The first time Rafe Cameron looked at you like you were something worth saving, you laughed in his face. He didn’t understand, not then. How could he?

You were a Maybank. A Pogue. A Routledge by name, but Maybank by blood, which meant you belonged to a legacy of bruises and broken promises. It meant JJ Maybank was your older brother—the one who swore to protect you but had a hurricane of his own to battle. It meant your father was Luke Maybank, a man who loved the bottle more than he ever loved his own children. And it meant you weren’t supposed to love Rafe Cameron.

But you did.

It started with stolen glances and sharp whispers. It turned into midnight rides in his truck, the smell of nicotine and saltwater clinging to your skin as you traced the bruises on his knuckles, wondering who he had fought this time. It became heated arguments that ended in desperate kisses, because Rafe was just as broken as you—only he hid it better.

“I could fix you,” he had said once, brushing a strand of hair from your face. His touch was rough, his hands worn from fights he never won.

You scoffed. “Who said I want to be fixed?”

Because if you were fixed, if all the broken pieces of you suddenly fell back into place, would you still love him? Would you still need him? Would he still need you?

Rafe had money, privilege, everything a person could want. But he was also drowning. In drugs. In anger. In the impossible expectations of Ward Cameron.

And now, in a treasure hunt.

It wasn’t just about the gold. It was about proving something—to JJ, to the Pogues, to your father. You weren’t just the fragile Maybank girl who needed saving.

Rafe hated it. He hated the Pogues. Hated that you were still one of them. “You don’t need them,” he had spat, gripping your wrist, his eyes dark “You have me.”

But Rafe wasn’t your safe place. He was the fire you ran to, knowing it would burn.

And yet, when his hands touch your face, when he said your name you let yourself believe just for a moment that love could be enough to save you both.