Page 3 of Collide (The Rhapsody of Heartbeats #1)

Because of You

I reach out to the fogged-up mirror and swipe a clean streak down the center. My reflection stares back—pale, hollow-eyed, worn thin from the flight.

The shower helped. Sort of. At least I didn’t smell like plane anymore. I’d hoped the steam would take the edge off my nerves, maybe soften the tightness in my chest. Instead, I spent ten minutes replaying old fights, rewriting every word I should have said, every truth I bit back.

But time doesn’t rewind. And nothing I say now will change what is already broken.

I squeeze toothpaste onto my brush, shoving it into my mouth.

Christmas. Five years ago. That was the last time.

I’d found out the truth—why Mom left, why she cried in the kitchen when she thought I wasn’t listening.

He didn’t even flinch when I confronted him.

He launched into a speech about Yale and how I needed to ‘start thinking seriously about my future,’ like singing was some childish fantasy I’d grow out of.

He called it a pipe dream. A waste of time.

What he meant was, I won’t bankroll your life unless it fits the image I want.

Even now, the thought of seeing him again fills me with dread.

The father who didn’t want me.

The man who thought gifts could replace love, throwing money at me like I was a scratch he couldn’t quite buff out.

The more I think about it, the hotter it burns. My jaw tightens.

Let him try and play nice.

He can take his fancy apartment and shove it straight up his pretentious ass.

I spit out the toothpaste and rinse my mouth, teeth grinding as my frustration simmers beneath the surface. Determined not to let it consume me, I grab my brush and dryer, methodically working through the tangled waves of my hair. If I don’t, I’ll wake up looking like I crawled out of the Amazon.

Once satisfied, I throw on my favorite pair of distressed denim shorts and an old, oversized band shirt. A quick swipe of tinted lip gloss, a few strokes of mascara to frame my eyes— his eyes .

I’m ready.

I know he’ll hate this. The way I dress, the way I carry myself—it’s everything he disapproves of. Unlike my sister, his polished Manhattan princess, I am the unruly, untamed disappointment. Maybe it’s childish, but I don’t care. Let him see what he missed out on. Let him choke on it.

When I emerge, I hear two voices. I pause, listening—then breathe a sigh of relief. It’s not my father. Has to be Andrew.

Even though he’s engaged to my sister, we’ve never met.

They got together two years ago, shortly before Mom died.

While their relationship bloomed, I was drowning in grief.

I pushed everyone away. Frozen in place while life moved on without me.

Standing here now, I feel like an outsider in my own family’s story.

I walk into the living space and spot him sprawled across the lounge, sweaty in gym clothes, auburn hair damp and sticking to his forehead. I’d seen a few photos Philippa sent—good-looking, nerdy investment banker type. Not unattractive. Just…expected.

His eyes light up when he sees me. “Oh, hey!” he says, pushing himself upright. “Nice to finally meet you.”

I force a smile. “You too.”

Philippa walks in a beat later and stops cold.

Her eyes land on Andrew, narrowing slightly.

A flicker of disapproval crosses her face.

Her lips press into a tight line as she takes in the full picture—sweaty gym clothes, his back against the pristine white sofa like it was made for him.

Her grip tightens around the tea towel in her hand.

Classic Philippa—never one to raise her voice when passive-aggressive silence would do.

Andrew, sensing the shift in the air, lifts his head and grins, completely unfazed, as if he’s used to this exact reaction from Philippa.

There’s an easy confidence about him, the kind that suggests he enjoys pushing her buttons just enough to amuse himself.

It’s a dynamic I recognize instantly—one built on teasing, on knowing how far to go before she snaps.

Exactly like my stepfather would do to my mother.

“What? I ran five miles,” he says, stretching lazily as if daring her to scold him further.

Philippa exhales sharply through her nose, her tone clipped yet laced with familiarity. “Andrew…Get cleaned up,” she orders, her voice carrying the same authoritative warmth our mother used with Jack. A bittersweet pang settles in my chest.

He chuckles and rolls his eyes, peeling himself up off the lounge.

“I won’t be too long.” He kisses Philippa’s forehead, making his way down the hall. She whips his backside with the tea towel she was holding, reminding me again of something my mother did with Jack.

“Wow, you’re exactly like Mom.” I smile.

“Hmm, I miss her.” Philippa’s face softens, echoing my sentiment. “Feeling better?” she adds.

I miss her too.

“Yeah.”

“Nothing a good shower can’t fix. He should be here soon.” She offers a kind smile, reassuring me.

“Cool, what are we eating?” I ask, patting my stomach.

“Lemon herb chicken with a summer salad.” She beams, silently mouthing the word yum .

Her excitement is adorable.

I look at her in mock horror. “I’m a vegetarian.”

Her face drops.

“Kidding!” I snicker, shaking my head. Oh, Pip, you’re too easy.

Rolling her eyes, she tuts as she makes her way back into the kitchen, shaking her head with a fond exasperation, reminding me of when we were kids.

It’s a small moment, but it tugs at something deep inside me—something warm, something that reminds me we are sisters, even if it doesn’t always feel like it.

“Make yourself comfortable. Do you want anything to drink?” she calls out as she walks away.

“Coffee, please!”

I settle into the white plush lounge, gazing out at the stretch of Central Park below—its green canopy seems out of place against the towers of concrete giants surrounding it.

The park and I have that in common. I’ve never felt at home here, always out of place beneath the weight of the Montgomery name, especially beside my sister, who always knows exactly what to say and how to behave.

It isn’t her fault—she’s just as much a victim of our circumstances, she just happened to handle it better than I did.

The weight of my thoughts nests deep in my chest, pressing hard against my ribs.

My eyelids grow heavy, and exhaustion finally wins.

I let it pull me under.

Surrendering to the quiet.

“Eleanor,” calls a voice. My thoughts are blurry. Wait, no one calls me Eleanor . My eyes shoot open, and I realize I drifted off on the couch.

“Sorry,” I mutter automatically, wiping drool off my face before rubbing my eyes.

Shit. Mascara.

“Don’t be sorry. You’ve had a long day. I’d be exhausted too after flying coach.” He chuckles, and my eyes finally meet his.

“Father.” I frown. His not-so-subtle jab at my choice to fly coach doesn’t go unnoticed.

“Hello, Eleanor.” He smiles softly. I roll my eyes. I haven’t been called Eleanor in years. I don’t know why he persists with such formalities.

“It’s EL-EY-NAH,” I respond petulantly, pronouncing each syllable of my preferred name. Everyone calls me Elena.

“Sorry, Elena. Look at you—you’ve changed so much. It’s been far too long,” he says, shaking his head like he’s brushing off the memory of our last encounter.

“Yup.”

“You still look so much like your mother,” he adds with a smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling. For a second, I’m struck by how much older he looks. Those five years carved lines into his face that I don’t remember being there.

“Please don’t.” I raise a hand to stop him. He has no right to bring her up.

I shift, sitting up straighter from where I’d half-dozed on the couch, suddenly alert. I’ve been told all my life I looked like her, but I don’t see it. She was a beauty queen. I’m not a crown-wearing, pageant-perfect kind of girl.

“Well…except for those beautiful eyes.” His grin is full of smug self-importance, leaning back into the armchair like that little genetic match makes me his property. His eyes—the same blue—hold a familiar glint of amusement.

I grip the edge of the couch, resisting the urge to roll mine, already irritated, unsure what game he’s playing. Compliments? Really? What, butter me up before the slaughter?

“I assume Philippa’s told you about my gift,” he says, rubbing his hands together, brows arching like this was some exciting reveal.

“Yeah. About that—” I square my shoulders, already shifting into negotiation mode.

“Is something wrong?” he asks, rubbing his forefinger against his lip like he’s about to launch into some patronizing monologue.

Yes! The fact that he can’t see what’s wrong with gifting someone an entire apartment is beyond me! He knows exactly how I feel about him showering me with lavish gifts, like a convertible Mercedes on my sixteenth birthday! What sane person does that?

“You didn’t have to do that,” I say, keeping my voice even through gritted teeth. “I have my own money, and I’d rather find a place that suits me.”

“This isn’t up for discussion,” he snaps, completely bulldozing me, and there it is, the sweet, calm facade cracking. “It’s already done.”

You don’t say no to Mortimer Montgomery.

“No, it’s not. You don’t get to tell me what to do. I’m an adult.” I sit up, leveling the playing field.

“Elena, I don’t want to argue with you.” He sighs, lifting his hands in surrender.

I stop mid-step. That— that —throws me. Since when does he switch gears? Since when does he call me Elena? Since when does he not want to argue? We usually fight until he’s blue in the face, and I’m seeing red.

Choose your battles, my mother’s voice whispers.

I shake it off.

Not this one.

I’m not backing down.

I open my mouth to pivot, try another approach?—

“I’d feel much better if you lived somewhere safe,” he cuts in. “Close to your sister…closer to me.”

That last part hits weird. Loaded. I don’t know if it’s guilt or control—or both—but it makes my insides twist.

“Why can’t you respect my choices?”