Page 1 of Ruin My Life (Blood & Betrayal #1)

Brianna

M Y SUITCASE THUDS ALONG THE UNEVEN sidewalk, its wheels rattling against pale concrete that’s been worn down by decades of long-distance goodbyes, emotional reunions, and frantic dashes to airport shuttle buses.

It takes me all of thirty seconds to spot Dad near the pick-up zone—not because I can see him clearly, but because a crowd of gawkers is swarming a silver car like it’s Zendaya at the damn Met Gala.

I tug my suitcase behind me, weaving through elbows, smartphones, and impatient sighs, tossing out the occasional “ excuse me ” just before crushing someone’s toes.

Sure enough, Greggory Rosenberg—beloved father, semi-famous movie director, and world-class attention sponge—is front and center, soaking in the chaos like it’s his own personal red carpet.

His skin is a little rosier in the afternoon sun, and the silver in his hair has spread further through his beard and sideburns since Christmas. But the chestnut brown we all share is still putting up a fight.

If he didn’t dress like a retired cruise ship magician, he might actually pass for a has-been actor now in his golden years. But not even Chris Hemsworth could pull off a forest green checkerboard button-down and navy-blue board shorts.

His mirrored aviators almost save the look. Almost.

He’s lounging in his most prized possession: a silver Aston Martin convertible—same model and year Bond drove in

Goldfinger , just with fewer missiles and more excuses to flaunt it on sunny Staten Island afternoons.

The moment the clouds clear and the rain stops, this car’s out of the garage and on display anywhere he can justify taking it.

Apparently, picking up his daughter from the airport qualifies.

I wave off the lingering crowd like I’m batting flies, pop the trunk, and shove my suitcase inside. The moment Dad revs the engine, his fan club swarms even closer.

Always the showman.

Some things really don’t fade with age.

Sure, he’s directed a handful of semi-iconic thrillers like What Lies Beneath Lake Banff and Blood in the Thirteenth Row , but I’m willing to bet most of these people are more excited about the car than the man behind the wheel.

“There she is—MIT’s brightest star, Ms. Brianna Rosenberg,” Dad announces with a grin, presenting me to his admirers like I’m the main event.

As soon as their curious eyes shoot toward me, I duck my head and make a beeline for the passenger seat. He times the door unlock like it’s a dramatic cue, as if one of these strangers might vault in before me.

I slide into the leather seat, instantly regretting the decision. The black interior is scorching , branding the backs of my thighs where my grey athletic shorts fail to protect them.

It’s at least a hundred degrees out, but I didn’t factor in hellfire leather when I chose this outfit.

I bite back a curse. “How long have you been basking out here, exactly?”

“Only twenty minutes,” he says, flicking on the air-cooled seats like he’s doing my singed skin a favour. “Didn’t your flight land half an hour ago?”

“It did, but my bag was literally the last one off the plane. And I got stuck behind a toddler with a vendetta against me—kicked my seat for the whole flight. I’m seriously considering driving back to school in the fall. ”

“If that’s what you want, I’m sure your mom won’t mind you taking one of the cars.” He smirks, then quickly adds, “Not this one, though.”

I roll my eyes. “ Obviously .”

Mom would probably pay me to take this car off his hands for a semester, but it’d be useless during a Cambridge winter. And let’s be real, Dad would have a full-blown cardiac episode before I made it to the end of the street, let alone two states away.

“Your mom’s excited you’re home,” he says as we pull away from the curb and the slowly dispersing crowd. “She’s making two dinners and a cake.”

“Stuffed pork tenderloin, split pea soup, and a fruit-topped cheesecake?”

Dad side-eyes me. “Did Amie blab?”

I laugh—because of course she did.

My devilish little sister already spoiled everything from the menu to the movie night plans. She’s practically orchestrated my entire first week home.

“Even if she hadn’t, I know Mom,” I say. “She always makes my favourites when I come back.”

Dad sighs, scrunching his nose. “Still, try to look surprised, yeah?”

When we stop at a red light, I press a hand to my chest and drop my jaw, practicing my best wow, I had no idea act.

“Perfect,” he chuckles, wrapping his arm around my shoulders and kissing my temple. “God, I’ve missed you, Brie. Home’s just not the same without you.”

My heart squeezes tight.

“I missed you guys too. All the time.”

I was accepted into MIT right after high school, and for the last two years, I’ve mostly lived on campus, only coming home for winter and summer breaks.

Part of me dreads going back in September—being away from my family is always the hardest part—but MIT has the best computer science program in the entire country .

In Amie’s words, I’d be cuckoo bananas not to go—a phrase she coined after years of binge-watching Degrassi: The Next Generation with our mom.

As we pass through Kings on the Belt Parkway, Dad pulls into a small gas station. He’s always been the kind of guy who preaches about supporting local businesses, so he’ll go out of his way to avoid the big-name chains.

This time, it’s a place called Mick’s Convenience —tiny, worn, with only four pumps and a hand-painted sign that’s seen better decades.

The only other customers are two tall men lingering by the entrance, both in thick black hoodies in spite of the heat.

One is lean and pale, the other broader with tanned hands and a wider stance.

They stand out to me—though I’m not entirely sure why.

Maybe it’s because I’m sweating bullets in a thin MIT sweatshirt and shorts, yet they both look like they’re prepared for a cold autumn night

Their backs are to the street, but when Dad opens his door and climbs out, both men turn slightly, glancing over their shoulders at us.

A coil of unease tightens around my chest.

The roof’s up and the windows are closed, but none of it makes me feel safer. I shift in my seat, watching as the two men flick away their cigarettes and head inside—right after Dad.

I keep my eyes fixed on the door, but my view is patchy—half-obscured by old lotto signs and sun-faded posters taped across the glass.

Dad’s at the counter now, handing over some cash, while the two guys hover behind him like shadows. I can’t see their faces—just the way they hold themselves.

Too confident. Too close.

I focus on Dad’s expression instead, searching for any shift in his posture, any trace of discomfort. But he just gives them a passing smile and a shake of his head before slipping past and heading for the exit.

Each step he takes toward the car lets me breathe a little easier .

Maybe I’m overreacting.

People back in Cambridge just don’t move like that. Everyone there’s too sleep-deprived to seem threatening, too burdened with deadlines to loiter.

These guys just... loomed .

Dad finishes filling up the tank and slides back into the driver’s seat, brushing his hands on his shorts as the engine hums to life.

I glance over at him. “What did those guys want?”

He smiles, still relaxed as ever. “They asked if I’d consider selling my car.”

“What’d they offer?”

“I didn’t ask,” he replies with a shrug. “Any number they threw out wouldn’t have been enough—she’s priceless.”

Of course.

I roll my eyes. “Everything has a price, Dad.”

“ Price-less ,” he repeats, slowing down each syllable like I’m just now learning the word. “It’d be like if someone asked how much I’d sell you or your sister for—you don’t put a number on something irreplaceable.”

The comparison should be cheesy. It is cheesy. But knowing how much this car means to him, it almost sounds sweet.

Almost.

H OME HASN’T CHANGED much since last December—except for the lack of snow on the ground and the way Mom’s rose garden now blooms wildly along the flagstone path.

The driveway curves around the front of the house, sweeping past the wide stone stairs and the tall bay windows of the living room—sunlit and familiar.

It’s an older house, built back in the ’60s, but our parents have renovated it over the years to modernize it. They replaced all the windows and doors, upgraded the security system, and even built a six-car garage off the side to accommodate Dad’s growing collection of classic cars .

He pulls into the garage and carefully eases into one of the front spots. Before I can even unbuckle my seatbelt, the side door slams open with a sharp thud , ricocheting off the rubber door stopper.

“ Easy! ” Dad hisses, wincing like the door’s bruises are his own. I guess, in a way, they are—since he’s the one who’d have to pay to fix them.

But Amie doesn’t pay him the slightest attention. She bounds down the steps, all wide grin and long limbs, and tackles me in a hug.

She’s still three inches shorter than me—five-foot-three and barely a hundred pounds—but somehow, her joy-fuelled strength nearly knocks me off my feet.

I wrap my arms around her and hold tight, not caring that her pin-straight brown hair is tickling my nose or that she’s wearing my old high school alumni sweater.

She’s technically a student there now, but the “Class of 2021” embroidered on the sleeve definitely doesn’t belong to her—unless she graduated at thirteen.

“You smell like an old, musty closet,” Amie mutters into my shoulder.

I pull back with a grimace. “I was on a plane . You know how they smell.”

She shrugs and gives me a once-over, her hazel eyes scanning me like she’s checking for unsightly changes.

I freeze under her stare.

Younger or not, she has a knack for scrutiny—always noticing little things, like when my hair is frizzy or my shirt is wrinkled—and I’m embarrassed to admit she can still make me feel a little inferior sometimes.