Prologue
Damien - 15 Years Old
I’mpissedbeforeIeven step out of the car. Not the good, hot kind of pissed you get on the court when the ref’s blind or your shot rims out. This is the slow-burn kind, the one that’s been simmering since Dad dropped the news three days ago.
I was supposed to be at camp with the team, grinding through two-a-days, fighting for my spot, earning every bead of sweat, every curse under my breath. Instead, I’m in a scratchy shirt and sitting next to my mother as she chatters about “new beginnings” and “blending families” like it’s a fucking episode of some Hallmark movie.
She glances at me now with that look that means “be good or else.” I don’t roll my eyes, but I want to. I learned young that there’s a line between being angry and being disrespectful, and she’s got no patience left for either after this week.
The house is big enough to have a winding driveway and actual gardeners—like, plural, not just one guy with a hose. There’s glass everywhere, sunlight bouncing off the windows, blindingme for a second when I open the door. Mom says something about keeping my shirt tucked in. I don’t answer, but I slam the door a little too hard, and follow her up the path.
Her voice is a needle through the back of my skull, high-pitched and persistent as she herds me through the doors of this too-bright, too-white mansion. I drag my duffel bag along the marble, trying to look unimpressed. I know what happens if I mouth off in front of her fiancé, so I keep my lips zipped, but inside, I’m still pissed as hell about being pulled out of basketball camp for this circus.
Dad tried to argue my case with her, but she never listens to him—not about anything that matters. So now I’m here, sweaty from a six-hour car ride, all my summer plans scrapped because she’s about to marry some rich swimmer who apparently can’t keep his own family together.
I don’t care about the house, or the stupid wedding, or the endless parade of strangers in crisp white shirts and bland smiles. All I care about is that my dad is back in New York and I’m here, being forced to play nice.
“Smile, Damien,” my mother hisses, pinching my elbow. “Try not to look like you want to set the place on fire.”
I shoot her a look, then drop my bag next to a table stacked with gifts and cards—people trying to buy her affection. I don’t get a chance to protest before she’s already halfway across the foyer, air-kissing her fiancé’s parents, raving about the flowers, the weather, the fucking ambiance.
I’d rather be anywhere else.
Her fiancé greets me with a stiff handshake and a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. I can tell right away that he’s one ofthosedads. The kind who makes every word feel like a lecture, even when he’s talking about the weather. He introduces himself as Lionel, says something about how happy he is that we’re all here together. I tune most of it out, staring at my sneakers.
Then he calls for his son. “Noah, come in here, please.”
I glance up, expecting someone… I don’t know. Taller. Maybe older. But the kid who walks in is about my age, maybe younger by a year, shorter, wearing a sweater that hangs off his skinny frame and jeans with a threadbare cuff. And his eyes—
Woah.
One is the brightest blue I’ve ever seen, the other is almost brown but with a fleck of green near the edge. Heterochromia, I remember from science class, but nothing in a textbook prepares you for seeing it in real life. He’s got a camera around his neck, and his chin is down, posture tight, as if he’s bracing for something bad to happen.
“Blue,” I blurt it out without thinking—just the first word that pops into my brain, echoing around the hollow space in my chest.
The adults look confused, but the kid—Noah—just stares at me, eyes wide, cheeks already turning pink.
Shit.Real smooth, Moore.I try to play it off, shrugging, but I can feel the heat on my own face. “Sorry, I—your eyes are just… different.”
The boy blinks, and for a second I think maybe he’s going to say something smart back—maybe roll his eyes or laugh at how obvious I am. But he doesn’t. Instead, he stares at the floor, tugs at the sleeves of his sweater, and darts past me out the open patio doors without a word.
Fuck.
I watch his back disappear into the garden, the sunlight glinting off his hair. My mother’s still talking, already pretending I don’t exist. No one will miss me for a few minutes. So, I follow—out through the open doors, down the steps, and into the backyard that looks more like a magazine spread than anything I’ve ever called home.
The backyard is even bigger than the house, all green grass and perfect flowerbeds, but I spot Noah right away. He’s standing by the fence, half-hidden behind a tree, camera strap twisted around his wrist, head bowed. I approach slowly, not wanting to spook him, feeling my own nerves buzzing under my skin.
“Hey,” I say when I get close enough. He doesn’t look up. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to stare.”
He shrugs, shoulders small and tight. “It’s fine. People always stare.”
I stand there for a second, feeling out of place. I don’t know how to talk to someone who looks so… breakable. “I just—your eyes are cool. I didn’t mean to make it weird. My name’s Damien,” I offer, because I figure it’s the only thing I can give him that doesn’t sound stupid. “I guess I’m your… stepbrother. Tomorrow, anyway.”
He looks up at me again, really looks, and for a second, I feel like I’m standing in water up to my neck. He doesn’t smile, but he doesn’t flinch, either.
“Noah,” he says, voice so soft I almost miss it. For the first time since I got here, I don’t want to run. I just want to know what’s going on behind those mismatched eyes.
I shift my weight, glancing at the grass, then at the camera in his hands. “You like photography?”
