Tous les chapitres de : Chapitre 1 - Chapitre 7

“Ally, come downstairs!”I groaned, dropping my phone onto the charger—it had climbed a painfully slow 25% while I doom-scrolled Instagram—and shoved myself off the bed. The scent hit me first when I reached the bottom of the staircase: rich, buttery, unmistakable turkey pot pie. My mom’s specialty.She stood in the kitchen, oven mitts on, cheeks flushed from the heat.“What’s up?” I asked, leaning against the counter and snagging an apple from the fruit tray.She turned—and the warm, hazel sparkle in her eyes faded into concern as she took in my outfit. “Sweetheart, could you find something a bit more… appropriate to wear?”I froze, apple halfway to my mouth, and glanced down at my pink sweatpants and black cropped tank. “Why? It’s Friday night.”Her sigh was dramatic enough to make me suspicious. “Your father didn’t tell you, did he?”“Tell me what?” I asked, suddenly alert.She slid the pot pie out of the oven and set it on the counter. “The Darsons are coming over for dinner tonig

That morning arrived like an enemy—too soon, too loud, and completely against my will. I wasn’t ready. I don’t think anyone could ever be ready for being shipped off to live with their nemesis, but my parents seemed determined to test the limits of human suffering.They claimed staying at the Darson estate would provide a “fresh environment” and “new opportunities.”Sure. If by “opportunities” they meant a front-row seat to my own personal hell.I sat rigidly in the back seat of the Volvo, clutching my overnight bag like it was a life raft and I was five minutes from drowning. Every mile we drove toward the Darson mansion felt like a countdown—tick, tick, tick—to my doom.I kept scrolling through my phone, pretending like if I focused hard enough on Instagram reels, I could manifest myself into a different universe. One where my parents weren’t handing me over to the devil with dimples.“Honey, it won’t be so bad,” my mom said gently, catching my gaze in the rearview mirror. Her hopef

I sauntered down the stairs the next morning—and immediately wished I hadn’t.Tristain stood in the dining room, back half-turned, methodically adjusting the cuffs of a black dress shirt like he belonged in some tailored fantasy instead of my personal nightmare. My stomach did an annoying, traitorous little flip.A sliver of a long tattoo peeked out from beneath his rolled sleeves, immediately making me curious as to what it was.He looked exactly like how I imagined Alex Volkov in—No.Absolutely not.Get your shit together, Ally.I scowled at myself for even letting the comparison surface. He wasn’t fictional. He wasn’t charming. He was infuriating. Period.As if sensing my stare, he glanced over his shoulder. Dark hair fell lazily across those icy eyes, and—God help me—the faintest smirk tugged at his mouth.Oh. My. God.Snap out of it, Allison Trainer, I ordered myself, fighting the urge to physically shake the thoughts loose.“Good morning to you, too, Frosty,” he said, his voice

My GPS chimed softly as I rolled to a stop, the Ducati purring beneath me like it knew exactly what kind of mood I was in. I slid into a handicapped spot directly in front of the mall.I wouldn’t be here long.I cut the ignition and flipped the plate up before swinging off the bike and striding toward the entrance. Helmet stayed on. No face, no name—just intent. I didn’t need mall security remembering me if I had to come back later.Whether to rearrange someone’s face…or buy Ally something nice.The thought irritated me more than it should’ve.I didn’t understand why I was this infuriated. Ally wasn’t mine. She wasn’t property. I had no claim, no right to dictate who talked to her or who asked her out. And yet—when that name had flashed across my alert, something ugly and possessive had sparked deep in my chest.Maybe that was why I’d installed the restrictions.Control.The realization sat heavy, unsettling. Ever since that night, something inside me had cracked open, reshaped itsel