Chapter 19
Summer's POV
"That's very generous," Maya said slowly, her smile not quite reaching her eyes as she processed what I'd just offered—or rather, what trap I'd just laid out for her with such innocent sweetness that even I was impressed with myself.
"It's settled then!" I hugged her again, bouncing with feigned excitement that would have earned me an Oscar if this were a performance instead of survival. "This is going to be so fun, Aunt Maya! We can listen to podcasts together during drives, and you can tell me all about your business ideas, and I can help you pick out outfits at Neiman's—oh, we should go this Saturday! They just got the new fall collection in." I let my voice rise with that breathless enthusiasm that teenage girls were so good at, the kind that made adults underestimate you even as you were backing them into a corner.
Mom was beaming now, her shoulders visibly relaxing as the "safety issue" she'd been worried about dissolved into what looked like quality family bonding time. She was relieved, happy to see her daughter and sister getting along so well, completely oblivious to the chess match happening right under her perfectly applied makeup. "This is wonderful. Maya, I'll have my assistant set up the memberships today."
"And maybe," I added, as if the thought had just occurred to me, tilting my head with that innocent curiosity that had always made adults want to pat me on the head, my voice dripping with such sincere concern that I almost believed it myself, "since Aunt Maya will be spending so much time helping me, she won't have as much time for the Seaport project? I mean, she shouldn't overwork herself. That wouldn't be fair to her health, right Mom?"
The flash of rage in Maya's eyes was so brief I almost missed it, a spark of pure fury that lasted maybe half a second before her practiced smile slid back into place.
But I didn't miss it.
I caught it, held it, savored it like the first sip of perfectly brewed coffee.
Mom nodded thoughtfully, her CEO brain already reorganizing priorities and timelines. "You're right, sweetheart. Maya, let's table the Seaport discussion for now. Focus on getting settled in your current role first. We can revisit the expansion projects once you're more established and have proven yourself with the existing responsibilities."
"Of course," Maya said through gritted teeth that she tried to disguise as a gracious smile. "Whatever you think is best, Victoria."
I smiled at her over Mom's shoulder as Mom pulled me into a hug, and for just a second, our eyes met across the space that separated us—niece and aunt, ally and enemy, past and future colliding in a single moment of perfect understanding.
Her gaze was pure venom, the kind that promised retribution when the opportunity presented itself.
Mine was sweeter than sugar, sharper than glass, and carried the weight of everything I knew about how this story would end if I let it.
Checkmate, Aunt Maya.
---
The satisfaction lasted all the way to school, warming me from the inside out like hot chocolate on a winter morning, making even the Monday morning traffic seem less unbearable.
In my first life, I'd always rushed to school, running from the car to class because I was perpetually five minutes late, my backpack bouncing against my shoulders as I tried not to trip in my hurry. But now, arriving early felt like a gift I was giving myself, like claiming space that had always been mine but I'd never bothered to occupy.
And maybe—my heart did a stupid little flip that I absolutely refused to acknowledge—maybe Kieran would already be there.
I pushed open the classroom door, the old hinges creaking in that familiar way that always announced someone's arrival.
And froze.
He was already there.
Kieran sat in his usual window seat, morning light gilding the edges of his dark hair bronze. Physics textbook open, world gone silent around him.
The St. Jude’s uniform fit him like armor—crisp white shirt, tie knotted razor-sharp—yet somehow he wore it differently from everyone else.
His left hand turned pages with quiet precision. His right rested on the desk, fingers half-curled.
The burn on the back of his hand looked better than last week—red fading, blisters shrinking—but it was still uncovered, raw skin daring the air to hurt it again.
At the door's creak, he looked up.
Our eyes met.
His expression was calm, carefully neutral, but something flickered in his gray eyes—surprise, recognition, maybe something else I couldn't quite name. His gaze held mine, steady and intent and impossibly direct, and my breath caught somewhere between my lungs and my throat, trapped there like a bird in a cage.
"Did you... were you waiting for me?" The words tumbled out before I could stop them, before my brain could catch up with my mouth and remind me that girls like me weren't supposed to ask questions like that.
Oh god, Summer.
Kieran's mouth twitched—barely, just the smallest movement at one corner—and he looked back at his book with what seemed like deliberate dismissal. "No."
But he'd been watching the door.
I'd seen it in that split second before he'd looked down, the way his attention had been oriented toward the entrance rather than the window, the way he'd glanced up the instant I'd appeared.
I reached my desk and set my bag down, hands shaking slightly in a way that annoyed me. I didn't pull out books or notebooks or any of the things I should have been doing. Just stood there, gathering courage like it was something I could collect and hold.
I glanced at his right hand again. The burn had definitely improved—he'd used the ointment I'd given him, followed the instructions. But the absence of a bandage bothered me more than it should have, like an itch I couldn't scratch, a problem I couldn't solve.
"Does it still hurt?" I asked quietly, my voice barely above a whisper.
No response.
"Why didn't you put a bandage on it? The pharmacist said it needs sterile gauze to prevent infection."
Nothing. Just the sound of a page turning.
"Did you... not know how to apply one?"
He lifted his eyes and looked at me. Cool, distant, irritated—like I was being a nuisance, like I was some annoying insect buzzing around his head that he couldn't quite swat away.
I'd been about to offer help, the words forming on my tongue, but his look stopped me cold.
The silence stretched between us like taffy being pulled, getting thinner and more fragile with each passing second. Wind rustled the oak leaves outside, making shadows dance across his face. My heartbeat pounded in my ears, loud enough that I was sure he could hear it.
Maybe I should just let it go.
Maybe I was pushing too hard, caring too much about someone who clearly didn't want my concern.
I started to turn away, already mentally berating myself for being so obvious, so desperate.
"Will you help me put it on?"
His voice was so quiet I almost didn't hear it, barely more than a breath, the words sounding like they'd been dragged out of him against his will.
I froze, breath catching somewhere in my chest.
He wasn't looking at me—his eyes fixed on his textbook like the secrets of the universe were written there, jaw tight enough that I could see the muscle jumping—but his fingers curled slightly against the desk, trembling so faintly that I might have imagined it.
He was asking. Actually asking.
For help. From me.
"Okay," I whispered, the word coming out softer than I'd intended.
He looked up then, gray eyes meeting mine directly, and for a long moment we just sat there in the early morning light, the empty classroom stretching around us like a world that contained only the two of us, the air thick with something I couldn't name—something fragile and precious and terrifying.
Something that felt like the beginning of everything.