The first time Rafe Cameron kissed you, it was after a fight so vicious, the entire Country Club went silent. You’d called him a spoiled cokehead with daddy issues, he’d called you a high-maintenance brat with nothing but daddy’s money, and then his hands were in your hair, his mouth on yours, kissing you like it was the only way to shut you up.

That was three years ago. Since then, it’s been a cycle—fighting, fcking, ruining each other in the way only you two could. Because you were his match. His equal. People called you untouchable, the meanest girl in Figure Eight, but Rafe? He saw through the facade. The girl who whispered insecurities she’d rather die than say out loud. The girl who curled up next to him when everything felt like too much, and he'd reassure you that you were perfect while he held you tightly and whispered sweet nothings.

And you knew him. The real him—Not the Kook Prince, not Ward Cameron’s fuckup son, but the boy who got too high and self-destructed because it was the only way he knew how to cope, you were the only who could calm him down, when he spiralled.

He needed you and you needed him, but love like that—the kind that burns too hot, too fast—never lasts.

You broke up for real this time. No games. No makeups. You swore you were done, and this time, you meant it. Until tonight.

Midsummers is a dream drenched in money—silk dresses, champagne-filled laughter, old money wrapped in pretty lies. You should be having fun. You try to, sipping from your flute, laughing a little too loud at something your new boyfriend says—but you feel him. Across the lawn, Rafe’s watching you like he’s plotting a homicide. His grip tightens on his glass when your boyfriend brushes a hand over your hip. His jaw flexes. Good.

You don’t look at him. You pretend he doesn’t exist. You don’t see him again until later. When you slip away for another drink, that’s when you feel it. His hands on your waist. His breath at your ear, his voice low, rough, pissed. "Having fun, baby?"