“How was your first day being a *gold digger*?”

Clara's POV

I drop my bag by the door and tread cautiously to the kitchen, where Mom is chopping vegetables for dinner. The warm space feels suffocating, like a cocoon I can’t quite breathe in. My thoughts spiral back to the cruel taunts of the day, and the dread of facing Nolan fills me with an uneasiness I can’t shake. It’s like a knot lodged in my throat, suffocating and bitter.

“Hey, sweetheart. How was your first day?” Mom asks, looking up at me with that genuine interest that only makes my turmoil feel more pronounced.

I shrug, my fingers swirling around the smooth surface of an apple plucked from the bowl on the counter. “Fine. Same as always.”

Her brow furrows slightly, sensing something’s off. “Did you see Nolan?”

At the mere mention of his name, my heart sinks. I don’t want to discuss him, don’t want to relive those moments filled with torment. Instead of lying, I choose silence as I sink my teeth into the apple, the tartness causing my eyes to water. Each crunch feels like a reminder of how the day just drags on, filled with unwanted encounters.

“Clara, I know this is hard…” she begins, her tone sympathetic, but before she can finish, the front door swings open with an almost dramatic flair, and in strolls Nolan with that easy, confident swagger that instantly fills the room with palpable tension. Everything about him radiates a carefree arrogance that makes my skin crawl.

“Hey, Mrs. Bennett!” he greets, flashing my mom an innocent smile so dazzling, it could melt ice. My stomach twists at the insincerity shimmering behind those eyes. “What’s for dinner?”

She beams back at him, completely oblivious to the storm inside me. “Just pasta tonight! Why don’t you set the table with Clara?”

My throat tightens at the proximity we’re forced to share, our worlds colliding in this house that feels both comforting and suffocating. I can’t bear the thought of being anywhere near him, but there’s little I can do.

“Great idea,” he replies, his eyes glinting as they settle on me. That smug smile makes it clear he knows exactly how much this bothers me.

I grit my teeth and shuffle through the cabinets, trying to breathe through the tension. With each moment that passes, every brush of skin feels magnified, igniting unwanted sparks I want to deny. I can’t stand the notion that he wields this kind of power over my emotions.

“How was your first day being a *gold digger*?” he asks casually, leaning against the counter as if we’re merely conversing about the weather. The words drip with condescension. “I bet you fit right into the role. Are you taking notes from your mother by any chance?”

I can feel heat creeping up my neck as I shoot him a glare, my heart racing. “You don’t know anything about my mother or me,” I reply, my voice steady but tinged with anger. Inside, I’m screaming. “Why don’t you just get lost?”

His laughter booms like thunder in the small kitchen, mocking me, shooting daggers of humiliation directly into my core. “What’s the matter, Clara? Scared of the truth? You think just because you’re living the high life now, people will forget who you really are?”

“Shut up, Nolan,” I retort, gripping the edge of the counter, trying to keep my composure. All my anger simmers beneath my skin, thrumming like a caged animal trying to escape.

Mom glances back and forth between us with a perplexed expression, clearly unaware of the delicate war being fought in her kitchen. I can see the worry etched on her face, and it makes my blood boil even more. I don't want her to get involved or worried about this nonsense anymore.

“Why don’t you girls try to do something productive and clean up?” he suggests, his tone dripping with condescension. “You know, help out your family instead of sulking over your failures.”

“Failures?” I repeat incredulously, heart racing. “I’m not failing! You just have a pathetic obsession with belittling me. It can’t be good for your ego.”

He shrugs, completely unfazed. “You call it an obsession; I call it a hobby. It’s so easy to watch you squirm. Every moment with you feels like a gift,” he replies, that twisted grin plastered on his face.

My pulse quickens as I feel the urge to launch something—anything—at him. A glass, a plate, my fist—something to wipe that grin off his face. Instead, all I can do is grip the edge of the countertop harder, the smooth surface cool beneath my burning fingertips.

Mom gives us an uneasy smile, trying to defuse the tension. “Boys will be boys, right?” she says cheerily, cautiously optimistic, and that makes my heart sink lower. Mom has no idea what’s going on or how toxic he can be. But how can I tell her when he’s practically mocking me in front of her?

“I’m done with this,” I finally declare, adrenaline coursing through my veins. I abandon the kitchen, the scene, and I storm out, slamming the door behind me. The sound reverberates around me, a final punctuation to the confrontation.

I sink onto my bed, my pulse racing as I stare blankly at the ceiling. The chaos of the day cloys at my chest, suffocating me, and I know this battle with Nolan is only beginning. It dawns on me that each moment I spend in his presence only makes me more aware of the thin line between hatred and something else, something dangerously potent I can’t comprehend.

Every breath feels heavy as I close my sketchbook, trying to find solace in the blur of art and words. But my thoughts spiral back to Nolan, to the storm he creates in my mind. I think of the year stretching ahead; each moment with him feels like a challenge I’m both dreading and craving. That storm cloud is always there, reminding me how close he is, yet how far apart we may stand.

Outside my door, I can hear him; echoes of laughter leaked from the living room where he’s probably regaling my mother with stories, charming her in a way that only he can. I hate him. I hate how he makes me feel—angry, flustered, and decidedly alive. I hate that he’s everywhere, that I can’t escape him, not at school, not at home, and certainly not in my own head.

And the worst part? Deep down, I realize I’m starting to crave our encounters, the inevitable storm that brews in his wake. A part of me that I despise whispers softly, urging me not to resist and to lean into the chaos of Nolan Carter. That thought pulls at my insides, wrapping around my mind like a vine choking the life out of its host.