy maybe one-tenth of the available space.
You don't belong here, the empty hangers seem to whisper. You're borrowing someone else's life.
Dressed in my least-worn jeans and a plain black shirt, I venture downstairs. The smell of coffee pulls me forward.
The kitchen is a chef's paradise. A woman in her fifties stands at the center—crisp, efficient, gray dress.
"Good morning, Miss Ellie." Her smile is warm but professional. "I'm Mrs. Watts, the house manager. This is Rafael, our chef."
Rafael looks up from whatever he's whisking. "Welcome. You must be starving after yesterday's travel. What can I make you?"
"Oh, I can just grab some toast." I move toward the bread box. "I don't want to be any trouble."
Mrs. Watts intercepts me gently. "That's very thoughtful, but breakfast is served at nine in the dining room. You're a guest here. Guests don't make their own food."
"I've been making my own food since I was nine," I say, then immediately wish I hadn't.
Her expression softens. "Then perhaps it's time someone took care of you for a change. The dining room is this way."
She guides me through hallways until we reach a room that stops me in my tracks. Massive table, crystal chandelier, one entire wall of glass overlooking the Pacific.
"Mr. McKinney usually joins around nine," Mrs. Watts explains. "Please, make yourself comfortable."
She disappears. I sink into a chair, facing the wall of glass that opens onto the patio and the ocean beyond.
The Pacific stretches endlessly, a shifting canvas of blues and greens that catches the morning light and throws it back in fragments.
I count seconds until footsteps approach. They belong to Uncle Zack.
He's been jogging on the beach—I know this because he's shirtless, skin glistening with sweat, hair damp and pushed back from his face.
He moves to the sideboard, pours water, drinks deeply. My mouth goes dry.
Don't look. Don't look. Don't look.
I force my eyes to the table, to the window—but they keep drifting back. The breadth of his shoulders. The definition in his arms. The way his stomach muscles shift when he sets down the glass.
He's your step-uncle, I remind myself. He's old enough to be your father.
"Sleep well?"
His voice cuts through my spiral. I meet his eyes, praying my face isn't flushed.
"Fine," I manage. "The bed is... it's a good bed."
A good bed. I want to disappear through the floor.
He opens his mouth to respond when another figure appears in the doorway.
A young woman in her early twenties. Wearing nothing but a man's dress shirt that hits mid-thigh and leaves very little to imagination.
I wonder which son it belongs to—Tyler or Derek? The girl’s legs are endless. Her hair tumbles in perfect waves. Her face is… familiar.
I frown, trying to place it. A model, maybe? An actress? I've seen that face somewhere, in magazines or billboards or—
She crosses to Zack, rises on her toes, presses a casual kiss to his mouth.
My stomach drops. Isn’t he too old for her?
"Ellie, this is Veronica," Zack says neutrally. "Veronica, this is Ellie. She'll be staying with us for the summer."
Recognition clicks into place as I stare at the face I've seen on the cover of Vogue, walking the Victoria's Secret runway in wings that cost more than a car.
This is Veronica Lane. Not just a model. The model.
Of course this is the woman sharing his bed. What else would a billionaire keep in his mansion—someone ordinary?
"Charmed." Veronica's smile is genuine—the easy confidence of a woman who has never viewed another female as competition.
And why would she? She's a goddess. I'm a gray mouse from Oklahoma with a dead-end wardrobe. No threat there.
"Ellie's parents passed recently," Zack says quietly.
"Oh, honey." Veronica's hand flies to her chest. "I'm so sorry. That must be devastating."
She sounds like she means it, which makes everything worse.
Mrs. Watts appears with my breakfast: eggs, fresh fruit, toast, coffee. But my appetite has vanished. I watch Zack murmur something to Veronica, watch her laugh and thread her fingers through his, watch them disappear toward the stairs.
They're going back to bed—together.
I stare at my plate. The eggs look perfect—fluffy, golden, probably delicious. My stomach turns.
"Mrs. Watts?" My voice comes out steadier than I feel. "Would it be alright if I took my coffee outside?"
She nods, and I escape before anyone can see my face.
The patio is all clean lines and expensive furniture—cushioned loungers, a glass table, terracotta pots overflowing with plants. Beyond it, the infinity pool bleeds into the horizon.
I settle into a chair facing the ocean and pull out my phone.
Zack McKinney, I type into the search bar.
The results flood her screen. Articles, interviews, Forbes profiles, tabloid speculation. I click the first link and start reading.
‘Self-made billionaire. Restaurant empire spanning three continents. Divorced eight years ago—wife took a settlement that made headlines, left him with two sons and a reputation for being impossible to live with.’
I'm so absorbed I don't hear the footsteps until a voice speaks directly behind me, close enough that she feels the breath on my neck.
"Googling my father already?" The words drip with contempt. "Gold-digger research, or just general stalking?"
I jerk forward, nearly spilling coffee. I twist in the chair to find a stranger standing there—shirtless, a towel slung over his shoulder, clearly headed to the beach.
Except he's not a stranger.
He has Zack's height, Zack's sharp bone structure, but where his father radiates controlled authority, this one radiates hostility.
Dark hair falls across his forehead, mussed from sleep. His eyes—pale blue, almost silver in the morning light—hold the kind of contempt that takes years to cultivate.
Broad shoulders taper to a lean waist, his chest and stomach carved with the definition of someone who trains obsessively.
Tyler's an acquired taste, Derek had said last night, and the warning clicks into place. He's beautiful the way thunderstorms are beautiful—dangerous and destructive.
I lock my phone, shove it into my pocket. "Neither. I was just—"
"Curious?" He leans down, bracing one hand on my chair, face too close. "Let me save you some time, sissy. He's worth about two billion, depending on the market. He likes his women young and disposable. And if you're hoping to be wife number two, you should know—" His smile is razor-thin. "You're not his type. He prefers them beautiful."
Sissy.
He knows exactly who I am. Knows I just buried my parents, knows I have nowhere else to go, knows I'm here because his father took pity on me.
And still he twists the knife.
Heat rises in my cheeks, tears building behind my eyes, and I hate myself for both.
"I'm not—" I start.
"Save it." He straightens, already bored. "I don't actually care what you are. Just stay out of my way and we won't have a problem."
He walks past me toward the beach without waiting for a response.
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