Page 4 of Collide (The Rhapsody of Heartbeats #1)

“There are parts of the city that simply aren’t safe for a young woman,” he warns, slipping back into his usual tone.

“And since you refuse to access your trust fund, whatever money you’ve squirrelled away might get you a cockroach-ridden hovel in Queens or Harlem.

If you end up with strange roommates, I won’t stand for it.

I refuse to let a daughter of mine live like that. Please, Elena, humor me .”

He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a small gift box, placing it in my hands like it’s supposed to fix everything.

I click my tongue, irritated, and flip open the lid.

Inside, a silver key hangs on a key ring. My initials— EJM —are engraved.

“A homecoming gift,” he proclaims, rubbing his hands together like this was all part of some grand gesture.

I glance down at the key. A studio in Brooklyn is probably the best I can afford on my own, and he knows that. Queens or Harlem? Please. He always imagines the worst. He always has to have the last say.

This isn’t a gift.

It’s a cage.

Our eyes meet—his are warm, full of hope. He looks older, grayer. For a second, guilt flickers. So much time has passed since we were last in the same room.

“Aww, you gave it to her without me?” Philippa whines, pouting as she sets a glass of scotch in front of him.

My skepticism kicks in. Just as quickly as the walls started to lower, I haul them back up.

My eyes flick up to her. He smiles at her—soft, familiar. She returns it, easy and natural.

My heart lurches.

The sight of them, so at ease with each other, slices right through me. It’s seamless between them—this unspoken bond built on years I wasn’t part of. Shared dinners. Inside jokes. A rhythm I never learned.

The ache tightens in my chest—sharp, sudden. Just because I share their blood doesn’t mean I share their world.

I place the box on the table between us. “Excuse me for a moment,” I mutter, standing up and storming off to my room.

I don’t belong here. The truth is, these people are my family, but I don’t know them.

Not really.

“Elena,” Philippa calls after me, her voice tight, panicked.

I shut the door on her.

Exhaling slowly, I press my back against the wood. Frustration simmers beneath the surface. His gift doesn’t undo silence. It doesn’t explain why he was never there, or why he failed to show up when it mattered.

He doesn’t know me.

Never did.

And maybe—maybe—he never wanted to.

That thought loops in my head like a song stuck on repeat. I press my palms into my forehead, digging my fingers into my scalp like I can force the thoughts out.

I collapse onto the bed, head spinning, chest tight. I stare up at the ceiling. Tears threaten, but I fight them. Not now. Not here.

I’m so mad at him. Still mad. What I need isn’t a condo or a key. It’s why . I want him to say it . Admit what he did. Tell me why I was never enough.

I breathe in. Out. Again.

I’m trying to hold it together.

And then her voice echoes—faint, warm—Mom’s voice: Anak, choose your battles. Your father…he loves you in his own way. He loves you.

I cling to it. Because right now? I feel alone.

Here.

Everywhere.

Letting out a long groan, I get up off the bed, knowing deep down the only way forward is if I try . And right now, I’m not. Not really. Not for myself. But maybe for Philippa, for Jack, for Mom, I can try harder.

Back in the living room, they’re seated, talking quietly. Philippa’s brows are furrowed, lips tight. My father’s face is drawn with concern. The sight of them makes me hesitate.

“I’m sorry,” I murmur, voice low. “I’d blame jet lag, but really…I was being a bitch.” I hang my head, the shame creeping in, hot and slow. “This is all…a lot. I’m overwhelmed.”

The words leave my mouth, and I feel a little lighter.

“Oh, Elena…” Philippa stands. Her voice cracks, and the pain on my face must hit her full force.

My father rises too. “Elena, I know I’ve made mistakes,” he falters, voice more fragile than I’ve heard it in years, “but I’ll try my best to make them right.”

Sadness shadows his eyes, and for a second, I falter. My instinct is to retreat, to armor up again. But the look he gives me—soft, regretful—makes it harder.

My throat tightens. I’m not ready to let it all go.

Not yet.

I’ve got my own sadness to wade through first.

“Thank you both for the apartment,” I mutter, glancing between them. “And I’ll try, too.” It’s not a promise. Not really. But it’s something.

After an incident-free lunch, I find out that Andrew and Philippa both work for my father—so predictable.

She’s one of his executive directors, managing his endless property portfolios, and Andrew works in the finance division. As expected.

They met at work when their secretaries accidentally booked the same meeting room. Hell of a meet-cute.

I figure if I’d ended up staying with my father, I probably would’ve become a corporate drone too, with a position in his company, one I likely didn’t earn. Dating someone my father approved of, who would be of an advantage to him and his empire. With a trust fund, of course.

Though technically, I too, am the beneficiary of an unwanted, sizeable trust fund. It remains untouched. I cringe at the thought.

In my hotel-suite-like room, I settle in, unpacking and playing music low through my phone.

I check my messages: two from Riley, my best friend, sending photos and chaotic tales from her adventures in Peru; one from my manager; and a few appointments dropped into my calendar.

I quickly draft an email to my stepdad, letting him know I’m safe.

Emailing feels so ancient, but Jack still refuses to get a mobile phone. We lived in a part of the world where cell service barely existed anyway, so I couldn’t convince him to get one, no matter how hard I tried.

I sigh, thinking of home—the ocean, the warm, balmy afternoons in Jervis Bay. Walking Bundy, our family dog, along the sand. Partying with friends and singing in grungy pubs that reeked of beer and sweat.

And mostly…

Mom.

I’m about to finish stuffing the last pair of jeans into the bottom dresser drawer when I hear a soft knock at the door.

It’s Philippa. “Hey, Mark’s here,” she announces, peeking her head through the door.

Mark Shepherd is my manager, keeper of my calendar, steering the ship of my career—sharp, reliable and knows how to get shit done.

Getting up from the floor, I make my way to the door.

Mark is in the foyer, fiddling with his phone, dressed in a crisp suit, clean-shaven, his salt-and-pepper hair styled to perfection.

He’s quite good-looking, but I would never mix business with pleasure.

Not that I know what that kind of pleasure is.

I’ve never been in love before, much less physically intimate with a man.

“Hey, Elena.” He looks up from his phone, acknowledging me with a nod.

“Hey, what’s up?” I ask, cocking my head to the side.

“Chloe,” he calls. A small blonde-haired woman standing beside him, dressed in an equally crisp suit, scuttles toward me with a huge floral arrangement—white orchids, white peonies, and freesias.

It smells divine. She places the flowers on the small table beside me and hands me a wicker gift basket wrapped in clear cellophane with a big pink ribbon. The tag says, “Welcome.”

My eyes widen as I skim through its contents. A tablet. Workout clothes. Membership key cards for a gym and yoga studio. Jewelry. Skincare products. A bunch of other luxury items. I’m speechless.

“Thank you. You really didn’t have to,” I murmur, still in awe, holding up the basket to inspect it further.

“The flowers are from me,” Mark says with a smile. “The basket’s from the label and your endorsers down under.”

He turns to the girl, still smiling. “Chloe, this is Elena, my newest and most promising artist.” His voice swells with pride. My heart swells, too. Mark really is the best.

Chloe shyly smiles. “Hi,” she mumbles. I can’t help but wonder if she’s his girlfriend. She looks young—possibly younger than me.

Definitely younger than me.

“Chloe’s my daughter,” Mark smiles, draping an arm around her shoulder. “She’s interning with me for the summer.”

“Nice to meet you. And thanks for bringing this stuff in.” I smile, trying to ease the tension from my earlier, inappropriate thoughts.

We quickly discuss our schedules and exchange dates for our upcoming engagements. As Mark and Chloe are about to leave, he turns to me at the threshold.

“Here.” He hands me a small white envelope. “It’s an invitation to a small gathering for a fellow artist. It’s on Friday night. I’ve scheduled a stylist, hair, and makeup crew to come to you if you’re up for it.”

A party.

“Absolutely! Can I bring a plus one?”

“Yes, of course.” He nods, then takes his leave.

If I’m going to a party in the city for the first time, I’m not going alone.

“Pip!” I call out as I shut the door behind me.