Page 1 of Ruin My Life

Chapter One

Brianna

MY SUITCASE THUDS ALONG THE UNEVENsidewalk, 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 inGoldfinger, 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.

Alwaysthe showman.

Some things really don’t fade with age.

Sure, he’s directed a handful of semi-iconic thrillers likeWhat Lies Beneath Lake BanffandBlood in the Thirteenth Row, but I’m willing to bet most of these people are more excited about thecarthan 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 isscorching, 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 inhellfire leatherwhen I chose this outfit.

I bite back a curse. “How long have you beenbaskingout 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.AndI got stuck behind a toddler with a vendetta against me—kicked my seat for the whole flight. I’mseriouslyconsidering 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, “Notthisone, though.”

I roll my eyes. “Obviously.”

Mom would probablypayme 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 dinnersanda cake.”

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

Dad side-eyes me. “Did Amie blab?”

I laugh—becauseof courseshe did.