CHAPTER 14
SIN
Brookhaven Ridge looked different in the light of day.
There was something unnervingly peaceful about it—the way the sun gilded the treetops, the hush of wind slipping through branches, the kind of quiet that pressed down on you and made you hear everything you’d rather not.
I’d never really stopped to take it in before.
Back in L.A., I’d spent so long numb, chasing highs, chasing people—chasing anything that made me feel like I wasn’t invisible. Like I existed outside the shadow of someone else’s name.
My childhood was a parade of strangers—nannies who left before I could remember their names, a mother I knew better from red carpet interviews than real life. The only consistent presence in my life was the silence that filled every room after they were gone.
I couldn’t go back to that. Not again. Not when I’d just started to remember how to breathe without begging someone to notice me first.
The breeze swept across my skin as I waited, the kind of cool that raised goosebumps and made you feel alive in a way nothing in L.A. ever had.
Thalia said she wanted to talk. She didn’t say what about. Just that it mattered. Having a friend—a real one—was unfamiliar terrain. Like crossing a battlefield without armor, hoping you didn’t step on something buried and sharp.
It didn’t take long before the fragile birdsong was drowned out by the dying rattle of her Fiat, coughing up dust as she pulled up next to my Dodge.
The door creaked open and out she stepped, lips painted the color of dried blood, curling into a smirk as she spotted me sitting in the same place we’d shared that night under the stars.
“Morning, beautiful. What’s with the cloak and dagger?”
She dropped down next to me without giving an answer, body warm beside mine, the scent of cigarette smoke and something citrusy clinging to her jacket.
“Nothing dramatic, Trouble,” she said, voice breezy. “Just wanted to have a heart-to-heart with my bestie.”
“Trouble in paradise?”
“Ha. You wish.”
“So what’s going on?”
She hesitated, then pulled a pack of cigarettes from her jacket and offered me one before lighting her own. Smoke filled my lungs—sharp, bitter, grounding. Like it burned through the ache in my chest and left something steadier behind.
“I’ve got a proposition for you.”
I arched a brow but didn’t speak, fingers tapping against my thigh.
She turned to me, her tone softening. “Are you happy at your aunt’s place?”
I let out a short laugh and immediately choked on the smoke. “Happy?” I scoffed, wiping at my watering eyes. “I mean, it’s not a cardboard box. Could be worse.”
She looked at me, and I felt it—really felt it. Like she was peeling me open, layer by layer. “Is she good to you?”
I stared out over the valley, pretending I didn’t feel the sting of that question.
“She treats me like a stray someone dumped on her doorstep. Keeps me around out of guilt, or image, or both. I pay her rent—fifty percent of what I earn.”
“You fucking what?” she snapped, eyes wide. “Does she make you cook too?”
“I can cook.”
I had to learn. When the house went quiet and the staff stopped showing up because my parents were off chasing another dream, another party, another award. When I got home from boarding school and found no one waiting, just echoing hallways and stale air.
They didn’t even know I was home. They walked in mid-conversation, surprised to see me sprawled across the theater room couch like I must have broken in. The look on their faces—that blend of discomfort and disappointment—had never left me.
