Harley's POV
The school sends us out together the next morning—charity gala prep, the kind of mundane tasks that require two people with a car and a checklist. Pick up table linens from the rental company, confirm the florist, collect the printed programs from the shop downtown.
Boring, logistical, completely devoid of drama.
Which means the only drama is us.
"You missed the turn! I told you two blocks ago to go left, and you went straight because apparently accepting directions from me is physically impossible for you."
"Your navigational skills are impressive for someone who takes the bus everywhere, but maybe leave the driving to people who've actually operated a vehicle before last night's grand theft auto."
"It wasn't a grand theft auto. It was borrowing! And I drive better than you—you signal like you're asking the lane for permission. Just go!"
"I signal because I'm not a maniac! Unlike some people who apparently learned to drive from their gang-affiliated brothers in stolen…" He stops himself, recalibrates. "In borrowed vehicles."
The correction hangs in the air—clumsy, obvious, almost endearing in its awkwardness.
A month ago, he wouldn't have bothered catching himself. Now the cruelty trips on its way out of his mouth and lands as something softer, something that almost resembles care.
Neither of us mentions the kiss. It sits between us like a live wire we've silently agreed not to touch—making every accidental brush of shoulders and lingering glance heavier than it should be.
When his hand passes me the clipboard and his fingers graze mine, I feel it in my spine. When I lean across him to point at a street sign, his breath catches just enough for me to notice.
We don't acknowledge any of it.
We just keep bickering, because bickering is safe and the alternative is terrifying.
"The florist confirmed peonies instead of roses, by the way. I called yesterday while you were at practice pretending to be a professional athlete."
"I am a professional athlete. And peonies are fine—I don't care about flowers, Valdez. I care about finishing this list before I lose the will to live, which at the current pace should be approximately fifteen minutes."
"You're so dramatic. It's genuinely exhausting being around someone who treats a supply run like a war crime."
"And it's genuinely exhausting being around someone who color-codes a checklist for picking up napkins. You used three different highlighters, Harley. Three, for napkins."
For a few hours, the awkwardness and the banter balance each other out, and the world outside Wentworth feels almost normal. Almost like we're two people who actually enjoy each other's company, instead of two people trapped in a deal built on secrets and mutual blackmail.
Then we walk out of the print shop with boxes of programs stacked in our arms, and the world stops being normal.
Governor Mercer stands on the sidewalk fifteen feet away, flanked by two aides, mid-conversation with a man in an expensive suit. He spots Tate before I can suggest we turn around, and his gaze shifts—landing on me with the precision of a surgeon locating a tumor.
"Tate."
His voice carries that practiced warmth, the one I've seen him deploy on television—smooth, measured, designed to make you feel welcome while communicating that you are fundamentally unwelcome.
“What a coincidence. Running errands for the school event?"
"Yes, sir. Gala preparation—student council responsibilities." Tate's voice has flattened into something I barely recognize.
The sharp, irreverent boy who spent the morning mocking my highlighter system has been replaced by a performance so polished it makes my skin crawl.
"Wonderful. The gala is important for Wentworth's donor relationships. I'm glad you're involved."
His eyes slide to me—a glance so brief it's almost dismissive, carrying the full weight of judgment he doesn't bother to disguise. Then his gaze travels from my altered blouse to my secondhand shoes and back up, and I feel the assessment land.
Insufficient, Irrelevant, temporary.
"And this must be your... classmate."
Not a girlfriend, not Harley, not even the dignity of a direct address. Classmate. Spoken the way you'd identify a stain on the carpet you're planning to have professionally removed.
"Tate, I wanted to discuss the Princeton application timeline. Your interview is being arranged for next month, and there are preparation materials I'd like you to review. I'll have Margaret send them to the house."
He speaks entirely to Tate—through me, around me, as if the space I occupy is decorative at best.
"The family name carries weight in those rooms, and I expect you to represent it accordingly. First impressions matter, as we've discussed."
He pauses, his smile remaining perfectly pleasant.
"I understand young men have their... experimental phases. But the admissions committee has seen it all before—they're quite adept at distinguishing between temporary diversions and the kind of serious relationships that reflect genuine compatibility."
His eyes move to me and I feel myself being categorized: temporary diversion, charitable impulse, entertainment with an expiration date.
"They appreciate when applicants demonstrate they understand the difference between a charitable impulse and a life partner. Shows maturity, discernment."
His eyes flick to me one final time. The message is surgical: You are the wrong first impression.
"I should get back. Good to see you staying productive, son." He nods at Tate, ignores me completely, and walks away with his aides falling into step behind him like a military formation.
The silence he leaves behind is suffocating.
I wait—one second, five, ten. I wait for Tate to say something—anything. An apology, an acknowledgment. A single word that proves he noticed what just happened, that he saw the way his father dismissed me like I was furniture, that he gives a damn.
Nothing. His jaw is tight, his eyes are fixed on the sidewalk, his hands grip the box of programs like he's trying to crush it. "It's funny, isn't it?"
My voice comes out sharp enough to cut glass.
"You always have something clever to say, that mouth of yours never stops running. But apparently it shuts right down the second Daddy's around. Interesting how that works."
"Harley, you don't understand what he's…"
"What he's capable of? Is that what you were going to say? Because I just stood there and watched him look through me like I was invisible while you said nothing."
"Pushing back in public would've made it worse for both of us. You don't know him the way I do—every challenge, every correction gets filed away and weaponized later. If I'd defended you in front of his aides, he would've…"
"Would've what? Disapproved? Lectured you? Given you the cold shoulder at dinner?"
My voice hardens into something that feels like a concrete setting.
"I get it now, Tate. I really do. Tolerating my company must be such a burden—smiling at me in hallways, holding my hand for the crowd, pretending you see something worth defending when the truth is you can't even say my name in front of your father."
"That's not what—"
If I was stupid enough to hope he'd actually changed his opinion of me, the truth is pretty obvious now, isn't it? Tate thinks exactly what he thinks. Tate looks at me the same way he does—just better at hiding it because he's had more practice.
"No different, no better." I set the box of programs on the ground between us, carefully, because if I don't control my hands they'll shake and I won't give him that. "I won't endure this. Not from your father, not from you, not from anyone."
I walk away before he can respond.
I walk, and then I run—through streets I don't remember choosing, past buildings I don't see, my feet carrying me home by instinct because my brain has surrendered to the wave crashing through my chest.
The tears come before I reach the apartment—hot, furious, unstoppable, streaming down my face as I take the stairs two at a time because the elevator is still broken, because nothing in my life ever works the way it's supposed to.
The door opens and I can't hide it. Not this time.
Mateo sees me first, then Diego with Rafael and Aro, emerging from the hallway, freezing when he registers my face.
The shift is immediate—conversation dying, bodies moving, each of the brothers rearranging themselves around me like a wall of muscle and fury and unconditional love that asks no questions before it protects.
"Who?" Diego's voice is lethal. "Who did this?"
"You were right…" The words scrape through the tightness in my throat, rough and broken. "About the rich, about him, about all of it… We're not on the same page, never will be."
They absorb this quietly—Mateo's hand on my shoulder, Aro pressing close to my side, Rafael watching from the doorway with an expression that's calculating even in its concern.
Then something harder settles across their faces, one by one, like doors closing in sequence.
Defensive mode. The formation I've seen them adopt a hundred times—not for gang business, not for territory disputes, but for the only thing that has ever truly united all four of them without argument.
Their sister.