Katherine woke up to sunlight burning through the blue curtains and the sound of her phone vibrating against the nightstand.
She groaned, reached for it blindly, squinted at the screen.
7:23 AM.
Marcus. Calling.
She declined it. Sent a text instead.
Katherine: just woke up. call you later?
His response came fast.
Marcus: you said that yesterday
Marcus: and the day before
Marcus: starting to feel like you're avoiding me
She stared at the messages. Her thumb hovered over the keyboard.
Katherine: I'm not avoiding you. just adjusting. it's a lot here.
Marcus: ok
Marcus: miss you tho
Katherine: miss you too
She dropped the phone on the bed and lay there, staring at the ceiling. Day three in the Ashford house. Two more weeks until classes started.
The bathroom attached to the blue room was ridiculous. Marble everything. A shower with six different heads. A tub big enough to swim in. Products lined up on the counter that she didn't recognize—expensive brands, French labels.
She showered fast, dried her hair enough that it wouldn't drip, and threw on shorts and a sports bra. If she was going to survive two weeks in this house, she needed to move. Burn off the energy crawling under her skin.
Maria had mentioned a gym. Somewhere on the ground floor, east side.
Katherine grabbed her phone, tucked her earbuds in, and went to find it.
The house was quiet this early. She passed a few staff members—a woman dusting, a man carrying fresh flowers—but no family. Good.
She found the gym on her third try, after accidentally walking into a library and what looked like a home theater.
The gym was professional grade. Better than her high school's, better than any public gym she'd ever seen. Weights, machines, treadmills, a full rack of equipment she didn't even know how to use.
And a basketball court visible through a glass wall at the back.
Her chest loosened for the first time since she'd arrived.
She pushed through the door and stepped onto the court. It was indoor, polished hardwood, lines freshly painted. Two hoops. A rack of balls in the corner.
She grabbed one. Bounced it twice. The sound echoed in the empty space.
For the next forty minutes, she forgot where she was.
Drills first. Dribbling patterns she'd run a thousand times. Then shooting—free throws, three-pointers, mid-range. Her muscles remembered even when her brain was somewhere else.
This was hers. The one thing nobody could take.
She was mid-layup when she heard the door open.
Her shot went wide.
She turned, already annoyed, and found Elijah leaning against the doorframe.
Gym shorts. No shirt.
Her eyes moved before her brain caught up—across his chest, the cut of his abs, the V that disappeared into his waistband. She looked away fast but not fast enough.
He noticed. Of course he noticed.
"See something you like?"
"I see someone interrupting my workout."
He pushed off the doorframe and walked toward her Slowly.Taking his time. Like the court belonged to him and she was just borrowing it.
"Mom mentioned you play." He stopped a few feet away, looked her up and down the same way she'd looked at him. Didn't bother hiding it. "Didn't mention you were serious about it."
"I was captain of my team."
"High school team."
"State championships. Twice."
Something sparked like Interest in his eyes.
"So you're not just cute. You've got game."
"I'm not cute."
"You're right." He stepped closer. Too close. She could smell him now—sweat and something else, something warm. "Cute's the wrong word."
She didn't step back. Refused to give him the ground.
"What's the right word?"
He smiled slowly.
"Haven't decided yet."
He held her gaze for a beat too long. Two beats. Three.
Then he snatched the ball from her hands and was at the three-point line before she could blink.
Swish.
"Play me." He caught the ball as it came through the net. "First to eleven."
"I didn't agree to that."
"Scared?"
"Of you?"
"Of losing."
She walked toward him. Took the ball from his hands. Their fingers brushed and she felt it—a spark, something that made her jaw tighten.
"Check."
She bounced it to him hard. He caught it against his chest, still smiling.
"That's what I like to hear."
She bounced it to him hard. He caught it against his chest, still smiling.
"That's what I like to hear."
He was good.
She'd expected that. Athlete's build, private court, rich family with nothing but time and money. Of course he could play.
But he was more than good. He was fast, physical, aggressive in a way that felt intentional. Every time she drove, he was there. Body against body. His chest on her back. His hand on her hip to cut off her angle.
More contact than necessary.
Way more.
She scored first,a crossover that left him reaching, a floater in the lane. She turned to get back on defense and caught him watching her. Not the ball. Her. The way she moved. The way her sports bra fit.
"Eyes up," she said.
"They are up." His gaze lifted to her face. Slowly. "Now."
She checked him the ball harder than necessary.
The next few possessions were war.
He scored on her—a turnaround jumper with his body pressed against hers, his breath on her neck when he released it. She scored back—a step-back three that she shouldn't have taken but went in anyway.
4-3. Her lead.
He checked the ball and came at her different this time. He backed her down into the post, his back against her front, and she had to fight for every inch.
"You're strong," he said. Conversational. Like they weren't battling for position. "For your size."
"You're annoying. For any size."
He laughed. Actually laughed. And in that moment of distraction, she reached around and poked the ball free.
Fast break. Easy layup.
5-3.
"Shit." He was grinning when she turned around. "Okay. Okay. I see you."
"Do you? Because it looks like you're losing."
" Game's not over yet, little sister."
"Stop calling me that."
"Why?" He walked toward her. That slow walk again. Predatory. "Does it bother you?"
"It's weird."
"Is it?" He was close now. Too close. The ball between them, her hands on it, his hands covering hers. "Or does it bother you because it reminds you what we're supposed to be? And that's not what you're thinking about right now?"
Her heart was pounding. Not from the game.
"I'm not thinking about anything."
"Liar."
The gym door opened.
Damien walked in.
The energy shifted instantly.
Elijah stepped back.
Space created between them like it had never been closed.
Damien stood in the doorway. Dressed in workout clothes now—black shorts, black shirt, like even his gym wear was color-coordinated to match his personality. His eyes moved from Elijah to Katherine to the ball between them.
"What's this?"
"Pickup game." Elijah's voice was light. Easy. "She's good."
"She's the help's daughter."
Katherine's spine went straight. "Excuse me?"
Damien's gaze landed on her. Cold. Dismissive. "Your mother is marrying my father for his money. That makes her help. That makes you an extension of the help."
"Damien." Elijah's voice had an edge now. "Chill."
"I'm perfectly calm." Damien walked onto the court. Past Katherine. Past Elijah. Grabbed a ball from the rack and started shooting. Like they weren't there. Like she wasn't worth the energy of an argument.
Katherine watched him sink three shots in a row. Perfect form and Perfect arc , this people were good .
"I'm not help."
He didn't look at her. Just kept shooting.
"My mother's choices aren't mine. I didn't ask to be here. I didn't ask for any of this."
Another shot. Swish.
"And I don't care what you think of me."
He caught his own rebound. Turned. Looked at her for the first time since walking in.
"Then why are you still talking?"
She wanted to hit him. Actually physically hit him. Her hands were shaking with it.
Elijah stepped between them. Subtle. Not obvious. But there.
"Play us."
Damien raised an eyebrow.
"Two on one. Me and her against you." Elijah's smile was back, but different now.
"Unless you're scared."
"Of what? Losing to you and the stray?"
Katherine moved before she could think.
She was past Elijah, in Damien's space, looking up at him with every ounce of anger she'd been swallowing for three days.
"Call me that again."
He Just looked down at her with those cold eyes.
"Or what?"
"Or I'll make you regret it."
Something shifted in his expression. Surprise? Interest? Gone before she could name it.
"Is that a threat?"
"It's a promise."
They stood there. Inches apart. She could feel the heat coming off him, could see the pulse in his neck, could smell whatever expensive cologne he wore.
The silence stretched.
Elijah's voice broke it. "Well. This is fun."
Damien's jaw tightened. He stepped back first—barely, but enough.
"Fine. Two on one. First to fifteen."
He threw the ball at her chest. She caught it.
"Check."
Playing with Elijah against Damien was different.
Elijah moved around her like he knew where she'd be before she did,Cutting when she drove,Finding her in the open. They hadn't played together before but something clicked,chemistry, instinct, whatever you wanted to call it.
Damien played like he was trying to prove something.
Every time she touched the ball, he was there. His body against hers. His hand contesting every shot. He didn't trash talk like Elijah. Didn't speak at all. Just played with a focus that felt personal.
She scored on him. A spin move in the post. He fouled her hard, his arm across her waist as she went up.
And one."
He didn't apologize. Didn't acknowledge it. Just got back on defense.
Elijah shot her a look. You good?
She nodded.
The game continued.
It was brutal. Both sides fighting for every point. By the time the score was 12-11—their lead—Katherine's lungs were burning and her body was screaming.
Damien had the ball. Elijah was guarding him.
Katherine watched from the weak side, waiting.
Damien drove. Elijah cut him off. Damien spun—and found Katherine waiting.
She took the charge. Planted her feet. Let him barrel into her.
They went down together.
His body on top of hers. Heavy. His hands braced on either side of her head. Their faces inches apart.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
His eyes were different up close—not just dark, but deep. Layered. Something flickered in them as he looked at her.
Something that wasn't cold at all.
"Offensive foul," she said. Her voice came out quieter than she intended.
He didn't respond. Didn't move. Just looked at her like he was seeing her for the first time.
"Damien."
Elijah's voice. Far away.
Damien blinked. The coldness slammed back into place like a door closing.
He pushed himself up. Walked to the sideline. Grabbed a towel.
"We're done."
"Score's not to fifteen yet," Elijah said.
"I said we're done."
He walked out. Didn't look back.