Chapter 3

Sound of Glass Breaking

POV DARCIE

The Sterling mansion at night was a different kind of monster. During the day, it was cold and grand; at night, it felt like a museum where the statues were watching you. I sat on my narrow bed, the one that used to be a closet, and stared at the door. No lock. Charles’s words from earlier—no secrets in this house—echoed in the dark.

It was 11:30 PM. My stomach was cramping because I’d skipped dinner to avoid another "charity" lecture from his mother. I had my history textbook open, but the words were blurring. I kept listening for footsteps.

Suddenly, a loud crash echoed through the wall.

It came from Charles’s room. It sounded like a heavy lamp or a bottle hitting the floor. Then, a low, muffled shout. It wasn’t a "party" shout; it sounded like pain. Or rage.

I froze. My heart hammered against my ribs. Part of me said: Stay here. Not your problem. Let the jerk deal with his own mess. But another part—the part that remembered the look in his eyes in the gym—forced me up. I was his "handler," wasn't I? If he trashed the room, his dad would probably blame me for not "handling" him.

I pushed the connecting door open. It didn't creak; the Sterlings were too rich for creaky hinges.

Charles’s room was a disaster zone. A bedside carafe lay in a hundred shimmering pieces across the dark wood floor. Charles was sitting on the edge of his massive bed, hunched over, his head in his hands. He wasn't wearing his varsity jacket now. Just a grey t-shirt that was damp with sweat.

"Get out, Miller," he rasped without looking up.

"I heard glass breaking," I said, staying near the door, carefully avoiding the shards. "What happened?"

"I said get out!" He snapped his head up. His eyes weren't stormy now; they were bloodshot. There was a raw, jagged energy coming off him that I’d never seen at school. On his nightstand sat a thick envelope—the kind university recruiters send. It was torn in half.

I took a cautious step forward. "Was that the draft results for the sports program?"

Charles let out a harsh, jagged laugh. "Draft results? No. That’s my death warrant. My father already signed me up for a pre-law internship this summer in the city. He doesn't care that the scouts are coming to the game on Friday. He thinks football is a 'distraction' now that I've served my purpose for the family brand."

I looked at the broken glass, then back at him. "You’re the best quarterback this school has had in a decade. He can't just make you stop."

"He can do whatever the hell he wants, Darcie! Look around!" He gestured wildly at the opulent room. "He owns the team. He owns the school. He owns me. And apparently, he owns you too."

He stood up, stumbling slightly. He looked untethered, like a kite whose string had just snapped. He started pacing, his bare feet dangerously close to the broken glass.

"Charles, stop. You're going to cut yourself," I said, moving faster than I thought I could. I grabbed his arm to pull him back.

The second my skin touched his, it was like a circuit completed. He froze. I froze. The air in the room suddenly felt twice as heavy, thick with the scent of his expensive soap and the sharp tang of adrenaline. His arm was solid muscle, hot to the touch.

He didn't pull away. Instead, he turned his arm, his hand sliding down to grip my wrist. Not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough that I couldn't move. He stepped into my space, looming over me, his breath fanning across my forehead.

"Why do you care?" he whispered, his voice dangerously low. "You hate me. You’ve hated me since freshman year when I put that 'Kick Me' sign on your back."

"I do hate you," I breathed, my heart racing for an entirely different reason now. "But I don't want to have to clean your blood off the floor. I'm a nanny, remember? Not a nurse."

He stared at me, his eyes searching mine, looking for the lie. The arrogance was gone, replaced by a desperate, hungry kind of loneliness. For a split second, the "Golden Boy" disappeared, and there was just a boy who felt like a prisoner in his own life.

"You're the only one who doesn't look at me like I'm a trophy, Darcie," he said, his voice barely a murmur.

His grip on my wrist softened, his thumb brushing against the sensitive skin of my inner arm. It sent a jolt of electricity straight to my gut. He leaned down, his face inches from mine. I should have pushed him. I should have made a sarcastic comment and walked away. But I was paralyzed, caught in the gravity of him.

"Charles..." I started, but the name died in my throat.

He leaned in closer, his lips almost touching my ear. "If you tell anyone you saw me like this... I'll make sure you're out on the street by morning."

The threat should have made me angry, but it sounded hollow. Like he was trying to remind himself of who he was supposed to be.

He pulled back, his mask sliding back into place, cold and impenetrable. "Clean this up. Then get out."

He turned his back on me and walked toward the massive glass balcony doors, staring out at the dark city. I stood there for a long minute, my wrist still tingling where he’d touched me. My heart wouldn't slow down.

I found a dustpan in the hall closet and spent the next twenty minutes picking up the pieces of his anger. He didn't say another word. He just stood there like a statue, a silhouette of a king who didn't want his crown.

When I finally finished, I paused at the door. "Charles?"

He didn't turn.

"Your father might own the house, but he doesn't own how you play on Friday. If you want to be scouted, play like you've already left this place."

I didn't wait for an answer. I went back into my room and shut the door—the door that didn't lock. I lay down, but the sleep I’d been chasing was gone for good.

I looked at my wrist in the moonlight. I could still feel the phantom pressure of his hand. I hated him. I reminded myself of that over and over until it felt like a mantra. I hated his money, his arrogance, and the way he treated me at school.

But as I closed my eyes, all I could see was the way he’d looked at me in the dark—like I was the only thing in this whole, expensive house that was real.

And that was the most terrifying thing of all. Because hating a bully was easy. But understanding him? That was a debt I wasn't sure I was ready to pay.