Chapter 1

Lynette’s POV

The color of his eyes is unmistakable, violet that pierces through souls, not amethysts catching the sun. I stare at his picture on the cover of the magazine, transfixed by those eyes, even though they look somewhere else. Perhaps it’s a trick of the camera, but I know those eyes and they do not belong to this man.

“Miss?” A soft voice cuts through my thoughts. I look up to see a flight attendant smiling nervously. “Could you please fasten your seatbelt? We’ll be landing shortly.”

“Oh, of course,” I reply, securing the belt and flashing her a polite smile.

“If you need anything…” She lingers, smiling too broadly, her fingers tapping against her clipboard as if she’s unsure whether to stay or go.

“I’m fine, thank you,” I reassure her, but she continues fidgeting, her eyes flitting between me and the magazine in my lap. For a moment, I wonder if she recognizes me—despite the dark glasses and pulled-back hair.

Then, with a final flustered nod, she leaves. I turn my attention back to the magazine, letting the recent headlines fill the silence. Rowan Draven: ruthless billionaire, cold-hearted tycoon. The press has a thousand nicknames for him since his twin died, claiming his ambition has sharpened and his heart has hardened. But to me, none of these articles capture the real Rowan. The person in the pictures doesn’t fit the man I once knew.

I flip to another page, this time finding my own face staring back at me from a magazine’s glossy cover. So that’s why the flight attendant was acting strange. I’ve spent so much time away from this world, I’ve almost forgotten the life I left behind.

With a sigh, I set the magazine aside. I am Lynette Gold, after all. Fame was my shadow once, but I let it fade. I pull up my hood, sinking back into the seat as the plane begins its descent.

***

The moment I step through the terminal doors, I hear her.

“Lynette!” Cheryl’s voice rings out, and I see her spinning with that familiar energy, her auburn curls bouncing wildly as she practically throws herself in my direction. Beside her stands Matthew, wearing a patient smile. Thank goodness he came, or Cheryl’s enthusiasm would be overwhelming.

“Cheryl, Matthew,” I greet, giving a small wave before Cheryl envelops me in a hug that squeezes the breath out of me.

“Easy there,” Matthew says, chuckling. “She’s still recovering; you don’t want to break her before she even gets home.”

“Oh, hush! You’re just jealous because I’m her best friend and you’re not!” Cheryl shoots back, tightening her grip as if to make her point.

I feign a gasp, pulling back just enough to catch my breath. “Britt, give me a second to breathe!” 

She laughs but loosens her hold slightly, her arms still resting comfortably around my shoulders.

Matthew reaches over, gently prying her off me and pulling me into a warm hug. “It’s good to see you, Bee. Five years is a long time.”

“Matt, it hasn’t even been five years!” I laugh, patting his shoulder. “But I’ve missed you, too. How’s your girlfriend?”

He grins. “She’s great, though sometimes I wonder where I found this laughing academy of a woman.”

“Hey!” Cheryl shouts, playfully swatting him on the arm. Their chemistry is undeniable, as if I’d never left, and yet, it stings to see them this way. Memories of the secret they kept from me, how they thought it would ‘hurt’ me, flicker to the surface, but I push them aside.

Rubbish.

“It means you’re faulty, and he needs a refund,” I say, pushing away from Matthew and striding toward the door, leaving my bags behind for them to carry. Their laughter fades into squabbling again, filling the air with the same familiar bickering they’ve always shared. Some things never change—even marriage didn’t smooth out those edges.

Cheryl and I grew up practically inseparable. More than cousins, we were sisters, best friends, always side-by-side. Her mother, my mother’s sister, died when Cheryl was four, and she came to live with us. Back then, she was like a bright spark in the house, her laugh filling every corner. We were already close, and she slipped into my life as naturally as a breath. When we were eight, we met Matthew; Cheryl was nine and already something of a spitfire. I always knew she liked him more than she’d ever admit, even if she masked it with irritation. Their connection was undeniable, that electric chemistry impossible to ignore. 

But life took us in different ways. I went to college a few states over, and Cheryl and Matthew grew even closer. So when I walked in on them together, it didn’t surprise me. The betrayal I felt wasn’t from finding them kissing; it was from the secrecy, the months they kept me in the dark about their relationship. They claimed it was to “protect my feelings” that everyone assumed I’d been in love with Matthew. Even my parents were complicit, thinking it better to leave me out.

So, I left them all behind. I took Rowan’s offer—a lifeline from my real best friend, the one person I trusted, who wasn’t lying to me. Rowan saved my life, quite literally, and helped me escape. I vanished without telling anyone, letting the world think what it would. If he had answered my calls, if he had ever returned a text, I would still have no use for Cheryl and Matthew. I don’t resent them anymore, but forgiveness is a long way off. 

Yes, I hold grudges.

Five minutes later, they emerge from the airport, no longer bickering, just standing there as if nothing has happened, holding each other close, as though playing house for my benefit. They grab my bags and walk past me to the car, now waiting at the curb. 

“Nice ride,” I say, whistling softly. The car’s sleek, obsidian-black surface gleams under the afternoon sun. Matt beams, rolling his shoulder with that satisfied pride he always shows when he wants to be admired.

“Thanks,” he says, patting the roof as if it’s a prize horse. “I just bought this new baby.”

I force a smile and look around, taking in the airport’s bustling surroundings. Passengers hurry by, their hurried voices blending with the steady hum of traffic and announcements crackling through the PA system. My gaze catches on a poster plastered across a wall a few steps away. It’s an ad with Rowan’s name on it—“Draven Airway” blazoned across the top, right under the unmistakable, piercing amethyst of his eyes.

In that split second, my stomach tightens, a pang of longing mixed with trepidation.

“Wait, this airport belongs to Rowan Draven now?” I say, unable to mask the shock in my voice. The words hang in the air between us, thick with disbelief. “I thought it was owned by the…”

“The O’Connells?” Cheryl cuts in, arching a brow. “Yeah, it was theirs, but they went out of business. Had to sell their assets, including the airports, to Draven. He revamped everything, rebranded it, and now, in less than a year, it’s one of the top airlines in the country. I thought the name change would’ve tipped you off.”

“How was I supposed to know the name meant anything? And more importantly, why should I care?” I shrug, feigning indifference. My eyes flick to the sleek new sign above us, with Draven Airway emblazoned in bold, polished letters.

But I know exactly why it matters.

Matthew gives a dry laugh. “Well, it’s hardly the only business he’s swallowed up. Rowan has a habit of gutting his competition, and somehow, he always finds a way to make it all seem perfectly legal.” He shakes his head. “Ever since his twin died, he’s… different. Cold. Almost ruthless.”

I press my lips together, fighting the urge to defend him, to say something that would reveal just how well I know him. They act as though he’s some stranger to me, but they forget that Rowan and I have a history—years of friendship, college memories, shared secrets. They see only his public face, the cutthroat businessman. They don’t know the Rowan I knew, the one I still feel tethered to despite everything.

I slip into the car, letting them load my bags as I lean back against the cool leather seat, closing my eyes. I try to shut out their conversation, their casual commentary on the man who once meant everything to me. 

Because it doesn’t matter.

They don’t matter.

But he does.

As we drive through town, Rowan’s face stares back at me from countless billboards and posters, his name emblazoned across businesses that hadn’t belonged to him before. It’s as if he’s painted himself over every corner of the city.

When we finally arrive at my family’s estate, Cheryl beams. “Welcome home!” she announces, gesturing grandly toward the mansion.

The sight of it—a towering building of cold stone and immaculate windows—draws up a tangled mix of emotions. The familiar ache of being an outsider creeps in. I glance back at Cheryl’s too-bright smile, trying to hide her glee in reminding me of my estranged family’s indifference.

I’m not an only child, but I grew up as if I were alone. My brothers were my parents’ pride and joy—the perfect heirs, the golden sons destined to carry on the family legacy. I meant little to them until I carved out my own place in the world. Even then, it wasn’t enough. They saved their love for Cheryl, my cousin, the prodigy who fit seamlessly into the family business.

I didn’t.

“It’s been a while; your mother misses you,” Cheryl says, her words wrapped in a practiced smile. There’s a glint in her eyes, one that might seem sweet to anyone else, but I know her too well. She’s reveling in reminding me of my family’s preference for her. To the outside world, she’s polished and perfect—the daughter my parents wish I’d been, the one who embraces the family’s ambitions with open arms. I was everything they’d never wanted. Too bad.

Without a word, I push the car door open and step out. I’m not the girl who left here in tears; I’ve grown colder, harder. And they’re about to see exactly what that looks like.

“Hey, wait up!” Cheryl calls, her voice laced with surprise. But I ignore her, my heels clicking confidently across the driveway and up the steps. I didn’t come back for her, or for them. I have my own reasons.

Inside, the smell of polished wood and old money fills the air, mingling with the faint aroma of my mother’s favorite perfume—something crisp and sharp, like lilies in a funeral home. I follow the low murmur of laughter to the sitting room, where they’re gathered: the people I share my last name with. 

They’re in the middle of a laugh, glasses of deep red wine held high, their faces lit with the easy warmth of people who belong, who have never doubted their places in this house. My father, the man I resemble so much it stings, is there. I have his face, his smile, even his exact shade of skin, yet his heart is something I’ll never claim. My mother sits beside him, her dark eyes sharp, a sliver of a smile at her lips, a look that’s always felt cold and unreachable to me. She and my brothers are like a reflection in a mirror: the same dark hair, the same fierce eyes, the same pride. I am nothing like them. Even my hair, a billion shades too light, is a reminder that I don’t belong. 

For a moment, I stand in the doorway, watching them laugh, watching them live their picture-perfect lives. I’m an outsider looking in, as I always have been.