Chapter One: Ally

“Ally, come downstairs!”

I groaned, dropping my phone onto the charger—it had climbed a painfully slow 25% while I doom-scrolled Instagram—and shoved myself off the bed. The scent hit me first when I reached the bottom of the staircase: rich, buttery, unmistakable turkey pot pie. My mom’s specialty.

She stood in the kitchen, oven mitts on, cheeks flushed from the heat.

“What’s up?” I asked, leaning against the counter and snagging an apple from the fruit tray.

She turned—and the warm, hazel sparkle in her eyes faded into concern as she took in my outfit. “Sweetheart, could you find something a bit more… appropriate to wear?”

I froze, apple halfway to my mouth, and glanced down at my pink sweatpants and black cropped tank. “Why? It’s Friday night.”

Her sigh was dramatic enough to make me suspicious. “Your father didn’t tell you, did he?”

“Tell me what?” I asked, suddenly alert.

She slid the pot pie out of the oven and set it on the counter. “The Darsons are coming over for dinner tonight. Please change into something nicer.”

The apple nearly slipped from my hand.

“You’re kidding,” I sputtered.

Mr. and Mrs. Darson were amazing—sweet, polished, charming, and possibly more proud of me getting into my dream college than my own parents. But they weren’t just family friends. Trainer Law and Darson Law had been intertwined for generations—shared wealth, shared power, shared legacies.

And they had a son. Around my age. The supposed heir to their empire. I’d never met him, only heard about him—always in the vague, hopeful tone of people who clearly wanted us to end up together. My standards were high, okay? None of the real-life men I’d met had ever come close to my fictional favorites. I doubted he’d be the exception.

“When are they getting here?” I demanded, already halfway up the stairs.

“You have fifteen minutes!” my mom called after me. “And Tristain is coming too!”

“Fantastic,” I muttered to no one, sprinting to my closet like my life depended on it.

I made it downstairs with seconds to spare before the doorbell rang.

“Get the door, please!” Mom shouted from the kitchen as she set dishes out like a woman preparing for battle.

I smoothed the front of my semi-casual dress, fixed my hair, and opened the door.

“Ally, sweetheart!” Mrs. Darson enveloped me in her usual warm hug. Mr. Darson shook my hand with a big smile.

And then there was… him.

Electric blue eyes. Black hoodie. Gray sweats. Phone in hand.

The embodiment of I-don’t-give-a-damn.

He looked at me for half a second—one disinterested sweep from head to toe—before returning to whatever held his attention on his screen.

This was the heir to a multi-million-dollar law dynasty? I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from snorting.

I stepped aside to let them in. His parents entered with genuine warmth. Tristain didn’t look up from his phone.

My blood simmered.

“Roger, Mary!” my mom greeted cheerfully. “We’re so glad you all could make it.”

I glanced at her, waiting for some sign that she noticed the tragic contrast between Tristain’s attitude and his parents’ politeness—but the person she was greeting wasn’t the apathetic boy from the doorway.

No.

It was a completely different Tristain—one with a perfect smile and a perfectly polite greeting.

And I was the only one who had seen the mask slip.

My mother beamed as Tristain stepped forward, the picture of polite perfection.

“Thank you for having us, Mrs. Trainer,” he said, voice smooth and pleasant enough to fool literally anyone who wasn’t me.

His parents looked proud. My parents looked charmed. And I just stood there, trying not to gag. He didn’t look at me. Not even for a second. Typical.

Mom ushered everyone toward the dining room. “Ally, sweetheart, help Tristan bring the drinks over?”

Because of course she would ask me to do that.

I didn’t bother hiding my sigh as I turned toward the kitchen. Tristain followed behind me with the enthusiasm of someone walking into a dentist appointment. The second we stepped out of view of the parents, his entire expression dropped — the polite smile evaporating like it had never existed.

“Let’s make this fast,” he muttered, brushing past me to grab the pitcher. He didn’t look at me. Didn’t acknowledge me. He moved around me like I was just another appliance on the counter.

“Trust me,” I snapped, grabbing the stack of glasses a little too tightly, “I’m not dying to spend any extra time with you either.”

He let out a humorless breath that was definitely supposed to be a laugh. “Right.”

Just that. One word. Flat. Dismissive. Like he couldn’t be bothered to waste an actual sentence on me. I could’ve screamed.

“You know,” I said tightly, “you could at least pretend you’re not allergic to basic human decency.”

That got him to look at me — finally — but only with that same expression he always had when it came to me: irritation mixed with the slightest hint of disgust.

“You started talking to me,” he said coldly. “Not the other way around.”

My jaw dropped. “I—”

But he didn’t care. He lifted the pitcher, not waiting for me, and pushed past me into the dining room without another word. No smirk. No sass. Just pure indifference.

My blood boiled.

If this dinner didn’t kill me, strangling him definitely would.

I followed Tristan into the dining room just as my mom, dad, and the Darsons settled into their seats—leaving only two empty chairs. Naturally. Right next to each other.

Tristain slid into his spot with that plastic smile glued to his face, the one he used to charm adults who didn’t know better. He patted the chair beside him like he was doing me a favor.

“Looks like there’s a seat open next to me, Ally,” he said in a tone so smug it made my blood spark.

I swallowed a growl and sat, dragging my chair a full inch farther away from him. If I scooted any more, I’d practically be under the table. I smoothed my dress over my knees—mostly to keep my fists from doing something regrettable.

Dinner crawled by at the speed of suffering. Our parents laughed, caught up, and took turns bragging about us like we were trophies instead of two people who could barely tolerate being in the same room. Tristan chimed in every so often, voice perfectly polite and collected, as if he wasn’t a condescending nightmare in sweatpants.

I stayed quiet. Mostly because speaking meant risking a full homicide charge.

“How old did you say you were, Ally?” Tristain asked suddenly, cutting into my silence. His eyes gleamed with thinly veiled amusement. “Sixteen?”

My grip tightened around my fork. “Nineteen.”

“Oh, my mistake.” He pressed a hand to his chest, all mock remorse. “You just seem… very youthful.”

My teeth clenched so hard I was amazed they didn’t crack. “And you’re seventeen, right?”

His expression dropped. “Twenty-four.”

“Wow,” I said sweetly, tilting my head. “And still living with your parents?”

His jaw flexed—barely, but enough to tell me I’d landed a hit.

“I’m staying in our second house while I attend college,” he said stiffly. “Princeton.”

I lifted my brows.

“Fitting,” I said, returning to my plate. “A kingdom of stuck-up royals needs its prince.”

He didn’t respond. But I didn’t need him to.

I returned to my food, ignoring the burn in my chest that came from hearing Tristain’s smug tone. He, of course, was perfectly comfortable leaning back in his chair, elbow resting on the back of it like he owned the room.

“Princeton, huh?” I muttered under my breath, loud enough for just him to hear. “Bet they love having a prodigy who’s also insufferable at home.”

He glanced at me, a flicker of annoyance in his blue eyes. “Better insufferable than bratty and entitled.”

I choked on my forkful of pot pie.

“Excuse me?” I said, voice sharp enough to make a knife jealous.

He smirked—not charmingly, not flirtatiously, just smug in the most infuriating way possible. “You know. Trainer girl, top of her class, probably thinks the world revolves around her and that she deserves whatever she wants whenever she wants it.”

I slammed my fork down, ignoring the way my parents’ eyes flicked between us. “Oh, it does. The world definitely revolves around me. Unlike some people who think hiding behind a fake smile makes them Prince Charming.”

His jaw twitched. “Careful, Ally. That attitude won’t get you far.”

“Funny,” I said, letting my voice drip with sarcasm, “neither will a hoodie and your permanent resting jerk face.”

The table went quiet for a moment. My parents and the Darsons looked mildly horrified. I didn’t care. Tristan, to his credit, wasn’t phased. He just leaned back further, lifting his hands like I’d amused him.

“You’re insufferable,” he said finally, flat and cold.

“Right back at you,” I shot, a glare sharp enough to cut through steel.

For the rest of dinner, we ignored each other in the most passive-aggressive way imaginable. Forks clinked. Napkins rustled. And every time one of us dared a glance, it was met with a silent promise: 

I hate you more than you’ll ever know.

And deep down, I knew this was going to be a very long, very painful weekend.

———————————————————————————————————————————

“He was such an asshole, Jade, I swear to God.” I practically yelled into my phone’s mic as I ranted to my best friend. 

“Okay, but what did he look like?” she asked, and I could practically hear the heart eyes through her voice as she spoke in that lofty voice of hers. “Was he cute?”

I rolled my eyes and plugged my phone in when the 1% warning covered my screen.

“He’s hideous,” I snorted, recalling that smug face. “His jaw looks like his skull doesn’t have any skin on it. Like, all boney and shit.”

“So, chiseled?” Jade asked, voice a little too excited.

“Too chiseled,” I snorted. “With eyes that are too blue to be human. And muscles that practically scream steroids. Oh, and not to mention the veins in his hands that would kill him if he held a piece of paper the wrong way.”

Silence greeted me from the other end.

“Jade?” I asked, trying to make sure my friend wasn’t dead. “Are you there?”

But then I heard a giggle. “He sounds sexy.”

My eyes narrowed and I almost threw up in my mouth. “Don’t ever say that again. He’s far from sexy. Disgusting. Ugly.”

“Mhm,” Jade replied, unconvinced. “Sure. Black hair, blue eyes, chisled jawline, veiny hands? Spells 'sexy' to my ears.”

I rolled my eyes and twirled my finger around the charger cord. “He’s insufferable, is what he is. He’s arrogant, sarcastic, thinks he’s right all the time, and so fucking…”

The word caught in my throat as I tried to search for it.

“Entitled?” Jade asked when I was silent for too long.

“Yes!” I said, slamming my back against the mattress. ‘So entitled! And fake!”

“Self-rightious?”

“You have no idea.”

“Mhm. Well, I’m going to go,” Jade said with a sigh. “I have a test tomorrow and need to study.”

Right. Jade was a year younger than me and still in high school. Unfortunately.

“Alright. I’ll let you go. Good luck with Mr. Rogers,” I teased, using the leverage of her teacher-crush against her.

“Fuck you,” she laughed, then hung up.

.

Silence filled the room instantly, thick enough to choke on. I fell back against my pillows, staring up at the ceiling, and for the first time all night, I was left alone with my thoughts.

Unfortunately… every one of them looked like him.

I groaned, dragging my hands down my face. Of all the nights for Tristan Freaking Darson to invade my brain, why did it have to be this one? I rolled over, trying to suffocate myself with my pillow, when my phone buzzed against the mattress.

I froze.

One new message. From a number I didn’t recognize. I narrowed my eyes, already suspicious.

Unknown: You missed a spot on your dress at dinner, Ally. Thought you’d want to know.

My stomach dropped straight through the bed.

No. No way. There was no way—

I sat up so fast my head spun, clicking on the message. Then another bubble appeared.

Unknown: Left side, near the hem. It was pissing me off watching you fidget with it.

A chill crawled down my spine. Slowly. Dramatically. Like it knew it was unwelcome.

I typed back before I could talk myself out of it.

Me: Who is this?

Three dots appeared instantly. He didn’t even hesitate.

Unknown: Take a wild guess, Princess.

My entire soul recoiled.

“Fucking Tristain,” I hissed.

Before I could block him like my sanity depended on it, another text lit up the screen.

Tristain: Did you really think I didn’t have your number? Your mom gave it to me. And your contact photo is adorable, by the way.

A strangled, inhuman sound ripped from my throat. My contact photo. My baby picture contact photo. My mother was dead to me. I slammed out a reply, fingers flying.

Me: Delete my number.

Tristain: No <3

I choked on air. This man. This man was Satan with cheekbones. Another text came through—longer, somehow worse.

Tristain: Also, next time you want to insult my jaw, at least pick something creative. The skull bit was funny, though. I’ll give you that.

My eyes nearly burst out of my skull.

He heard that? He heard that.

I whipped around toward my door like he’d be leaning in the frame, smirking. But it was empty. Quiet. Safe. I should’ve waited until I knew for sure the Darson’s had left before calling Jade.

My phone vibrated again.

Tristain: Sleep tight, Ally. Try not to dream about me too much.

I launched my pillow across the room.

Unfortunately, it didn’t hit him.

I didn’t sleep. Correction: I couldn’t sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, Tristain’s stupid texts replayed in my mind like some cursed highlight reel.

Sleep tight, Ally.

Princess.

Try not to dream about me.

I groaned and flipped onto my stomach, smothering my face in the pillow.

Why did he have to breathe the same air as me? Why did he have to speak? Why did he exist?

By the time morning hit, I felt like a raccoon that had been hit by a truck. Twice.

I dragged myself out of bed and shuffled to the kitchen, hair in a bun that could only be described as “emotionally unstable.” I was halfway through pouring cereal when I heard my mom’s chipper voice.

“Oh, good, Ally! Tristain’s here!”

I nearly dropped the bowl.

I spun so fast my neck cracked. “He’s what?”

My mom gave me a look like why are you surprised?  “His parents needed him to pick something up from your father. He just got here.”

No. No no no no—

Not this early. Not before caffeine. Not while I looked like I’d slept in a ditch. I quietly considered climbing out the window. Too late. Footsteps entered the room, casual and confident.

And then he stepped in.

Tristain Darson. In a white t-shirt and loose jeans that fit him far too well. Hair messy, like he’d rolled out of bed in a way that was probably illegal. Phone in hand, smirk already forming. His eyes flicked over me—slowly.

Lingering on the messy bun. The pajama shorts. The oversized sweatshirt. That smirk sharpened.

“Well,” he said, voice annoyingly smooth, “someone had a rough night.”

“Oh, screw you,” I snapped before my brain could catch up.

My mother choked on her coffee.

Tristan’s smile widened into something dangerous. “Already? Thought we’d at least wait until lunch.”

Heat shot through me—rage, obviously. Obviously rage.

I clenched my jaw. “What are you even doing here?”

“Missed you,” he said without hesitation.

My soul left my body.

He leaned casually against the counter, stealing a grape from the fruit bowl like it was his house. “Also, your dad has the contracts I need. But mostly the first thing.”

My mom looked delighted. Delighted.

I was going to disown myself from this family. I grabbed my bowl and turned away, praying he’d drop dead or choke on the grape—either worked. But Tristain stepped in front of me, blocking my path.

He lowered his voice just enough that my mom couldn’t hear. “Did you dream about me?”

My jaw dropped. “I’m going to—”

He leaned in, breath brushing my cheek. “Because I definitely dreamt about you.”

I malfunctioned. Actual, literal short-circuiting.

I shoved past him so hard his shoulder bumped the counter. “Get out of my house.”

Behind me, he chuckled—deep, low, infuriating.

“See you tonight, Frosty.”

“WE ARE NOT SEEING EACH OTHER TONIGHT—”

But he was already walking away, waving lazily as if he hadn’t just set my entire nervous system on fire.

My mom whispered, “I like him.”

I considered walking into traffic.

The moment the front door shut behind Tristain, I dropped my head onto the counter with a groan loud enough to scare the cat.

“Ally,” my mom said in that warning-mom-tone that meant I was about to be lectured. “You were very rude.”

I lifted my head just enough to glare. “He deserves it.”

“He was perfectly polite,” she argued.

I barked a laugh. “Mom, he looked at me like I looked like I hadn’t slept since the Cold War.”

She opened her mouth… closed it… then sighed. “Just try to be civil.”

“Civil?” I repeated. “I’m one sarcastic comment away from being on an FBI watchlist.”

My phone buzzed. I froze. No. He wouldn’t. He would.

I snatched it up.

Tristain: You’re cute in the mornings. Like a violent little kitten.

I nearly threw the phone into the sink.

My mom gave me a suspicious look. “Who’s that?”

“No one,” I said quickly—too quickly—before bolting for the stairs.

I slammed my bedroom door shut, leaned back against it, and finally let myself breathe.

What the hell was happening? Last night he was an arrogant, unbearable jerk.

This morning he was… an arrogant, unbearable jerk who texted me like we were starring in some rom-com I never auditioned for. And the worst part?

My heart was still racing.

I flopped onto my bed, grabbing my pillow and shoving it over my face.

“I hate him,” I muttered into the fabric. “I hate him.”

My phone buzzed again. I didn’t want to look. I shouldn’t look. Obviously, I looked.

Tristain: Try to look decent tonight. We’re going out for dinner. Parents’ orders.

I sat up so fast my room went blurry. “What night?!”

Another bubble appeared.

Tristain: Be ready by six, Princess.

I stared at the screen, fury boiling hotter than the sun. Then I texted back two words that perfectly summed up my entire emotional state:

Me: Go. Away.

His reply came instantly.

Tristain: Can’t. You’re fun.

Fun. FUN.

I launched my phone onto the blanket and stood up, pacing like a possessed Victorian widow. Tonight.

Dinner.

With him. Again.

I paused at my mirror, catching sight of my frazzled hair, my wild eyes, the leftover frustration written across every inch of my face.

I pointed at my reflection. “Get it together. You can survive one dinner. You’ve survived worse.”

Have I?

No. Not really.

But I wasn’t going to let Tristain Darson—college boy, ego the size of Manhattan, proud owner of muscles he absolutely did not need—get into my head.

He was annoying. He was arrogant. He was the worst person I’d ever met.

And if he thought I was going to show up tonight flustered and nervous?

He had another thing coming. I straightened my shoulders, took a deep breath, and whispered to myself:

“This is war."