She punched the code into the gate's keypad, her fingers clumsy. The heavy iron gates of Derrick Harmon's Bel Air estate-the man who had become her guardian after her mother remarried, her non-blood relative and the person she had secretly loved for ten years-swung open soundlessly with a stately grace. Alaina hurried along the long, winding driveway, the gravel crunching beneath her worn sneakers.
The heavy oak door of the main house loomed before her. She used the backup code the housekeeper had given her years ago, a number she knew as well as her own birthday. The lock clicked open.
For an instant, she hesitated. A familiar knot of anxiety tightened in her stomach, pulling taut. Then she remembered the housekeeper's worried phone call-Derrick was burning up with a fever, refusing to see a doctor, and had sent all the staff home. The thought of him sick and alone propelled her forward.
She imagined his surprise, and perhaps, a flicker of warmth in his usually guarded gray eyes. That small glimmer of hope was all she needed.
She stepped inside.
The foyer was dark, save for a faint ambient light coming from the second-floor landing. The air was heavy and still, but something was wrong. A scent. A sweet, cloying perfume she didn't recognize, a mix of gardenia and vanilla. It hung in the air like a foreign presence, a sharp needle piercing the fragile bubble of her hope, stinging her senses.
Her heart gave a painful throb against her ribs. She took a step forward, her sneakers silent on the marble floor. The dread was so real, a cold, heavy weight sinking deep into her abdomen, making it hard to breathe.
Then, a figure emerged from the shadows at the top of the grand staircase.
A woman, tall and slender, wrapped in one of Derrick's dark silk robes. The sash was tied loosely at her waist, revealing a long expanse of pale leg and the curve of her collarbone. She moved with a languid, confident grace, the kind that spoke of familiarity and intimacy with her surroundings.
Alaina recognized her immediately. Ashley Vance. A model whose face adorned half the billboards on Sunset Boulevard.
Ashley's eyes, lined with heavy black eyeliner, widened briefly at the sight of a drenched Alaina standing in the foyer. Surprise quickly melted into something else-a cool, calculating amusement and disdain. Her gaze swept over the warm paper bag in Alaina's hands, and a knowing smile curved her perfectly painted lips.
"Oh? You must be Derrick's ward. The one named... oh! Alaina?"
Her voice was silky, wrapped in honeyed arrogance. She glanced at the bag clutched against Alaina's chest.
"Did you come to take care of Derrick? Oh... don't worry, Derrick is feeling much better now," Ashley continued, descending another step and letting the robe fall open a little more. "I've taken very good care of him."
The words hit Alaina like a physical blow. The warmth radiating from the medicine bag suddenly felt scorching, branding her own foolishness into her chest. Her blood ran cold, a chill spreading from her toes to her scalp.
Her mind went blank. The only sounds were her own futile, frantic heartbeat and the rhythmic drumming of the rain on the roof.
A sleepy, raspy voice drifted down from the top of the stairs. "Ashley? Who's down there?"
Derrick.
He appeared a moment later, pulling a dark gray bathrobe on over himself. His jet-black hair was damp and plastered to his forehead, his handsome face etched with exhaustion. When he saw Alaina standing by the door, a complex mix of emotions flickered across his face-annoyance, surprise, and something else she couldn't name. His brow furrowed.
"Alaina, what are you doing here?" His voice was slightly hoarse from illness, and beneath the surprise lay something complicated, hard to name.
Ashley immediately slid to his side, looping her arm through his and resting her head on his shoulder. It was a purely possessive gesture, a flag planted for Alaina's benefit.
Derrick didn't push her away. He allowed the intimacy, his silence a thunderous confirmation.
Alaina felt an invisible hand squeeze her heart, squeezing so hard she nearly doubled over. She forced herself to stand straight, to lift her chin. She walked to the ornate console table by the door and set the paper bag down on its polished surface.
When she finally found her voice, it was eerily calm, devoid of emotion. "I heard you were sick. I brought you some medicine."
Derrick's gaze fell to the paper bag, and the complex look in his eyes deepened. He seemed about to say something, but the words that came out were brief and useless. "Thank you."
Ashley let out a light laugh, a brittle sound that shattered the tense silence. "That's so sweet of you, but it's not necessary anymore. Derrick, I'm a little hungry. Should we go get something to eat?"
Derrick looked at Alaina's pale, rain-soaked face, his jaw tight. He hesitated for no more than a second before turning to Ashley. "You go to the kitchen. I'll be right there."
After Ashley disappeared down the hallway, the foyer was once again filled with the sound of rain. Derrick moved closer. He still carried the scent of his recent shower, his familiar soap, but it was tainted, mixed with that cloying, sickly sweet perfume. The combination churned Alaina's stomach.
He stopped a few feet away from her, his expression settling into the one she knew best-a guardian's cool, appraising gaze. "It's late. And the rain is heavy. Did you drive yourself here?"
The question, so mundane, so paternal in its tone, twisted the knife again.
She didn't answer. She just stared at him, her eyes burning with a question she would never dare to ask, a pain she knew he would never understand.
Alaina faltered, her voice barely a whisper. "That person... she..."
Under her gaze, he shifted, a rare display of discomfort. He looked away, toward the rain-streaked window. "Ashley," he said quietly, "is just a fling."
A fling.
The two words echoed in the hollow depths of her chest. What she had dreamed of for years, what had seemed to her the most sacred, unattainable thing in the world, was nothing but a casual diversion to him.
A bitter, hysterical laugh nearly escaped her throat. She swallowed it back. All those years of silent, hopeless devotion. All for nothing.
Derrick must have seen the change in her expression. Something dark and conflicted flickered across his face, a brief inner struggle. But it passed quickly, replaced by the mask of cold detachment he always wore. He had made his decision. He would say nothing more.
Alaina took a deep, shaky breath, forcing back the burning tears behind her eyes.
"I see," she whispered. "You should get some rest."
She didn't look at him again. She turned, pulled open the heavy door, and stepped back out into the cold, cleansing rain.
Derrick stood in the doorway, watching her small, solitary figure disappear into the storm. The muscle in his jaw was tight, his hands clenched into fists inside the pockets of his robe. His face was as dark as thunder, darker than the night itself.
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