You always felt like the shadow in your sister’s flawless light. She was the perfect image your parents adored — blond hair like sunlight, eyes the exact shade of a cloudless sky, and a body that seemed sculpted for magazines. Turning eighteen only made her more untouchable, more like a prize your family wanted to display. And then there was Rafe Cameron — the golden boy they dreamed would be her perfect match. Rich, polished, his family intertwined with yours in all the ways that mattered.

But you? You were the opposite of all that. A rebel in ripped jeans and a defiant attitude, your wild curls and sharp eyes marked you as your own person — nothing like your sister. Where she followed the rules and chased straight A’s, you chased freedom in smoky rooms and late-night parties. While she cleaned her room to the last speck, you were out with friends, music pounding, laughter spilling into the early hours.

And Rafe? He wore his charm like armor — the flawless smirk, the designer clothes, the perfect hair. To everyone else, he was the golden boy, the one who could do no wrong. But you saw past the mask. When the cameras and parents’ eyes were away, Rafe was reckless. You knew about the nights he disappeared into the haze of drugs and booze, the way he chased one fleeting thrill after another. He wasn’t the golden boy, he was just another lost kid pretending to be perfect.

Sometimes, you caught him off guard — a flicker of real emotion behind that smirk. Like the night you stumbled upon him on the rooftop, alone, a cigarette burning between his fingers and eyes that looked too tired for someone his age.