Being a kook wasn’t the dream it looked like from the outside.

On Figure Eight, the rich lived in houses so big they could swallow you whole, and reputations stretched further than money. Your family was one of them — old, untouchable wealth. The kind of family that made people smile too wide at parties, whispering about your father’s business deals and your mother’s immaculate taste.

But behind those glittering doors, life was different. Behind them, you were always second best.

Because you had a sister.

She was delicate, fragile, the “angel” of the family. She’d been sick since you were both kids, and in everyone’s eyes, that made her untouchable — precious in a way you could never be. Every conversation seemed to circle back to her, and no matter what you did, it was never enough.

“Why can’t you be more selfless, like your sister?” “You spend too much money, it’s always about you.” “She’s suffering, and you can’t even manage to make us proud.”

The words cut every time, sharp as glass. They called you selfish for buying things you wanted. Worthless when you tried to stand up for yourself. Ungrateful when you admitted how heavy it all felt. And the worst part? They said it with the same sweet, smiling faces they showed the Camerons and the rest of Figure Eight, like cruelty could be disguised as care.

So you learned to carry it quietly. To paste on a perfect smile in public and bite your tongue at home. To live in your sister’s shadow, always too much and never enough.

⸻

That was where Rafe came in.

The Camerons had been close with your family forever. Cookouts, summer trips, endless parties where you were forced to smile for photographs beside Sarah and Rafe like you were all part of one perfect island dynasty. To most people, Rafe was trouble — reckless, angry, always in the middle of something dangerous. But you knew better.

You’d grown up with him, seen him at his most vulnerable when Ward cut him down in front of everyone, when he clenched his fists so tight you thought his skin might split. He understood what it meant to be constantly compared, constantly told you weren’t enough. His father did it. Your parents did it. And somehow, that made you and Rafe the same.

It started small — late-night conversations on the dock, both of you slipping away from your suffocating families to share cigarettes and whispered confessions. He’d make you laugh when you wanted to cry, mocking the way your mother scolded you for your clothes or the way Ward scolded him for “not being John B.”

“You’re not selfish,” he told you once, voice low, serious. “You’re the least selfish person I know. They just don’t get it.”

It was the first time anyone had said that to you. And you almost cried right there, because you wanted to believe him so badly.

⸻

The night everything shifted was after another brutal dinner.

Your parents had laid into you again — comparing your grades to your sister’s, your attitude, your clothes. They’d told you you were careless, that you’d “drain the family dry” if you kept it up. That you should be more like her — quiet, graceful, suffering in silence.

You left the house before the tears could fall, stumbling down the familiar path to the Camerons’ dock. And of course, Rafe was there, leaning against the railing, cigarette glowing faintly in the dark.

“You look like hell,” he said, but his voice was softer than the words.

“Thanks,” you muttered, brushing at your cheeks. “Exactly what I needed to hear.”

He studied you for a moment, then flicked the cigarette into the water and stepped closer. “What happened?”

The words spilled out before you could stop them. The comparisons. The accusations. The way you were drowning in a family that only saw you as selfish, worthless, not enough. By the time you finished, your chest hurt, your throat raw.

Rafe’s jaw was tight, his hands curled into fists at his sides. “They’re assholes,” he said firmly. “Every single one of them.”

“They’re my family,” you whispered.

“Yeah, well, family’s supposed to love you, not tear you apart.”