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Pulling into the driveway of our sprawling family home, I swallowed hard. My father awaited me on the front porch, tall and broad like a statue carved from ice. His blond hair gleamed in the late afternoon sun, and those piercing blue eyes pinned me in place as I approached. An older version of me—the face of perfection, an image I could never live up to.

“What were you thinking?” His voice boomed, slicing through the summer air like a slap. “You embarrassed yourself out there today.”

I clenched my fists at my sides, holding back a retort. He inserted himself into everything that might reflect poorly on him.

“You had one job,” he continued, stepping down from the porch to tower over me. “A charity game—this was supposed to be about community and goodwill.”

“Logan Hartley needed a reality check,” I shot back, defiance bubbling just below the surface.

His brow furrowed deeply as he glared at me, disappointment radiating off him in waves. “This isn’t just about you or your vendetta against him! This is about the Sinclaire name.” He paced in front of me like a predator assessing its prey. “Every time you act out like this, you tarnish what we’ve built.”

“What we built?” I scoffed, the bitterness spilling out before I could contain it. “You mean whatyoubuilt. You don’t care about anything but appearances.”

His eyes narrowed dangerously as he closed the gap between us. “Don’t get smart with me, Damien,” he warned softly yet firmly.

I felt his anger press against my chest; it suffocated me more than any lecture ever could.

“I don’t care if Logan is your rival or not,” he said through gritted teeth. “What matters is that you learn how to control yourself and show some respect.”

I bit back another retort; each word landed like a blow against my resolve.

“Do better next time.”

My pulse quickened with frustration; nothing ever changed between us.

I felt the weight of my father’s gaze like a noose tightening around my throat. The anger simmering in my chest flared again, but I forced it down. I didn’t need to give him more fuel for his condescending fire.

“Oh,” he said, his tone sharp and accusatory. “I heard about Holly Walker being part of the committee.”

I braced myself.

“You are not to involve yourself with her.” His voice sliced through the air, colder than any winter night on the ice. “You’ve already ruined her. Her father wants nothing to do with you, but because I’m involved, you have to be.”

My heart raced, a wild beat against the constraints of his words. It wasn’t my fault she was assigned to someone else; I’d heard the gossip echoing in every corner of this campus, just like I always did.

“It’s not my fault if she’s assigned to me?—”

“She won’t be,” he interrupted flatly. “You already know this. I’m sure you heard.”

I had heard all right. I kept my ear close to the ground for anything concerning Holly. She’d never truly left my world; that wasn’t an option for either of us. That was why I sent her that text earlier—to remind her I was still watching, still aware of everything she did.

“Who is she partnered with?” The question slipped out before I could swallow it down, and frustration prickled at the edges of my composure.

“I don’t know, and frankly, I don’t care,” he replied with a dismissive wave of his hand. “And neither should you.” He stepped back from me, crossing his arms like a judge passing sentence. “Now, get inside and take an ice bath.”

A thousand retorts danced on my tongue, but none found their way past clenched teeth as I turned away from him. Ice bath? What did he think that would accomplish? This was more than just physical exertion; this was about control—his control over me—and I refused to give in.

As I strode into the house, each step pounded out an undeniable truth: whatever plans they had for Holly wouldn’t last long. She was back in Crestwood now, and so was I. Nothing would keep us apart this time.

I stormed into the basement, where my father had a specially crafted bathroom just for this. I needed to cool off, so I filled the tub with ice-cold water and added a few bags of ice for good measure. The chill seeped into my skin as I sank in, but it was nothing compared to the heat boiling in my gut.

Just as I settled in, my phone buzzed on the bench beside me. I fished it out, squinting at the screen. Derrick’s name flashed across it. A single message awaited:

Logan Hartley.

Fury ignited inside me like a flame hitting gasoline. Logan. The golden boy who’d always played the part of the perfect athlete—just the kind of guy Holly thought she could cozy up to.

She smiled at him today.