Chapter 3

Aislinn's POV

I stared at the glowing screen for a full minute, chest heaving, until the tears finally broke loose.

Every swallowed insult, every humiliation, every whispered lie that I didn't deserve to be loved—they all came crashing down at once.

My phone chimed. The same number had sent another message:

"Can we meet at ten tomorrow morning? We need to talk."

I wiped my cheeks with the back of my hand and replied at once: "Yes. You pick the place."

He sent me the address of a quiet private café in Beverly Hills.

The next second, another notification popped up—this one from Chaim.

"Motocross practice at nine tomorrow, in Corona. Bring my spare knee guards from your garage, and grab three iced lattes for me and Felicity on the way."

For five years, every one of my mornings had been scheduled around Chaim.

I was used to dragging myself up at five a.m. to scrub mud out of his riding gear and pack his energy drinks, then driving an hour across half of Southern California just to sit on a plastic chair in the dirt and wait for him.

I looked at his text and felt nothing but a bone-deep indifference.

I typed back, cold and final: "I'm not coming."

Less than ten seconds later, my phone rang.

I pressed answer and held it to my ear.

"Aislinn, what the hell is wrong with you tonight?" Chaim's voice was cold with disbelief. "Are you seriously throwing a tantrum over some stupid book?"

"I have qualifying tomorrow. My gear's at your place. Stop being dramatic and bring it over." He rattled off the order like it was his due.

"Your gear is packed in boxes in my front hall," I said evenly. "I'll drop it at the track on my way out. You're getting nothing else."

I hung up before he could argue.

Early the next morning, I pulled on a simple cream knit sweater and dark jeans, leaving every one of those heavy leather jackets behind.

I loaded Chaim's plastic bins of riding gear into my trunk and drove to the Corona track by eight.

When I pulled into the paddock, Chaim was already standing by his bike, adjusting the handlebars.

Felicity leaned against his pickup in tight shorts, sipping coffee and giggling at his phone.

Five years ago, on this very ground, I had climbed a twenty-foot dirt embankment despite a severe fear of heights, just to film his practice runs.

When I slipped, the gravel shredded my palms—and Chaim just rolled his eyes and sneered that I was too clumsy for outdoor sports.

The only thing that kept me going that day was a short video an old rider-coach sent me, telling me I was brave for even trying.

I'd kept that video like a lifeline for years—because before it, no one had ever told me I'd done anything well.

I hauled the heavy gear bag out of my trunk and dropped it in the dirt beside Chaim's back wheel.

Felicity glanced at my beige sweater, her mouth curling into a smirk.

"Look at that—someone's dressed like a frumpy librarian today," she said over her coffee. "Did you come to watch Chaim clear the triple jump, or to keep sulking?"

"I have an appointment at ten," I said, hands in my pockets. "Chaim, your gear's all here."

Chaim frowned, his eyes traveling over my outfit before landing on the thick white bandage wrapped around my right shin.

"What happened to your leg?" he asked, stepping closer.

"Nothing," I said coldly. "And before you say it—no, I'm not fishing for your sympathy."

Chaim's jaw tightened. He bent down, reaching for my bandage.

"Let me see," he said, lowering his voice.

But before his fingertips could reach my shin, Felicity suddenly cried out behind us.

"Ow! Chaim, the tailgate latch just caught my hand!" Felicity gasped.

Chaim's hand shot back from my leg, and he whirled toward her.

"Let me see it," he said, his voice full of urgency and concern.

He took her hand and inspected the faint, trivial red mark, then twisted open a bottle of ice water and poured it carefully over her fingers to cool them.

Watching him fuss over her like she was made of glass, I felt something I had never felt before: relief. I would never have to beg for that bare minimum of care and respect again.

If Brantley were here, he'd have noticed I was hurt before I even got out of the car.

Chaim turned back to me, trying to summon his usual imperious tone.

"Aislinn, we need to talk about that novel you posted online," he said firmly. "People in the racing scene are already sending me screenshots."

"It makes me look like I'm toying with some shameless, clinging woman." He wrinkled his nose in distaste. "Delete the post today."

"I'm not deleting it," I said calmly. "And rest assured, Chaim—the man in that story has nothing to do with you."

Felicity rolled her eyes and crossed her arms.

"Oh, please," she scoffed. "You bought him those black tungsten studs just three months ago. You even said they matched his necklace."

Chaim touched the black stud in his left ear.

He gave a cold laugh, plucked the stud out, and tossed it into the open metal trash barrel beside the pickup.

"Aislinn, I don't need your cheap little tokens," Chaim said icily. "If you want to have a meltdown, pick up your own trash."

The stud clinked against the rusted bottom of the barrel.

My chest tightened—not because I cared about Chaim, but because I had spent three whole weeks hunting down that replica of Brantley's old jewelry.

I stepped forward, bent over the rusted rim, and reached into the filthy barrel to snatch the black stud out.

The barrel's rough metal edge scraped hard against my injured shin, sending a blaze of pain up my leg, but I kept my fist closed around that small black stud.

Chaim's face flushed red with sudden, blazing anger.

He grabbed my shoulder and hauled me back from the barrel.

"What the hell are you doing?!" Chaim barked, darting panicked glances around, terrified of being seen.

"Digging through a trash barrel like some vagrant? Have you completely lost your mind?!"

I shook off his hand and walked straight to the public restroom behind the stands.

I twisted the brass faucet and rinsed the grime off the black stud under the cold water.

Through the thin wooden partition, I heard Chaim on the phone outside.

"Mom, I told you, it's just Aislinn throwing a fit," Chaim fumed. "She's been circling me like a stray dog. I paid Felicity a little attention one time and she had to make a scene about it."

"If she wants to leave, let her. I couldn't care less."

I shut off the water, dried the stud with a paper towel, and slipped it into my pocket.

The phone in my hand buzzed.

It was a text from Brantley: "I'm ten minutes from the café. No rush—I'm already at the table by the door."

I walked out of the restroom with my head held high.

Chaim was waiting outside, blocking my path to the parking lot.