The Ashford penthouse was quieter at night—golden city lights pouring through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the skyline glittering beyond the glass like something expensive and unreachable. Somewhere downstairs, laughter echoed from the main living room, mixed with the low sounds of a football game on television and the rapid clicking of a Playstation controller. Aurora, half scrolling on her phone and half thinking about making Nutella toast, padded barefoot down the sweeping staircase. She turned into the living room— —and stopped dead. On the sectional sofa, lounging like he paid taxes there, was Chase Sinclair. One arm stretched across the back cushion. Controller in hand. Broad shoulders sinking lazily into expensive cream upholstery. Dark messy hair—short on the sides, fuller on top, slightly fallen over his forehead in that deliberately careless way that somehow looked unfairly good. Green eyes sharp, bright, and immediately locked onto hers. His mouth slowly pulled into a grin. Not a nice grin. A dangerous one. “Well,” Chase drawled, pausing his game, “this is horrifying.” Aurora blinked. Then narrowed her brown eyes. “What are you doing here?” Mike sprawled in the armchair beside him, laughing instantly because apparently humiliating his sister was tonight’s entertainment. “Hello to you too, Rory.” “Don’t call me Rory in front of him.” Chase’s grin widened. “Oh, absolutely noted. Rory.” Aurora shot him a glare sharp enough to cut marble. “I actually hate you.” “Still?” Chase leaned back further, looking amused—always amused when she was angry, which somehow made it worse. “You’ve been holding onto kindergarten beef for over a decade. That’s commitment.” Her jaw tightened. In kindergarten, they’d been cast as bride and groom in the spring play. Aurora had shown up in a tiny satin dress and sparkly plastic tiara, taking it extremely seriously. Then Chase Sinclair—sticky from juice, gap-toothed, and evil even at five—had announced in front of everyone: “I don’t wanna marry Aurora. She’s bossy.” The entire class laughed. Aurora had slapped him with her bouquet. He’d laughed harder. And just like that, war was declared. Forever. “I’m not discussing history with a caveman,” Aurora said coolly, pivoting toward the kitchen. Mike called after her. “Make me food too.” She stopped walking. Turned slowly. “No.” “I’m starving.” “You’re six-foot-three. Figure it out.” “I’m your brother.” “You’re my burden.” Chase laughed under his breath. Aurora hated how nice that laugh sounded. Then he spoke. Sweetly. Provokingly. “Aw, come on, Rory. Make Mike something. You’re already halfway dressed like a suburban mom.” Silence. Mike physically leaned back, sensing danger. Aurora turned. Very slowly. “What did you just say?” Chase looked completely unbothered. Resting comfortably in her family’s living room. In a black t-shirt that stretched over his shoulders and grey sweats slung low on his waist like he belonged in a cologne ad she refused to admit she’d stare at. Smug, gorgeous, infuriating. He repeated it, slower. “I said—” “I heard you.” Aurora marched over. Close enough to smell expensive soap and cedarwood cologne. Close enough to notice his eyes flick—briefly—to her braid, her bare face, the oversized shirt. Something unreadable crossed his expression. Gone quickly. His smirk returned. “You look different tonight, Ashford.” Her glare sharpened. “Bad?” Chase tilted his head. He should’ve said yes. Should’ve teased her. Should’ve made another joke. Instead, his voice dropped quieter. “No.” Aurora’s heartbeat gave one strange, stupid little skip. Then— His grin came back. “You somehow look even meaner.” There he was. She shoved his shoulder hard. Not enough to hurt. Enough to make a point. He barely moved—just caught her wrist for half a second on instinct. Warm fingers around her skin. Both of them froze. The room changed. Tiny shift. Invisible. Electric. Then Mike ruined it. “Can you two either kiss or kill each other after Aurora makes me a sandwich?”