Summer’s POV

The next morning, my reflection in the bathroom mirror looked like something out of a hangover PSA. Dark circles under puffy eyes, pale skin, and a general air of someone who’d spent the night crying on their floor instead of sleeping in their ridiculously expensive bed. Perfect. Just perfect.

Victoria’s words from yesterday kept echoing in my head. Each memory felt like a fresh slap.

I splashed cold water on my face, willing the icy shock to wake me up properly. Come on, Summer. Pull yourself together. You’re better than this. The familiar routine of applying concealer and mascara helped steady my hands, if not my heart. Layer by layer, I rebuilt my armor – foundation to hide the tearstains, concealer for the dark circles, mascara to brighten eyes dulled by another sleepless night.

God, when did I become this person? A year ago, I’d been the golden girl of Fortune Corp’s European division, engaged to Alexander, secure in my sister’s love. Now? Now I was the scandal of Wall Street, hiding in my apartment and crying myself to sleep. No. No more of that.

My phone buzzed just as I was finishing my makeup, making me jump. My maternal grandfather Jonathan Thompson’s familiar contact photo lit up the screen, and just seeing it made something in my chest ache. Grandpa had always been my safe harbor, the one person who never played favorites between Victoria and me.

“Hi Grandpa,” I managed, trying to inject some cheer into my voice. Fake it till you make it, right? “Missing me already?”

“You silly girl!” His warm voice wrapped around me like a hug. “Come see me tomorrow!”

“Grandpa, I—”

“Don’t forget!”

A small, genuine smile tugged at my lips despite everything. “Alright, alright, I’ll come, okay?”

—

The next afternoon found me pulling into the familiar driveway of Grandpa’s Upper East Side brownstone, a bag of groceries from Whole Foods riding shotgun. I’d spent way too long debating what to bring – the whole point of visiting was supposed to be checking on him, making sure he was eating properly, but somehow I’d turned it into an hour-long anxiety spiral. Should I get organic kale or regular? Does he still like those fancy protein shakes? Will he roll his eyes at the gluten-free bread?

After I pulled over, the bag of groceries shifted slightly in the passenger seat, a box of his favorite Earl Grey tea threatening to spill out. I’d grabbed it on impulse, remembering all the times he’d made us tea while helping me with my calculus homework. Such a small thing, but thinking about it now made my eyes burn.

Parker, Grandpa’s long-time butler, opened the door before I could even ring the bell. His familiar dignified face brightened with a warm smile. “Welcome back, Miss Summer. Please, come in.”

I started toward the kitchen with my grocery bag, but Parker cleared his throat softly. “Professor Thompson has a guest today.”

“A guest?” I frowned. “But Grandpa said today…”

A deep, familiar voice drifted from the study, stopping me in my tracks. “The market indicators were clear, Professor. The real question was whether the board would recognize them in time.”

That voice. My heart stuttered in my chest. It couldn’t be.

Brandon. Brandon Stark. Here. The grocery bag suddenly felt too heavy in my arms. What were the odds? What were the fucking odds that he’d be here today of all days?

My feet carried me forward on autopilot. The study door seemed to loom before me, heavy oak panels hiding whatever scene waited on the other side. Get it together. You’re not doing anything wrong. This is your grandfather’s house.