Chapter Two: Ally

By the time six rolled around, I was just starting to get ready. Not that I was going to put in any more effort for Tristain Darson than absolutely necessary. And that included starting dinner prep three hours early.

“Ally, Tristain’s here!” my mom called from downstairs.

“Almost done, Mom!” I replied. Lie. He could wait ten minutes.

I didn’t bother with makeup. I grabbed one of my safest “casual-but-not-too-casual” outifts—a pair of baggy, ripped jeans and a long-sleeve compressed, one-shoulder black shirt—and slipped into my basic white Nikes.

Enough effort to survive the evening. No more.

My hair? Pulled into a lazy, half-hearted style. Not worth it.

I was going to dinner against my will. With him. And that fact alone made my blood boil more than it reasonably should. Life went on, though. I snatched my black mini-purse and trudged down the stairs, timing each step to emphasize how little I cared. Ten minutes late? Perfect.

Of course, there he was. Bottom of the staircase. Charming my mother like a practiced little sociopath.

Fucking asshole.

Jeans, a navy-blue polo so tight it looked like it had been painted on, and that signature messy hair—effortlessly irritating.

I made it to the last three steps. He held his hand out, that insufferable smirk plastered on his face, eyebrow raised.

Mom looked at me with that please-be-civil expression, and I sighed, begrudgingly placing my hand in his. He guided me down the remaining steps with all the pomp of a prince from a romance novel—then lifted the back of my hand to his lips. “Good evening, Princess.”

I snorted, snatched my hand back, and wiped it on the side of my dress, not even bothering to hide the gesture. “Hi.”

“Well, Mrs. Trainer, I shall keep your daughter safe for the night—and home by ten,” Tristain said, tossing my mom a smile so fake it could have been packaged cheese.

“Please, twelve at the latest,” my mother replied, tucking a strand of hair behind her pearl-clad ear. “Her father won’t mind.”

My blood simmered beneath my skin. I’d rather be home by seven.

Tristain turned to me, that infuriating smirk firmly in place, like it had been custom-made for maximum irritation. “Shall we?”

“Yep,” I forced through a tight smile, hugging my mom goodbye before following him outside.

And then I stopped dead.

“What the hell is that?” I demanded.

He leaned casually against the sleek black Ducati, smirk still firmly in place. “What? Never seen one before?”

He stepped up beside it, pulling a matching helmet from under the pillion seat. Turning back to me, he asked, “Ever ridden?”

I scoffed, crossing my arms. “I should say not.”

“Well, there’s a first time for everything,” he said smoothly, holding the helmet above my head.

I ducked out of the way. “What the hell are you doing?”

He sighed like I’d personally ruined his entire life. “If you haven’t ridden a motorcycle before, I’d assume you wouldn’t know how to put a helmet on.”

I grabbed the helmet and plopped it on my head. “There. See? Not that hard.”

His eyes sparkled with amusement. “You forgot the strap, Princess.”

I reached to fix it, and he swatted my hand away like a I was a child reaching her hand into the cookie jar.

“Asshole,” I muttered, glaring.

“You’ll learn to love it,” he said casually, fiddling with the strap, eyes locked on mine with dangerous focus.

When he finally looked up, I quickly looked away, thankful the visor hid the creeping red on my cheeks. He was so infuriating.

Once I was secure, he grabbed the second helmet, clipped it on, and swung his leg over the bike with effortless grace. He patted the seat behind him before closing his visor. “Hop on, Princess.”

I slid on behind him, instinctively wrapping my arms around his waist tighter than my pride would allow. His stomach was warm under my hands, solid and infuriatingly strong. I could feel the vibration of the bike beneath us.

The engine roared to life. I squealed, heart hammering. “I’m not dying tonight!” I shouted, more to convince myself than him.

“Hold on tight!” Tristain called over the growl of the Ducati.

I held on. Too tight. And secretly, I wondered if this ride would be the most fun—or the most terrifying—experience of my life.

The wind hit me like a brick wall the second we pulled out of the driveway. My visor shielded my eyes, but the roar of the Ducati and the twisting streets made my stomach flip. I gripped his waist like my life depended on it—probably the safest choice I’d made all week.

“You holding on okay back there?” Tristain shouted over the engine, that smirk in his voice somehow cutting through the noise.

I squeezed harder. “I will survive this. Barely.”

He laughed—a low, confident sound that made my hair stand on end under the helmet. “Barely? I like a challenge.”

I ignored him, focusing on the blur of the street ahead. Every streetlight streaked past, painting lines of neon across my visor.

“Keep your head back!” he barked suddenly.

“I am keeping it back!” I yelled, even though my helmet was pressed firmly against his jacket.

The Ducati leaned into a sharp turn, and my stomach dropped out from under me. I screamed—part rage, part fear, part exhilaration—and he glanced over his shoulder at me.

“You’re terrible at this,” he called, voice teasing but confident.

“I hate you,” I spat, teeth gritted.

“Love you too,” he shot back instantly.

I almost elbowed him in protest, though he didn’t even flinch.

The streets blurred faster, lights and signs whipping past us. My pulse raced, adrenaline hammering through my veins, and—against my will—I had to admit: clinging to him like my life depended on it, my helmeted face pressed against his jacket, the wind screaming around us—it was kind of incredible.

I scowled at the thought, hating that my body disagreed with my brain.

Tristain seemed to sense the shift and laughed again, that maddening, smug sound muffled slightly by his helmet. “Relax, Princess. You’re doing fine. For a rookie.”

“Rookie?” I shouted into the wind. “I’m not a rookie! You just… just… make me feel like I’m going to die!”

“Exactly,” he said casually, weaving through traffic with infuriating ease. “That’s part of the fun.”

By the time he slowed near our destination, my arms ached from gripping him so tightly, and my helmet hid the red creeping up my cheeks.

He killed the engine with a flourish and patted the seat behind him. “See? Nothing to it.”

I swung my leg off, knees wobbling, and snatched my helmet. “Nothing to it? I nearly had a heart attack three times.”

He laughed behind his visor, that smug sound echoing as if it had a life of its own. “You’ll thank me later.”

I muttered under my breath, “I’ll show you ‘thank me later.’”

And I stalked toward the restaurant, Tristain following like he hadn’t just nearly killed me for fun, visor reflecting the streetlights. This was going to be a very long night.

I looked up at the glowing cursive above the door.

L’Orchidée Blanche

I raised an eyebrow. “You used your mommy’s money for this?”

He snorted, the sound full of amused superiority. “Please. I’m not one to blow my parents’ fortune on something frivolous. Unlike some people,” he added, glancing sideways at me with that infuriating smirk. My jaw clenched so hard I was afraid I might crack a tooth. If he was going to be like this the entire night, I was seriously considering hopping on his bike again… and maybe crashing it on purpose.

He opened the door with a flourish, extending his arm like some ridiculous romance-novel character. “After you,” he said.

I stepped through the threshold, spinning around to jab a finger at his chest. “Just so you know,” I said, teeth gritted, “your little ‘prince charming’ act isn’t fooling anyone.”

He raised an eyebrow, amused, but hidden behind that helmet-like smirk of his. “It seemed to be working back there on my bike.”

I froze. “That’s… because of the adrenaline.”

“Yes,” he said, voice smooth and teasing, “because adrenaline definitely heightens your libido drive.”

I felt my face heat so fast I was certain I’d combust on the spot. “Of course that’s all on your mind,” I spat.

“With you?” His voice dropped just low enough to make my skin crawl. “Always, Princess.”

I glared at his back as he led me toward the hostess desk, plotting all the ways I could make him regret this evening. If he didn’t choke on his food tonight, I was personally going to tickle him on the bike on the way home.

“Reservation for Darson?” Tristain asked the hostess, whose cheeks instantly flushed at his charm.

“Of course. Party for two, yes?” she said, voice giddy like a K-pop fan meeting the lead singer.

Her gaze flicked to me—and disappointment crossed her face so fast I almost laughed at her reaction. He was out of her league anyway.

“Amalee will show you to your table,” she said, overly sweet.

Another hostess approached, smile practically melting at Tristain. “Follow me, sir.”

He placed his hand lightly on the small of my back as he guided me through the crowd, the contact sending shivers shooting down my spine. I clenched my fists at the sides of my dress, determined not to look affected.

He glanced at me over his shoulder, his smirk in full force. “Relax, Princess. You’re with me.”

I wanted to snap, roll my eyes, and shove him off the table at the same time. Instead, I followed, teeth gritted, plotting my revenge—one infuriatingly charming move at a time.

The table was tucked in a quiet corner, candlelight flickering across crisp white linens. Tristain slid into the chair across from me, that smirk firmly in place, as if I hadn’t just survived his motorcycle and his relentless teasing.

I dropped into my seat with a sigh, trying to look casual, failing miserably. My fingers drummed against the table as he leaned back, hands casually resting on the edge, radiating that infuriating confidence.

“So,” he began, voice smooth and teasing, “you actually walked in here without screaming at me?”

“I’m full of surprises,” I muttered, stabbing at the menu like it was a weapon.

He laughed—low, dangerous, and maddeningly amused. “Careful, Princess. That attitude of yours might get you into trouble.”

“Good. Trouble’s fun,” I shot back, narrowing my eyes.

The waiter appeared, and Tristain waved him off with effortless charm. “We’ll take the salmon,” he said casually, voice dropping low enough that I could feel it in my chest.

I opened my mouth, ready to fire back, but paused. My cheeks heated—annoyingly. He noticed. Of course he noticed.

Dinner unfolded with a dangerous rhythm: laughter from the nearby tables, polite conversation from the staff, and the electric push-pull between Tristain and me.

Every smirk, every casual gesture, every tilt of his head sent my pulse spiking. I hated that I noticed.

Halfway through the appetizer, his hand brushed mine while reaching for the bread basket. I yanked it back, glaring at him.

“You’re lucky I like carbs,” he said, his smirk widening.

“And I don’t like you,” I muttered, voice low but venomous.

“Yet here you are,” he said, shrugging like it was the most natural thing in the world.

I clenched my fists under the table, forcing myself to concentrate on my salad rather than the ridiculous thrill shooting through me.

By dessert, the tension had become almost unbearable. He leaned back, eyes glinting with mischief. “You know, Princess… you really are entertaining when you’re angry.”

I slammed my fork down. “You’re lucky my mom isn’t here to see you being this insufferable.”

“Lucky me,” he said smoothly, voice low and teasing, and I felt my stomach tighten in ways I didn’t like admitting even to myself.

As we left the restaurant, I reminded myself: this wasn’t a date. This was war. And I was going to win.

We stepped out into the cool night, the city lights reflecting off the sleek Ducati. Tristain swung his leg over the bike with that infuriating ease, and I followed, sighing as I climbed on behind him.

“Hold on tight,” he said, voice low and teasing, hand brushing my hip—not dangerously, not quite… but enough to make my pulse skip.

“I hate you,” I muttered, teeth gritted, pressing myself closer to him.

“Love you too,” he said back, as casual as breathing.

I gritted my teeth so hard I thought I’d break them. This man was impossible. And somehow, against every instinct I had, I didn’t want to let go.

The engine roared to life, the night swallowing us whole, wind whipping through my hair, the city a blur of lights and movement. My heart raced—not just from the ride—but from the infuriating, undeniable pull that was Tristain Darson.

As we roared down the street, I pressed closer to him, jaw tight, mind screaming, I will not fall for him.

And yet, a small, begrudging part of me couldn’t help wondering…

How long could I fight it?

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

“So, how was your date?” my mom asked the second my foot hit the bottom step, her smile blinding even for a Sunday morning.

My dad sat at the table in his usual spot at the head, half-hidden behind his Sunday paper. It was his one day off, the one day I actually saw him each week. Eighteen years of trying—and mostly failing—to figure out our bond made it easier not to poke at that wound today.

“It wasn’t a date, Mom,” I sighed, heading for the kitchen. “It was an unimportant business meeting.”

“A business meeting at L’Orchidée Blanche?” she asked, one eyebrow arched, lips curling like she knew exactly what she was doing.

I rolled my eyes and opened the fridge. “Please. He’s just trying to woo me. Charm me. Whatever. Not happening.”

“Mm-hmm,” she hummed, clearly unconvinced, but she let it go—for now. “Your father and I need to talk to you about something. Can you sit down, please?”

I grabbed a glass of orange juice and a granola bar before sliding into the chair across from them. “Okay… what’s up?”

My dad folded his newspaper with military precision, placing it beside his coffee. “Your mother, the Darsons, and I have an unexpected business trip we need to leave for tomorrow morning. We will be gone for the next two weeks.”

“Okay?” I said, not even blinking. They’d gone on countless work trips. This wasn’t new. But the look they exchanged—a tight, nervous, do we have to say this out loud kind of look—tugged at my stomach.

Mom drew in a slow breath, almost wincing. “Sweetheart… you’re going to want to fight us on this.”

My brows pulled together. “Why? You’ve gone on business trips before.”

She braced herself, the way people do right before detonating a bomb. “The Darsons and your father and I have decided that… for you and Tristain to get along better—”

My stomach dropped through the floor. “I’m not staying with him.”

“Honey, it’ll only be for a couple weeks. I know you and Tristain have your differences, but—”

“No.” I shoved back my chair and stood so fast it screeched. “I’m not spending any time alone with that asshole.”

My mom stood as if that would calm me. It didn’t. “Sweetheart, please don’t overreact—”

“Overreact?” I barked out a laugh that had zero humor in it. “You’re telling me I’m being forced to live with the human equivalent of a migraine, and you expect me to be Zen about it?”

My dad let out a long breath, rubbing the bridge of his nose like he’d seen this coming from a mile away. “This isn’t optional, kiddo. The Darsons trust us to keep things running while we’re gone. And we trust them with you.”

I stared at him, stunned for a second. “You trust Tristain with me? Dad, he would sell my soul for a pack of gum.”

“That boy cares more than he lets on,” my mom said gently.

I opened my mouth—ready to argue, ready to scream, ready to tell them exactly what I thought of Tristain Darson and his stupid smirk and stupid motorcycle and stupid ability to get under my skin—but nothing came out.

A hot, buzzing frustration crawled beneath my ribs.

“This is insane,” I whispered.

“We know this isn’t ideal,” my mom said softly. “But it’s temporary.”

Temporary. Sure. So is a nuclear blast.

I stepped back from the table, pulse pounding in my ears. “No. I’m not doing it.”

“Allison.” My dad’s voice sharpened—calm, firm, final. The kind of tone that said the conversation was already over. “It’s decided.”

The last bit of air in my lungs vanished.

I clenched the glass of orange juice so hard I thought it might crack. “Fine,” I said, my voice a low, shaking whisper. “But don’t expect me to pretend this is anything other than a mistake.”

And before either of them could respond, I spun on my heel and stormed out of the kitchen—jaw tight, heart pounding, already cursing the universe for whatever fresh hell staying with Tristain Darson was about to unleash.

I marched up the stairs so fast I nearly tripped on the landing, the granola bar still crushed in my fist. I didn’t stop until my bedroom door was slammed shut behind me hard enough to rattle the frame.

My chest was tight—hot, furious, choking tight.

Two weeks. Two weeks. With him.

I paced once, twice, then grabbed my phone off my nightstand with shaking fingers and hit Jade’s contact.

She picked up on the third ring.

“Ally? Why are you calling me at eight in the morning? Did you die? Did Tristain—”

“TRISTAIN. FUCKING. DARSON,” I snapped.

“Okaaay, full name. What did he do now? Did he crash the stupid motorcycle? Did he run over a squirrel? Did he breathe wrong?”

I let out a strangled noise somewhere between a groan and a scream. “Jade, you are not going to believe what my parents just told me.”

“That you’re adopted?” she guessed.

“What—no! Jade!”

“Well, damn, sorry, I’m trying to prepare for anything here.”

I threw myself onto the bed, face-first, kicking my feet once like a toddler having the world’s angrier tantrum.

“My parents. Are going. On a business trip.”

“Okay… they do that all the time.”

“WITH THE DARSONS.”

Jade gasped so dramatically I could practically hear her fall out of her bed. “No. No, no, no—Ally. No. Tell me they’re not—”

“Oh, just wait.” I flipped onto my back, staring up at the ceiling like it personally offended me. “They want me to stay with him. Alone. For two fucking weeks.”

Silence.

Then: “Girl, what—WHAT—no. No, see, that’s not real. That’s not a thing. Parents don’t do that. That’s illegal somewhere, I’m sure.”

“Apparently mine do,” I grumbled. “They think this is some cute idea to ‘help us get along more.’”

“That sounds like the start of every plot to a romance novel.”

“IT’S A NIGHTMARE."

Jade snorted. “Are you sure? Because the way you said nightmare sounded a lot like ‘opportunity.’”

I sat up so fast I got dizzy. “Jade I swear on everything holy, I would rather bathe in battery acid.”

“Uh-huh.” She didn’t sound convinced. “This is the same guy whose jawline you ranted about for ten solid minutes the other night?”

“I WAS INSULTING HIM.”

“You described him like Michelangelo carved him himself.”

“WITH HATE,” I growled.

She giggled. “Sure, babes.”

I let myself flop backwards again, covering my eyes with my forearm. “Jade, I can’t. I can’t be in a house alone with him. He’s—he’s arrogant and sarcastic and has the emotional maturity of moldy cheese. And he thinks he’s charming. AND HE’S NOT.”

“Except the part where he made your knees go all wobbly when he—”

“ADRENALINE,” I cut in loudly. “We’ve been over this. I thought I was going to die on the back of that bike.”

“Uh-huh,” she said again.

I wanted to reach through the phone and strangle her, lovingly.

I sighed instead—long, dramatic, filled with suffering. “I told them no. I literally got up from the table and said ‘absolutely not.’”

“And?”

“And they’re still going through with it. They said I’ll ‘adjust’ once I get there.”

Jade choked out a laugh. “Adjust? Like they’re sending you to summer camp? Girl, they’re dropping you into enemy territory.”

“Exactly!” I threw a pillow at the wall. “Why does no one understand this? I hate him. He hates me. There is no universe where this ends well.”

“Well…” Jade said carefully, “there is one universe where it ends with—”

“Finish that sentence and I will block you.”

She laughed so hard I heard her wheeze. “Okay, okay! I’m done. I promise. No more shipping.”

“Thank you.”

“But also? You’re absolutely going to kiss him at some point.”

“GOODBYE.” I hit the end call button before she could say another word.

I stared at my dark phone screen, cheeks burning, heart pounding, frustration simmering hot enough to crack something inside me.

Two weeks. With Tristain Darson. Under one roof.

This was either the beginning of hell… or the beginning of something worse.

Either way, I was screwed.

I tossed my phone onto the bed, letting it slam up against the pillows. My fingers flexed as if I could crush the air around me, trying to shake the image of Tristain’s smug smirk from my mind.

He didn’t just annoy me. He infuriated me. He provoked me. He made my blood race and my brain short-circuit in equal measure. And somehow… some part of me that I refused to acknowledge even existed, he thrilled me.

I groaned, rolling onto my side and burying my face in the pillow. Two weeks. Fourteen days trapped under the same roof as him. God help me, I’d either lose my mind… or learn exactly how infuriating a man could be when he was allowed free reign over your space.

My phone buzzed on the nightstand. I sat up, blinking at the screen. It was a text from Tristain.

Tristain: You ready for this hellish adventure, Princess?

I glared at the screen, jaw tight. My fingers hovered over the keyboard, tempted to reply with something scathing, something that would make him feel the fire I was feeling.

Instead… I deleted the words.

Some part of me knew that no words could ever match the sheer, frustrating effect he had on me. And that only made my stomach twist tighter.

I leaned back against the headboard, staring at the ceiling, imagining the next two weeks. Every meal, every glance, every argument… and maybe, just maybe, some moments that would make me want to punch him and kiss him at the same time.

Not that I would ever admit that to Jade. Or anyone.

I let out a long, shuddering breath and wrapped the blanket tighter around me, trying to ground myself. But the truth was simple, unavoidable, and terrifying:

Tristain Darson was going to be the absolute worst… and I was going to have to survive him.

I let the blanket slip off my shoulders and sat on the edge of my bed, staring at the floor. My chest was still tight, my pulse racing, and my thoughts refused to quiet. Two weeks. Fourteen days. Living under the same roof as Tristain Darson.

Part of me wanted to scream. Part of me wanted to plot revenge. And—god help me—part of me was already dreading him in ways I refused to admit out loud.

I reached for my phone again, tempted to text Jade, to rant, to vent all my frustration and humiliation. But I didn’t. I didn’t want her laughing at me—or worse, teasing me about feelings I wasn’t ready to face.

So I sat there, in the quiet of my room, letting the tension coil tight in my chest. I didn’t know how the next two weeks would go. I didn’t know if I would survive Tristain’s smugness, his charm, or whatever other tricks he had up his sleeve.

One thing was certain: this was going to be absolute chaos.

And if I was honest… I was terrified.

Because no matter how much I told myself I hated him, I had a feeling this was only the beginning.

The beginning of something that could ruin me—or completely change everything.