MasukTamine’s POVI didn't sleep.I lay in the massive, impossibly soft guest bed in the Thorpe estate, watching the moonlight filter through the heavy velvet curtains. Every time I closed my eyes, Vance’s warning echoed in my ears.He will frame Evans as a teenager caught up with a volatile, lower-class family. He will use your mother to destroy him.At 6:00 AM, I couldn't take the suffocating silence of the room anymore. I threw the covers off, pulled on my oversized sweater, and padded barefoot down the carpeted hallway to Evans’s bedroom.I pushed the heavy oak door open.Evans was already awake. He was sitting on the edge of his mattress in a pair of gray sweatpants, a hockey playbook resting on his knees, staring blankly at the wall.He looked up when the door clicked. The tense, rigid line of his shoulders instantly dropped."Couldn't sleep?" he asked softly, tossing the playbook onto the floor and holding his hand out to me."Not even for a minute," I admitted, crossing the room an
Tamine’s POVThe Thanksgiving dinner was a masterclass in psychological warfare.Richard Thorpe sat at the head of the table, steering the conversation toward high-yield corporate bonds, the NFL draft, and the Boston hockey playoffs. He never addressed me directly again, but he systematically ignored my presence, attempting to render me entirely invisible.It didn't work. Every time Richard praised Atlas’s passing yardage, Atlas would immediately pivot the conversation, asking me a highly technical question about urban infrastructure. Every time Richard asked Evans about his NHL prospects, Evans would seamlessly intertwine his answer with how proud he was of my Vanguard midterm.They were flanking him. They were forcing their billionaire father to acknowledge me in his own house.By the time the dessert plates were cleared, Richard’s polite veneer was stretched to the absolute breaking point."I have a conference call with the London office," Richard announced, standing up sharply, to
Tamine’s POVThe automatic doors of the Philadelphia International Airport slid open, and the freezing November air hit my face. But for the first time in three months, the cold didn't feel like a threat. It felt like coming home.I adjusted the strap of my canvas bag, scanning the crowded curbside pickup lane."Looking for a ride to the city, or just admiring the architecture?"I spun around.Evans was leaning against the side of his black Land Rover, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of a dark wool peacoat. His breath plumed in the freezing air. The purple bruising along his jaw had faded to a faint, yellowish shadow, and the exhausted, hollowed-out look in his green eyes was completely gone.He looked solid. He looked like the boy I had left at the train station in August.I didn't say a word. I dropped my bag onto the concrete and ran.Evans caught me flawlessly, his arms wrapping around my waist and lifting me entirely off the ground. I buried my face in the crook of his nec
Evans’s POVThe hardest part about a Grade 3 concussion wasn't the nausea or the headaches. It was the absolute, crushing boredom.Dr. Thorne’s orders were absolute: no screens, no reading, no bright lights, and no elevated heart rate. For a guy who had spent his entire life in perpetual, high-adrenaline motion, being confined to a blacked-out dorm room felt like a straightjacket.It had been three weeks since the hit.I was lying flat on my back, staring at the ceiling I couldn't even see in the dark. My phone was resting on my chest, on speakerphone."...and the integration of brutalist aesthetics in the mid-century municipal buildings was largely a reaction to the economic austerity of the post-war era," Tamine’s voice drifted through the speaker, calm and steady.She was reading her architectural history textbook to me. She had been reading to me every single night for three weeks. She knew I was going out of my mind with boredom, and since I couldn't watch TV or read a book, she
Tamine’s POV"You look like you're going to throw up, Chloe. Please don't throw up on the 3D model."It was Thursday afternoon. Three days since I had flown back from Boston.I was standing at the front of the architecture studio next to Chloe Kensington. Resting on the pedestal between us was our massive, fully rendered urban renewal model of the West Loop commercial district. It was flawless. The structural engineering was sound, the material cost analysis was perfectly within budget, and the aesthetic design was a seamless blend of modern glass and functional steel.But Chloe was hyperventilating softly, adjusting her designer blazer for the fifth time."Aris is looking at me like she wants to dissect my brain for science," Chloe whispered frantically, not moving her lips.Professor Aris was sitting in the front row, her clipboard resting on her knee, staring at our model with her terrifying, unreadable hawk eyes."She looks at everyone like that," I muttered back. "Just breathe. Y
Atlas’s POVThe Boston air was freezing, but I barely felt it. I was pacing the sidewalk outside the private neurology clinic, my phone pressed to my ear."I need a complete legal audit of Coach Kavanagh's communications," I barked into the receiver. "Subpoena the athletic department's donation records. I want the exact dollar amount Richard Thorpe transferred to that program last month, and I want it traced back to his corporate accounts.""Atlas, you're asking me to launch a hostile legal inquiry into your own father," my sports agent, David, sighed over the line. "You're a top-five NFL draft prospect right now. If you declare war on Richard Thorpe, he's going to use his connections to tank your media narrative. He'll label you a locker-room cancer.""Let him try," I sneered. "My brother is sitting in a dark room with brain trauma because that bastard wanted to play puppeteer. Do your job, David, or I'll fire you and hire someone who will."I hung up before he could respond.I leane
I pulled out my phone and dialed Evans's number. He picked up on the second ring."Hey," his voice sounded rough, strained."Where are you?" I asked, standing up and grabbing my backpack."At the community rink," Evans sighed. "Coach banned me from the school ice for the duration of the suspension.
The hardest part about surviving an explosion isn't the blast itself. It's the ringing in your ears afterward—the deafening, disorienting silence that follows the chaos.Charlotte Hart was gone, expelled and scrubbed from the Blackridge Academy roster before the morning announcements even aired. Bu
I kept my eyes fixed on the heavy glass doors of the main entrance.Evans was leaning against the brick wall next to the doors, balancing on his crutches. He was wearing his Blackridge blazer, his tie loose. Despite the dark circles still lingering under his eyes, he looked solid. Unmovable.When h
"She told me about you two in the alleyway to hurt me," Atlas said softly. "To make me lose control. And it worked. I lost the game. I lost my temper. And now, the school board is reviewing my status for the championship because of the equipment room photo.""You bought the key, Atlas," Evans said







