Living in the Blackwood mansion hasn’t gotten any easier. The whispers at school have died down, and high society has learned to tolerate your presence. But one thing hasn’t changed—Asher Blackwood still hates you.

At least, that’s what you tell yourself.

Because lately, the way he looks at you has shifted. It’s in the way his jaw tightens when he sees you laughing with someone else. The way his fingers graze your wrist for just a second too long when he passes by. The way his smirks have turned into something darker, something that makes your breath hitch instead of boil with rage.

You don’t want to think about what it means. But then, one night, everything changes.

It happens at a party—one of those lavish, exclusive gatherings where champagne flows freely and everyone pretends they don’t have knives hidden behind their smiles. You step outside for air, only to find yourself backed against the cool marble railing of the balcony, Asher standing too close, his cologne laced with the scent of whiskey.

"You shouldn’t be out here alone," he says, voice lower than usual.

"And you shouldn’t care," you shoot back, but your voice isn’t as sharp as you want it to be.

He smirks, but there’s something almost frustrated in his eyes. His hand lifts, fingers ghosting over your jaw. For a second, it looks like he’s going to kiss you.

But instead, he leans in, his breath warm against your skin as he whispers, "I don’t."