Chapter 2: Pretend

The dawn following the wedding didn't carry the essence of a new beginning. Instead, it felt as though I had opened my eyes in a world that wasn't my own, as if I had stepped into the shoes of another's existence.

I slowly blinked my eyes open, feeling a bit out of it. The ceiling was way too high and super bright—just didn’t look right. Sunlight was pouring in through these tall glass windows covered with fancy curtains that probably cost more than all my stuff back home put together.

Right. This wasn’t our house anymore. This was his house. Tito Vunce’s.

Which now meant…it was ours too. The thought felt strange. Heavy.

I sat up, looking around the room that had been prepared for me. It was beautiful—there was no denying that. Clean lines, soft colors, a bed big enough for three people, a vanity, shelves, even a small sitting area by the window.

Everything was perfect. Too perfect like a hotel room designed for comfort, not memories.

I missed my old room. I missed the chipped paint on the wall, the uneven shelves, the way everything felt… lived in. Here, everything felt untouched. Like I didn’t belong yet.

I brushed the thought away like dust off a shelf and rose to my feet, stepping out into the hallway. It stretched before me, grander than our entire previous living room. Gleaming floors reflected the soft glow of carefully placed lights, casting a warm radiance on the framed masterpieces adorning the walls. And the silence—oh, the silence! It wasn’t a void, but rather a serene hush, meticulously curated, wrapping around me like a velvet cloak.

Drawn by a whisper of noise drifting from below, I ventured into the kitchen. And there he was—Vance—casually propped against the sleek marble counter as if he were a permanent fixture, radiating a sense of effortless calm, clutching a—Wait, what?

I narrowed my eyes.

“That’s my mug.”

He didn’t even look at me. “It’s a mug.”

“It’s my mug,” I repeated, walking closer. “The one with the chipped handle.”

He glanced at it briefly, then back at me. “You brought a chipped mug into this house?”

I frowned. “Yes. Because it’s mine.”

He looked almost amused. “You’ve got an entire cabinet of brand-new ones and you chose that?”

“It’s not about that.”

“It’s literally about a mug,” he said.

I stepped forward and took it from his hand, turning to rinse it under the sink.

“Wow,” he muttered. “Didn’t know you were that attached.”

“It’s called having something that actually means something,” I shot back.

He crossed his arms. “You’re in a house worth more than most people will ever see, and you’re holding onto a broken mug.”

I turned to face him. “Maybe because not everything important is about money.”

Something in his expression shifted. Just slightly, then it was gone. “Good for you,” he said flatly.

I grabbed another glass instead, pouring myself water.

The kitchen alone was bigger than our entire old downstairs. Marble countertops, sleek cabinets, appliances that looked like they belonged in a showroom.

Everything is polished. Everything is expensive. Everything… his. It didn’t feel like mine.

“Still adjusting?” he asked suddenly.

I glanced at him. “What does that mean?”

He shrugged. “You look like you don’t know where to stand.”

I frowned. “I know where to stand.”

“Sure,” he said. “You’re just gripping that glass like it’s your only connection to reality.”

I looked down. He wasn’t wrong and that annoyed me.

“Maybe I just don’t need everything to feel like a display,” I said.

“And maybe I’m used to it,” he replied.

“Yeah,” I muttered. “Obviously.”

Living in a house like this should’ve felt like a dream. Big spaces. Quiet corners. Everything is clean, organized, almost untouched. But instead, it felt like I was constantly aware of where I didn’t belong. The long dining table where I didn’t know which seat was mine. The living room felt more like a showroom than a place to relax. The hallways that echoed slightly when I walked, reminding me how unfamiliar everything was.

And Vance—He fit into all of it perfectly. Of course he did.

“You’re in my seat,” I said later that afternoon, pointing at one of the chairs in the living room.

He looked up from his phone, unimpressed. “There are like ten seats.”

“I like that one.”

“Then you should’ve gotten here first.”

I crossed my arms. “Move.”

He leaned back comfortably. “Make me.”

I stepped closer. “You really want to do this today?”

“You walked over here,” he pointed out. “Seems like you do.”

“I just want my seat.”

“You want control,” he corrected.

“That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it?” he said, raising a brow. “You came into a place you’re not used to, so now you’re trying to claim small things.”

I blinked. That hit a little too accurately. But I wasn’t about to let him win that. “Or maybe,” I said, stepping closer, “you just don’t like sharing.”

A small smirk appeared on his face. “I’ve been sharing this house longer than you’ve been in it.”

“That doesn’t make it yours alone.”

“It kind of does,” he said calmly.

I clenched my jaw. We were too close again. That same tension. Sharp. Immediate.

“Move,” I said more quietly.

He held my gaze for a second longer, then stood up.

“Take it,” he said.

But I didn’t feel like I won.

It wasn’t merely within the confines of our home; the school environment amplified the turmoil. Here, he transformed from the adversary I clashed with in a house that felt foreign to me into someone who truly belonged.

I could see it in the warmth of the greetings he received, the way he glided through the corridors as if they were woven into his very essence, as if every corner and crevice was already claimed by him. And when our eyes met, my heart sank as that same infuriating smirk danced across his face once more.

“Well,” he said, “adjusting to the palace?”

I rolled my eyes. “It’s a house.”

“Sure,” he said. “If you ignore the size, the staff, and the fact that it has more rooms than your old neighborhood.”

I shot him a look. “You don’t have to say it like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like it’s some kind of competition.”

He studied me for a moment. Then, more quietly, “You’re the one making it one.”

I frowned slightly. “I’m not competing,” I said.

“Then stop acting like you have something to prove.”

There it was once more—this uncanny ability to perceive what lingered unspoken in the air. It was both irksome and disconcerting, like a shadow that danced just beyond my reach.

“Maybe I just don’t like how you assume things,” I replied.

“Maybe I just noticed things,” he said.

We lingered in the stillness, caught in that familiar hush, that magnetic tug between us. With a quick shake of my head, I brushed past him, yet I could sense his gaze trailing after me. It irked me to realize I was aware of it.

Under the cloak of night, I stood on the balcony, gazing out into a tapestry of twinkling city lights that danced on the horizon. The gentle murmur of life below wrapped around me like a soft whisper. It was a sight to behold, a masterpiece of beauty. Yet, despite its allure, a sense of estrangement lingered, as if this enchanting scene belonged to someone else.

“You always run off when things get too quiet?” his voice came from behind me.

I didn’t turn. “Do you always follow me?”

“Not always,” he said, stepping beside me. “Just when you look like you’re about to disappear into your own thoughts.”

I exhaled softly. “Maybe I like thinking.”

“Or maybe you’re overthinking,” he said.

I glanced at him. “There’s a difference.”

“Not from where I’m standing.”

I leaned against the railing. “Why do we keep doing this?”

“Doing what?”

“This,” I said. “Arguing. Pushing. It’s exhausting.”

He was quiet for a moment. Then, “Because it’s easier.”

“Easier than what?” I asked.

He looked at me. And for a second—just a second—everything else faded.

“Than figuring out why it’s not just annoying,” he said.

My breath caught slightly. “And what is it then?” I asked.

He hesitated. Then shook his head. “Nothing.”

“That didn’t sound like nothing.”

“It is,” he said quickly. “Forget it.”

But I couldn’t, because I felt it too. Stronger now. More obvious.

“You’re impossible,” I said softly.

“And you’re not?” he replied.

I smiled slightly. “Fair.”

We lingered in that moment, suspended in time, where words were absent yet the air buzzed with unspoken truths. It was a silence thick with the weight of everything left unsaid, and somehow, that felt more intricate than any argument we could have mustered.

As I stepped back through the threshold, a single notion clung to me like a shadow: this house might never truly embrace me as its own. Yet, the connection—whatever it was—between Vance and me was an undeniable force, a current we couldn’t escape, no matter how hard we tried to swim against it.