Chapter Three: Ally

That morning arrived like an enemy—too soon, too loud, and completely against my will. I wasn’t ready. I don’t think anyone could ever be ready for being shipped off to live with their nemesis, but my parents seemed determined to test the limits of human suffering.

They claimed staying at the Darson estate would provide a “fresh environment” and “new opportunities.”

Sure. If by “opportunities” they meant a front-row seat to my own personal hell.

I sat rigidly in the back seat of the Volvo, clutching my overnight bag like it was a life raft and I was five minutes from drowning. Every mile we drove toward the Darson mansion felt like a countdown—tick, tick, tick—to my doom.

I kept scrolling through my phone, pretending like if I focused hard enough on I*******m reels, I could manifest myself into a different universe. One where my parents weren’t handing me over to the devil with dimples.

“Honey, it won’t be so bad,” my mom said gently, catching my gaze in the rearview mirror. Her hopeful smile tried way too hard. “Maybe you can find something to keep you busy so you two don’t have to interact as much.”

I almost laughed. Really laughed. As if Tristain Darson had ever in his life allowed me to exist peacefully within a twenty-foot radius.

He’d tease.

He’d provoke.

He’d hover, smirk, and poke until I either screamed or committed a misdemeanor.

And now I was supposed to survive two whole weeks on his home turf?

I met my mom’s eyes and forced a nod. “Yeah… maybe.”

But inside, every nerve in my body whispered the truth:

Absolutely not. There was no escape.

The Volvo turned off the main road, the familiar hum of the tires shifting as we eased onto the long, winding driveway of the Darson estate. Great. We’d officially entered the lion’s den.

Trees arched overhead like they were bowing in reverence to the mansion up ahead—massive, stone, and unfairly intimidating. The kind of house that said old money, power, and you don’t belong here unless your last name is on a lawsuit.

My stomach twisted. Hard.

“This is a good opportunity, Ally,” my dad chimed in for the first time since we’d left home, folding his newspaper like this was some casual Sunday brunch plan. “You and Tristain need to learn how to work together. It’s important for the future of both firms.”

Oh, perfect. Career manipulation before breakfast. Exactly what I needed.

“I work with you guys just fine,” I muttered. “It’s him I’d rather not associate with. You know—ever.”

My dad sighed, the kind that carried the weight of patience he didn’t actually have. “He’s not so bad.”

I blinked at him. “Are we talking about the same person? Tristain Darson? Blue eyes, big ego, constantly smells like expensive cologne and bad decisions?”

My mom shot me a look. My dad hid a smile. At least I got that small victory.

The car slowed to a stop in front of the entrance. Two massive double doors towered over us, framed by tall glass windows and climbing ivy. I swear even the house looked smug.

My mom reached back and squeezed my knee. “Just… try to be civil.”

I exhaled sharply. “I’ll try. No promises.”

The truth? I’d rather try wrestling a crocodile with a spaghetti noodle.

I opened the car door and stepped out into the crisp morning air. The mansion loomed over me like it was thrilled to watch me suffer.

Before I could grab my bag, the doors swung open. And there he stood.

Tristain Darson.

Lean, arrogant, annoyingly attractive in a gray Henley that probably cost more than my college textbooks. His hair was tousled in that I didn’t try but it looks good anyway way, and he leaned against the doorframe like he owned gravity itself.

His mouth curled into the slowest, most infuriating smirk known to mankind.

“Well, well,” he drawled, crossing his arms. “Look what the lawyers dragged in.”

My blood pressure skyrocketed.

“Tristain, honey!” my mom gushed, pulling him into a hug like he was some prodigal son returning from battle.

“Thank you so much for offering to let Ally stay with you.”

I froze.

Offered?

Fucking. Offered?

He didn’t just stick his nose where it didn’t belong—he wedged his whole obnoxious personality into my life and invited himself to ruin it.

Heat spiked beneath my skin, crawling all the way to my ears. My hands curled into fists so tight my nails practically branded my palms. And then—of course—my left eye started its signature twitch. Perfect. The universal sign that I was one second away from committing a felony.

And there he stood. Tristain. Smirking like the villain in my autobiography. Like he knew exactly what he’d done. Like he had planned this.

Like he was proud of it.

I wanted to launch him into the nearest fountain.

“Okay, dear, we have to go now,” my mom said, turning back to me with a warm hug. Her Chanel perfume hit me in a cloud so strong I nearly tasted it. I endured it anyway, because moms deserve at least that much.

When she pulled away, my dad gave me his usual tight-lipped smile—the ‘good luck, kid, you’re on your own’ sort of smile—along with a small nod.

“See you in a couple weeks, kiddo.”

A couple of weeks. With him.

I forced a smile so strained it could’ve been used to lift weights. “Yep. Can’t wait.”

They walked back to the car, my mom waving cheerfully while my dad adjusted his glasses and climbed in. The door shut. The engine started.

And just like that—

I was alone. On the front steps of the Darson mansion. With Tristain.

And his stupid, triumphant smirk.

The door clicked shut behind us—a slow, echoing sound that settled into my bones like a warning.

“So let me guess,” I said, dropping my bag at my feet. “Your parents conveniently forgot to mention they’d be gone too?”

Tristain leaned against the banister, arms crossing over his chest like he’d been waiting for that question.

“Didn’t forget. They left this morning. Business trip with your parents. Big project partnership or whatever.” He tilted his head. “They’ll be gone the full two weeks.”

Two weeks. Two weeks in this house. With him.

Perfect. Just perfect.

My breath caught in my throat—somewhere between a laugh and a scream.

“So let me get this straight,” I said slowly, pointing at him like he was the universe’s worst punchline. “My parents dropped me off here… knowing you’d be the only one home?”

He didn’t even blink. “Looks like it.”

I stared at him. He stared right back.

And that stupid, infuriating smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth—just enough to make me want to wipe it off his face with a suitcase.

“Oh, don’t give me that look,” he said, pushing off the banister and strolling past me like he owned gravity. “You act like this is some kind of horror movie.”

“That’s exactly what this is,” I muttered.

He glanced over his shoulder, eyes glinting. “Then I guess I’m the villain.”

Villain. If the shoe fit—which it did, perfectly, probably custom-made and pretentious as hell—he might as well tie it.

I crossed my arms tightly over my chest. “My parents said staying here would be ‘good for me.’”

“Mine said the same about having you.” Tristain shrugged, heading up the stairs as if this entire situation was normal. “They think we’ll… get along.”

The scoff ripped out of me before I could stop it. “They’re delusional.”

He paused halfway up the steps, one hand on the railing. Then he looked back—slowly, deliberately—meeting my eyes with that dangerous, calculating calm he always kept tucked behind his smirk.

“That’s what makes this fun.”

My pulse jumped.

He continued up the stairs without waiting for a reply, leaving me alone in the foyer of his giant, echoing house that suddenly felt way too big… and way too small at the same time.

Two weeks. With him. No parents. No backup.

Just me in enemy territory—and him, already setting the rules of the battlefield.

And the worst part?

Somewhere deep in my chest, beneath all the irritation and dread… something about this felt like the beginning of trouble I wouldn’t be able to talk myself out of.

“Your room is upstairs,” he said, bending to grab my bag like it weighed nothing.

My eyes snapped to him. “I can carry my own bag.”

He didn’t even slow—just tossed me a lazy glance over his shoulder, lips curling into that infuriating half-smirk.

“Yeah, but where would my manners be if I let you do that?”

I snorted, following after him. “Trust me, your reputation wouldn’t suffer.”

He laughed under his breath as we hit the first landing, the sound low and annoyingly warm. It irritated me how easily he seemed at home in this—how comfortably he moved through the house like it was an extension of himself.

Because it was.

He led me down a long hallway flooded with soft afternoon light, footsteps unhurried, deliberate. At the very end stood a set of tall double doors. He stopped there, turned to face me, and waggled his eyebrows like he was about to reveal the world’s worst joke.

Then he pushed the doors open.

I stopped breathing.

The room beyond looked like something ripped straight from a dream—or a fairytale written in silk and sugar. The walls were washed in soft pastel hues, blue melting gently into pink like a cotton-candy sunrise. A king-sized four-poster bed anchored the far wall, sheer blush and sky-blue drapes cascading from each post. Silk sheets caught the light, smooth and inviting, topped with a plush duvet that looked too perfect to touch.

To one side, an open doorway revealed a massive walk-in closet. To the other, a sleek en-suite bathroom gleamed under warm lighting.

My jaw dropped.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I breathed.

“Your parents said you liked pastels,” Tristain said casually, setting my bag at the foot of the bed. “Blue and pink. Specifically.” He glanced around like he was assessing his own work. “Why you prefer baby shower colors is beyond me, but I try not to judge.”

I barely heard him.

I took a step into the room, then another, fingertips brushing one of the bed’s drapes like it might vanish if I didn’t ground myself.

“You did this?” I asked slowly, turning back to him. “All of it?”

He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, eyes sharp with something unreadable. “Designed it myself.”

My brows knit together. “You designed an entire room… for me?”

“Well,” he said lightly, a corner of his mouth lifting, “I am an interior designer. Among other things.”

The wink he threw my way should’ve made me angry.

Instead, it sent an unfamiliar, unwanted twist through my chest.

I swallowed hard, forcing my expression back into something defensive. “Don’t think this changes anything.”

His gaze lingered on me a second too long before he straightened. “Relax, Princess. It’s just a room.”

But as the doors closed softly behind him, leaving me alone in a space made entirely with me in mind, I knew one thing for certain:

Nothing about this was just anything.

I stood there for a moment after he left, the silence pressing in around me like the room itself was waiting for my reaction.

No. I wasn’t giving him that satisfaction.

I turned back to the space, forcing my shoulders to relax, and finally let myself look.

In the far corner—half-hidden behind a curved divider—was a small lounge area. A plush loveseat sat beneath a mounted flat-screen TV, layered with throw blankets in soft blues and pale pinks. A low table rested between the seats, neatly stacked with coasters and a few art books. Beneath the TV, tucked seamlessly into custom cabinetry, was a built-in mini-fridge.

I opened it. Water bottles. Sparkling drinks. Fresh fruit. Even a neatly wrapped chocolate bar. My stomach tightened. Of course he’d stocked it.

I shut the fridge a little harder than necessary and moved on, refusing to think about what that meant. The balcony doors were next. Tall glass panes framed by gauzy curtains that fluttered softly from the air-conditioning. I slid one open and stepped outside.

The air was cool and clean, the city stretched out below in lights and distance.

The balcony wasn't big, but it was private—enough room for a small table and two chairs.

I gripped the railing, letting out a slow breath.

This wasn’t a guest room. This was thoughtful. Intentional. Built. And that unsettled me more than any locked door ever could.

I turned back inside and wandered toward the bed again, fingertips grazing the smooth fabric, the throw pillows arranged too perfectly. Everything whispered comfort. Safety.

Belonging.

I stepped back inside and slid the balcony door shut behind me. It might’ve been June, but I wasn’t trying to cook alive. Though, honestly, heatstroke would probably be faster—and far less aggravating—than surviving two full weeks with him.

I kicked my sneakers off by the door and crossed the room, peeling the covers back from the pillows. My fingers sank into the duvet, impossibly soft, and I nearly betrayed myself with a sigh.

Of course it was comfortable. Of course it was.

I dug my charger from the side pocket of my bag and plugged it into the built-in port on the nightstand, then climbed onto the bed and settled back against the pillows, silk sheets cool against my legs. I connected my phone and let the screen glow to life.

For a while, I just scrolled—Instagram, texts, mindless nothing—filling Jade in on my apparent life sentence one message at a time. Her rapid-fire responses came through in all caps and rage emojis, which only made me snort softly into the quiet room.

Eventually, though, the weight of the day caught up to me.

My eyes burned. My fingers slowed. The screen blurred as my eyelids drooped lower and lower, each blink lasting a little longer than the last.

I told myself I’d just rest them for a second.

Just one.

The bed cradled me like it had been waiting, warmth settling in around my bones, and before I could argue with myself—or remember where I was, or whose house this was—sleep pulled me under, deep and fast, betraying me in the most comfortable way possible.