Caleb turns on his heel without another word, disappearing into the house like a ghost with a grudge.

Anthony and I stand frozen in his wake, the imprint of our kiss still hanging between us like evidence at a crime scene.

“Well, that was…” Anthony trails off, clearly rattled by the arctic blast of Caleb’s presence.

I force a smile so fake it belongs in a museum. “Thanks for tonight. The art was… educational.”

He catches my hand before I can make my escape. “I meant what I said. About getting to know you.”

“Looking forward to it,” I nod, already backing toward the door like he’s contagious. “Goodnight, Anthony.”

I barely make it inside before my knees go wobbly.

My reflection in the hallway mirror looks like someone else entirely—smudged lipstick, wild eyes, the face of a girl playing with matches in a gasoline factory.

Up in my room, I strip off my dress, mentally cataloging the evening’s damage.

Anthony’s kiss still tingles on my lips in a not-unpleasant way, but it’s Caleb’s expression that’s branded into my retinas.

The truth settles like lead: I don’t want to marry Anthony, but I’d absolutely fuck him. Just to watch my father’s perfect plan implode. Just to feel something other than this suffocating predetermined path.

Fine. I’ll play the dutiful fiancée. I’ll attend the dinners, smile for the cameras, be the perfect Wallace heiress. But that wedding? Not happening. Not in this lifetime or any parallel universe where I still have a functioning brain stem.

The shower does nothing to wash away the chaos. Water can’t dissolve the memory of Caleb’s clenched fists or Anthony’s surprisingly decent tongue.

By midnight, hunger drives me downstairs, my stomach growling louder than my common sense.

Of course Caleb’s already there, illuminated by the fridge light like some kind of domestic deity. His back muscles flex under his t-shirt as he scans the shelves, completely unaware of how unfair his existence is to my sanity.

“Great minds,” I quip, aiming for casual and landing somewhere in the vicinity of desperate. “Or maybe we should just eat each other and save time.”

He closes the fridge slowly, deliberately. “If that’s what you want.”

The air between us crackles like downed power lines. Before I can breathe, he’s got me pressed against the counter, lips on my neck, hands mapping territory they both know belongs to him.

“Is this what you wanted from Harris?” His voice is rough, possessive. Jealous.

I fucking love it.

“Don’t stop,” I breathe, and mean it with every cell in my body.

Footsteps echo from the servants’ quarters, loud as gunshots in the silent kitchen. Caleb’s gone before the sound fully registers, back at the fridge like he’s selecting cheese, not unraveling my sanity.

Maria appears in her robe, all maternal concern. “Miss Mikaela, Mr. O’Brien. Let me fix you both something proper. Midnight snacks from the fridge—no, no.”

We eat soup under her knowing gaze like scolded teenagers, Caleb finishing first and fleeing.

The rejection stings worse than the burn of his touch. He’s running. From me, from this, from whatever nuclear explosion we’re building toward.

Back in my room, my phone’s lit up like Times Square.

Three texts from Josie: “BITCH WHERE ARE YOU??” followed by increasingly blurry club photos.

One from Anthony: “Tonight was perfect. Parents coming next week for formal dinner. Can’t wait to see you again.”

The domesticity of it makes my skin crawl.

I type back to Josie: “Long story. Let’s have coffee sometime soon.”

To Anthony: “Looking forward to it.” The lie tastes like ash.

“Not since breakfast, miss.”

I ask the gardener, pretending to need fresh flowers for my room. Nothing.

Third time’s the charm: the junior butler mentions offhandedly that Caleb’s in the wine cellar. “Your father wanted his expertise for tonight’s pairings.”

Of course he did. The man can’t even select alcohol without consulting his business partner.

Before logic can intervene, I’m flying down the basement stairs, heart hammering like a techno beat.

The cellar’s all shadows and expensive bottles, climate-controlled to preserve the precious vintages that cost more than most people’s monthly rent.

And there he is—suit jacket off, sleeves rolled up, studying labels like they hold the secrets of the universe.

Fuck it. I launch myself at him, mouth finding his before my brain can scream abort mission.

For one glorious second, he responds—all heat and hunger and three days of pent-up want.

His hands are on my waist, pulling me in, and my fingers curl into his shirt like lifelines. The world narrows to sensation: his breath, his skin, the impossible rightness of this.

Then reality crashes back like a wave against stone.

He jerks away, his hands gripping my shoulders with just enough force to halt the momentum—but not enough to hurt. I stumble back a step, breath caught in my throat, shame flushing through me like fire.

“Don’t,” he says, voice raw. “Not here. Not now.”

The air between us crackles with everything unspoken. I see it in his eyes—the want, the regret, the war he’s fighting with himself. And I know I’ve tipped the scale. Something has shifted between us now.

But my lips still burn where he kissed me back.