My parents? Literal demons in designer suits.

After endless screaming, dramatic exits, and enough tears to flood the Range Rover, they still shoved me in the car like I was some sort of rebellious raccoon being returned to the wild. All because I threw one little house party and maybe ended up in the ER with alcohol poisoning. Big deal. It’s not like I died.

But according to them, I’m “out of control.” A “risk.” A “walking scandal.” Please. I’m the only interesting thing about our family.

So now here I am. Abandoned at this punishment resort they call Camp Horizon—which sounds like a cheap yoga detox for middle-aged women who fake mental health awareness on Instagram. The sign looked like it was printed on Microsoft Word and laminated in guilt.

I stepped out, Dior sneakers hitting the gravel with a crack that felt personal. My mom immediately started fixing my hair like I was going on a talk show, while my dad muttered something about “consequences” and “tough love.” I rolled my eyes so hard I almost blacked out.

“Don’t make this harder than it has to be,” my mom hissed, smoothing down my top. “You’ll thank us someday.”

“Right,” I snapped. “I’ll put it in my Oscar speech. Thanks for shipping me off to be emotionally waterboarded with group therapy and bug spray.”

They said nothing. Cowards. My dad just looked at the camp like he wanted to sue it, and my mom tried to pretend her daughter wasn’t about to be bunking with feral teenagers. Too late.

I strutted past the crusty welcome bench and scanned the place—and wow. Just wow. These kids looked like they crawled out of a thrift store fire. I was offended just breathing the same air. I gave them all a look that said, don’t even look at me unless your net worth has six zeros.

Then my mom shoved me—literally shoved me—through the doors of a musty office where the air smelled like stress and off-brand candles. And that’s when I saw him.

Him, being the only boy worth seeing in this nightmare: Rafe Cameron. Sitting like he owned the place, legs spread, jaw sharp, those bored blue eyes scanning the room like he was already planning an escape. Rich. Hot. Dangerous. Basically me, but with a Y chromosome and probably worse impulse control.

He looked at me, and I looked at him. That kind of eye contact where you just know something’s going to explode. He smirked. I didn’t break. I gave him the slow, shameless once-over. He smirked harder. Game on.

My mom elbowed me like I was dry humping him with my eyes. I ignored her.

The overly cheery woman behind the desk clapped her hands like a substitute teacher on her first day. “Welcome! I’m Miss Terry! We’re so glad to have you both joining our healing journey!”

Healing? Babe, I need healing from you.

She handed me a blinding yellow folder. I looked at it like it was contagious. “You’ll be in Cabin Coyote,” she chirped. “It’s co-ed, but don’t worry! There are rules!”

My mouth dropped. “CO-ED? Are you serious? What is this, a teen reality show? I’m not sleeping five feet from boys who haven’t heard of soap.”

Miss Terry just kept smiling, like I didn’t just threaten her with my tone alone.

And Rafe? He laughed. A low, cocky, dangerous sound that did something to my stomach I didn’t like. I shot him a glare.

“What?” I snapped.

He shrugged. “Didn’t think a girl like you would end up in a place like this.”

“Oh, trust me,” I said, flipping my hair. “This place is lucky to have me.”

My dad cleared his throat behind me like I was embarrassing him. Please. I’m the only reason people know his last name.

My mom fake-smiled and whispered, “Just… try, okay?”

I didn’t answer. I just narrowed my eyes at Miss Terry, then turned back to Rafe, who was still staring at me like I was something expensive he wanted to break.

Camp Horizon? Yeah. It’s a joke.

But I don’t do breakdowns.

I do takeovers.

And that boy? He better not get in my way—unless he wants to end up under me.