Chapter 3: Clash of Worlds

Brandon Carter—or so he called himself—looked perfectly at ease sprawled across Julia’s couch. He stretched like a lazy cat, while Julia stormed around her tiny kitchen, muttering about freeloaders.

“You’re still here?” she snapped, tying her apron before work.

“You agreed,” he said smugly. “Your landlord should thank me. I’m basically saving his business.”

“You’re saving your butt,” Julia shot back. “And don’t touch anything while I’m gone.”

Of course, the moment she left for her morning shift, Brandon touched everything.

The refrigerator hummed, half-empty save for eggs, pack of instant noodle, and a wilting bunch of spinach. Brandon eyed the eggs like they were a puzzle.

“How hard can it be?” he muttered.

Ten minutes later, black smoke curled from the frying pan. The eggs were burnt to a crisp, the pan handle slick with grease. Brandon coughed, fanning the smoke alarm with a dish towel.

“Why would anyone cook this themselves?” he groaned, dumping the charred remains straight into the trash.

Next, he wandered into the laundry nook. Julia had mentioned laundry day. Surely he could manage that. He shoved half the pile into the machine—colors, whites, everything together—and pressed random buttons. The machine whirred, then groaned. A puddle of soapy water spread across the floor.

Brandon jumped back. “Why is it spitting at me?!”

When Julia came home between shifts, she found him standing barefoot on a towel, glaring at the rebellious machine like it had insulted his ancestors.

“What did you do?!” she demanded.

“I tried to help!”

“By drowning my laundry?” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “You’re banned from the washing machine. And the stove. And—actually, just sit still and don’t breathe too hard. That way, maybe nothing explodes.”

Brandon scowled, but Julia’s laughter sparkled in her eyes as she mopped up the mess.

The next day, Brandon trailed her out of the apartment, curiosity gnawing at him. She worked three jobs, she’d said. He didn’t believe it. Who worked that much?

First stop: the café. Julia balanced trays like a pro, weaving between customers with a practiced smile. When her manager barked at her for a spilled coffee that wasn’t even her fault, she only bowed and apologized.

Second stop: the convenience store. Julia scanned items at lightning speed, her fingers flying, her back aching. Brandon stood by the window, watching her yawn into her sleeve when no one was looking.

Third stop: a dingy office where she filed paperwork for minimum wage. Brandon almost walked away, but then he saw the way she massaged her wrist after hours of typing, her shoulders stiff with exhaustion.

It was like a punch to the gut.

He’d never seen anyone work this hard just to survive.

That night, he decided he’d return the favor. Quietly.

Julia collapsed onto the couch, barely able to lift her head. “Don’t. Talk to me. I’m dead.”

Brandon smirked. “Rest easy. I’ll handle dinner.”

Her head shot up. “No! Don’t you dare—”

Too late. He was already clattering around in the kitchen. Pots banged, utensils clinked, and suspicious sizzling noises filled the air.

Julia pinched her temples. “God, I should’ve just ordered takeout.”

Minutes later, Brandon proudly set a plate on the table. The instant noodle was overcooked, the spinach wilted into a sad green blob, and the meat—she wasn’t even sure it was edible.

“Voilà,” he declared.

Julia stared. “Voilà what? Food poisoning?”

He frowned. “It’s not that bad.”

She poked the noodle with a fork. Nope, it was more like porridge as it overcooked. Julia grab a spoon instead and she shoved a spoonful into his mouth. Brandon didn’t even had to chewed, and it tasted nothing.

Julia burst out laughing, clutching her stomach. “You’re hopeless!”

Brandon coughed, eyes watering, but a reluctant smile tugged at his lips. He hadn’t heard genuine laughter in months—not directed at him, not around him. Somehow, even her mockery warmed the cold edges inside him.

Later, as Julia cleaned up the disaster zone, Brandon dozed off on the couch. His jacket slipped off the armrest, something hard clattering onto the floor.

Julia bent to pick it up—an ID card. Her eyes skimmed over the bold print.

Name: Brandon Carter Hughes.

Her fingers froze. Hughes.

The blood drained from her face. The Hughes family wasn’t just powerful. They were infamous. They had ruined her father’s company years ago, left her family bankrupt and her father broken.

Her heart pounded in her chest, the letters blurring. Brandon… Hughes.

Her gaze snapped to the sleeping man on her couch. The spoiled heir she’d dragged into her home wasn’t just any runaway rich boy. He was part of the dynasty she despised more than anyone.

Her lips trembled as a storm of rage, disbelief, and dread swirled inside her.

Brandon stirred in his sleep, oblivious to the fire he’d just ignited in her chest.