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CHAPTER 1

Ophelia

The notification sound from my phone goes off, making my heart beat faster. I know its him. I grab my phone from the bed beside me, and a glance at my cracked phone screen confirms my suspicions.

Carter:

Leave the window unlocked.

I chastise myself as I mumble, “And for you, Carter… I will.”

I delete his text and toss the phone back on the bed with a sigh.

I know I’m worth dinner and a movie, but I keep my standards low. Carter smells good, he’s pretty to look at, and he has those V-shaped muscles that run diagonally from his hip bones to his pelvis. He’s beautiful, and all the girls at school want him, but I won’t go all the way with him.

I do just enough to keep him coming back. And I know I’ll open the window.

The truth is: I’m lonely.

Lazily, I moan, stretching my tired muscles as I pad barefoot across the room. I undo the latch and push the window open a crack for good measure. It’s been a mild winter, and the fresh air feels good.

I stare out into the night. The street is quiet here on our end of town. Carter lives in the estates they call the Plaza—sprawling, single-family homes with perfectly manicured green lawns circling a neighborhood park. I’ve never known what it feels like to have walls you don’t share with strangers.

The rumbling sound of a motorbike engine breaks the peace. To my left, I see two kids still wearing their green uniform blazers from our school, riding the raucous bike. A guy is driving, and a girl, her plaid skirt rolled up short as the popular girls do, is perched on the back, her arms wrapped around the boy’s waist.

I remain hovering by the window to see if I recognize them.

The girl on the back taps the driver on the shoulder. He slows down and pulls to a stop outside the door to my building. She tugs her helmet from her head and cradles it to her chest.

It’s Ailani, the KA LA Hawaiian drinkware tumbler heiress. Groaning, I wish I’d ducked out of her sight below the window ledge, but it’s too late. I should have known she spotted me the moment the bike slowed down.

Ailani dates Giovanni, the guy driving the bike. He doesn’t bother removing his helmet. He’s one of the few Italian kids at our school, and his father is the CEO of a marketing company in Milan. The two lovebirds came into my work earlier, ordering fries and milkshakes.

Sometimes, I wonder what it would be like to be the kid on the other side of the counter. Being able to order whatever I want, then pay with Daddy’s credit card. Honestly, the entitlement doesn’t look appealing.

Ailani shakes her long braid from the helmet, beaming ten thousand euros of veneers at me. “Hey, Opie! Done flipping burgers for the night?”

“Yeah, thank God.”

“You look like Juliet waiting for her Romeo up there!” she laughs.

“I wish. It's just me here tonight. Well… goodnight.” I pull my head back in the window, but Ailani stops me, calling out to me again.

“Speaking of Romeos… I heard you and Carter were a thing.” Her voice tightens as she narrows her brows at me. “Is that true?”

“Carter?” My voice comes out high, off. “Why would you say that?”

She tilts her pretty face up to me and shrugs. “You know how rumors fly around our school.”

She waits for my reply, but I don’t have one.

“Anyway.” She lifts the helmet to put it back on. “Keep up the good work, Opie. Those fries were on point.” Her laughter disappears behind the helmet; the giggles aren’t altogether cruel but not exactly kind. The two of them speed off.

“Thanks, Ailani,” I mutter to the empty street. “Some of us have to work for our money.”

And why was she asking about Carter? Irritation gnaws at me. Are kids at school really talking about us? I haven’t told anyone that he’s been coming over. I doubt he’s hanging out with his football buddies and bragging about hooking up with me.

We don’t even do that much—kissing, cuddling, and crazy oral sex. But I never let him return the favor. It’s too intimate with his face down there, and it’s messy.

I don’t like messy.

Carter is easy. Easy to look at, easy to be with—no drama, no expectations. With Carter in my bed, I get a few hours where I don’t have to think about anything. The current state of my life is the last thing I want to focus on.

The night I blew out the eighteen candles on my birthday cake, surrounded by my mother and grandparents, something changed inside of me. I’m supposed to be an adult and make plans for my future, but it’s difficult when I don’t know my past. I want to know more about my father. What did he do that was so bad no one in my family would speak his name? Why did they move us away from Scotland to Italy, a place no one had ever heard of him?

I flop back onto my bed, staring at the water stain on the ceiling left by a leak from the apartment bathtub above.

The house is quiet—too quiet.

My mom should be drinking her Friday night wine and playing cards with my grandparents in our small dining room. Out of character, the three of them have gone out tonight. A man named Liam invited them for dinner at a fancy place called “the Villa.” I was scrubbing a stubborn stain from our kitchen sink, so I kind of tuned out while she was telling me about it. No one can get the kitchen to my level of sparkle.

I still have the floor to mop. After working a double shift, I’m too tired to clean. I barely had the energy to shower, but I needed to shampoo the smell of fried food from my hair. I’m dozing off when the notification sound on my phone goes off again.

I reach for my phone. It’s a reminder that tuition is due on the first of December. My stomach sinks as I hit dismiss. Just this morning, Mom said she’d paid it in full. I asked her where she got the money, and she said not to worry about it. But something feels off.

When we first moved here, I didn’t speak a word of Italian. My grandparents didn't want me to feel isolated before I learned the language, so they insisted I attend the International School, a prestigious institution primarily for rich, American expat kids. Grandma helped Mom apply for a needs-based scholarship, which I was granted.

The day I turned fifteen, I got a job to help with the costs of uniforms and supplies. Now, I’m the proud owner of a McDee’s apron, a decent education—though I still struggle with my grades, especially in French class—and I even have a tacky American nickname: Opie.

Every time I would enter a room, the kids at my school would belt out the chorus of the melodic song by the Lumineers, titled with my first name, until everyone got sick of the word Ophelia.

Carter calls me Phee, which isn’t as bad. Now, Carter’s outside my window, whisper-yelling for me.

“Phee! I’m coming up.”

Jumping up from the bed, I cross the room again, pushing the window up the rest of the way. The temperature has dropped since I first opened it, so I hang my head out in the evening air. On the street, he’s bent down, his shoulders flexing against the tight T-shirt fabric he’s wearing as he locks his black BMX bike. I feel warm just looking at him. I lean further out the window.

“I’m here.”

He glances up at me with a smile of anticipation. “I see.”

I love the way he moves. He’s all grace and muscles as he climbs the shaky, metal fire escape ladder up to my room. I step back to allow his almost-man-sized frame to crawl through.

We stand there for a moment, sizing one another up. He wears gray sweatpants with the black T-shirt. On him, they look phenomenal.

“Come here.” I wrap my arms around his neck. “You must be freezing.”

“Nah. My blood runs pretty hot when I’m coming to see you.” He smiles down at my pajama pants. “Nice jammies.”

I glance down at the cream flannel printed with bright green Christmas trees. “’Tis the season.”

“A month early.” He slips his arms around my waist. “But sexy as hell. Let’s take them off.”

Having no plans to lose my clothing, I reach up to kiss him. A sweet yet sour smell stops me. Alcohol?

I pull back, my nose crinkling. “Have you been drinking?”

“I had a few drinks with the guys on the team before I came over. I wanted to loosen up a little.” He brings his mouth to my ear, the scent stronger. “I thought we could try something else tonight. Something better than oral.”

My body tenses. “What’s wrong with what we usually do?”

“I like what we do. You’re good with your mouth,” he chuckles, continuing, “Like, really good.” He brushes my hair back from my face. “But I want more.”

I do not want more.

I like how he looks. I like his easy company. But I don’t want him enough to go there . My arms drop from his shoulders. I flatten my hands against his chest. “I don’t think so.”

He tightens his hold around my waist, pulling me closer as I try to step back. “Come on. It’ll feel good.”

“No. Let’s do our other stuff. Don’t you want my mouth on you?” My hands go to his waist, tugging at the elastic band of his sweats. “You said I was good at it.”

He slides a hand up the front of my loose shirt. My skin dances under the brush of his fingertips.

“Nah, I want you.”

Reaching my bare breasts, he takes one nipple between his finger and thumb and pinches. Hard. Pain dips through me, pulsing between my thighs. He moves in to kiss me, his mouth hot with need.

I let him kiss me. I lose myself in the act momentarily, feeling warm and liquid-y. He pushes his tongue into my mouth, swiping his against mine, then going too deep, almost gagging me. He slips his hand down the front of my pajama pants, then he cups me, fingertips clumsily fumbling at my entrance.

I suddenly feel hot all over, but not in a good way—it’s a prickly heat that burns my face and the back of my neck. I break our kiss and pull away, shaking my head. “I don’t want this.”

“Come on.” He cups my breast in his palm. “You’ve been teasing me for so long. You owe me this.”

Loose and languid only a moment ago, his words make me tense. “Owe you what?”

His thumb circles my clit, and I find myself cringing. His words turn my stomach. “You owe me this.”

My virginity? “Because I gave you head a few times? I don’t think so.” I squirm away from his touch, but he doesn’t back away. Doesn’t take his hand out of my pants. He kisses my neck, beer-scented saliva on my skin. He nips at my nape too hard, sparking pain. I flatten my hands against his chest. “Come on,” I say. “I’m serious.”

His eyes lock on mine. “So am I.” He pushes a finger inside me roughly.

A gasp catches in the back of my throat. Something hot in his gaze feels off—determination fueled by desire. The prickly warmth of discomfort turns into a heatwave of panic.

He’s not letting me go.

Suddenly, I wish I wasn’t home alone tonight.

My heart thrums in my ears; my skin begins to feel clammy. My stomach twists in a sickening knot. This is not the Carter I know. How much alcohol did he have? I’ve heard it can make some people mean.

For the first time ever, I fear what first attracted me to him: his athletic frame.

“Give me what I need,” he demands.

He palms my other breast, his mouth back on my neck, hot and wet. His finger pushes deeper inside me. Despite my fear and unwillingness, my muscles clamp down around him.

I said no… right? Did I make myself clear? He accused me of teasing him, telling me I owe him. I hate myself for even asking this…

I don’t owe him anything… do I?

“Carter…” I trail off.

My bedroom door flies open. The metal door handle hits the wall behind it with a loud bang, echoing through the quiet room and jolting my body.

Carter’s hands quickly retreat from me.

In unison, we turn to face the doorway.

A tall, large, broad-shouldered stranger fills the threshold of my bedroom.

Despite the clench of his strong jawline, his expression is one of ease, a man in complete control. Dark hair and dark eyes. He’s dressed in a formal business outfit—a white dress shirt ironed with the starch Grandma uses on Grandpa’s church shirts, and dark, gray pants. The powerful look is completed with a black belt, polished shoes, and a black, satin tie.

I’m not good at guessing ages, but he’s much older than us.

Coolly, he slides his hands into his pockets. His gaze locks on Carter, and his voice is laced with danger. “You. Out.” When he speaks, Carter and I stand there, shocked and silent. I should be screaming for my mom, but something in his gaze holds me back.

The man continues, “Now.” The word feels like he’s dragging a rake over hot coals.

Carter looks from me to him, uncertainty flashing in his eyes. He’s trying to decide if he should make a break for it or if I’m worth fighting for.

Carter waits a beat too long and then addresses the man, seemingly lowering his voice to match the stranger’s. “Who are you? What do you want?” His tone doesn’t come close to the stranger’s.

“Doesn’t matter. It has nothing to do with you .” The stranger’s eyes find mine for the first time since breaking into my bedroom. Dark. The look we share… I find myself unable to tear my gaze away.

“I’m here,” he says, “for Ophelia.”