Nia’s POV

It’s been three months.

Three long, strange, transformative months.

For the first few weeks, I lived in silence. Not the kind of silence where you’re curled up under your sheets crying all day—but the still kind. The kind where you wake up and decide: “I’m not going to let this break me.”

I pulled back from people. Cut out the noise. I hit pause on my job at the café. When I walked into Cleo’s office with resignation in my hand, she stared at me like I’d grown two heads. Her eyes glistened a little as she snatched the paper from my hand and tore it up like it had insulted her family.

“Was that a tear?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

“It’s water. I was washing dishes, Nia,” she sniffed, turning away way too quickly.

She didn’t fire me. Instead, she offered me an extended leave. Told me to rest, heal, and come back when I was ready. I couldn’t even argue with that. I was thankful. Because even though I wasn’t a wreck, I still needed time.

The accident itself could’ve been a lot worse. The doctors said I was lucky—only my shoulder had taken the hit. Apparently, it had been centimeters away from being a headline.

“Count your blessings,” one of the nurses had told me.

Blessings?

I was nineteen. I had almost been mowed down over a guy who didn’t even see me. Who had humiliated me and then walked away without a second glance. And the other guy? The one I kissed? He looked at me like I was gum on the bottom of his shoe.

If that’s a blessing, I’d hate to see what a curse looks like.

But here’s the thing. I didn’t stay broken.

Sure, I cried. I gave myself permission to feel it. I cried hard, in the shower mostly. Sometimes until my eyes were swollen and my throat was raw. But after that? I got up. I washed my face. And I did something about it.

One random night, while cleaning my shelf, I found a leather-bound journal Cleo had given me for my birthday last year. I remember laughing at it at the time—saying it was too dramatic, too “dear diary” for my taste. But I opened it anyway.

At first, I just vented. Poured my heart out in messy, angry ink. But then, the entries started forming structure. I wasn’t just journaling—I was writing. Thoughts turned into prose. Prose turned into chapters. Then characters. Dialogue. Whole scenes.

It surprised me—how good it felt. How clear everything became once I got it on the page.

Writing became my therapy, my anchor. My pain morphed into poetry, my heartbreak into fiction. I started writing scenes of what I wished had happened. Fantasies. Healing. I explored love stories where the girl didn’t end up in a puddle on the pavement, but found herself stronger, wiser, more fearless.

And somewhere in all that ink and chaos—I found myself.

I watched open mic nights on YouTube. Started sneaking into college theatre rehearsals just to sit in the back and observe. I made friends with the campus security guy, who now let me in without question. And every time I sat there, surrounded by scripts and spotlights, I felt something click.

I’d scribble ideas for plays on napkins, receipts, even my hand when I ran out of paper. I wasn’t sure what any of it meant yet—but I knew it meant something. This writing thing, this storytelling—it was starting to feel like a future. Like I wasn’t just surviving anymore. I was becoming.

And for a moment, I genuinely thought I was finally catching my breath.

Until life, once again, decided to punch me in the face.

“We’re moving,” Dad said casually one afternoon, like he was talking about ordering takeout.

I looked up from the laundry I was folding, my hands stilling mid-shirt. “I’m sorry… what?”

“We’re moving in with my girlfriend.”

I blinked. “I—come again?”

“Claire,” he said with a too-tight smile. “We’ve been seeing each other for a while. I didn’t want to bring it up too soon, but we’ve decided to take the next step. Her place is big. You’ll have your own room.”

I dropped the shirt in my hands. “Wait. You’ve been dating someone behind my back, and now—suddenly—we’re moving in with her?”

“It’s not sudden,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “We’ve been together almost a year. I just didn’t want to overwhelm you.”

I crossed my arms. “Overwhelm me? This isn’t overwhelming. It’s disrespectful. You didn’t even introduce us before deciding to pack up our entire lives.”

“Nia, don’t be dramatic,” he muttered.

“Oh, don’t do that,” I snapped, stepping closer. “Don’t gaslight me. Mom hasn’t even been gone two years, and you’re already playing house with someone I’ve never met?”

He winced. “That’s not fair.”

“And this is?”

He exhaled hard. “Claire makes me happy. She’s been there when no one else was. Don’t you want that for me?”

I shook my head. “Not like this. Not by cutting me out of the decision entirely. Not by pretending I don’t get a say.”

“I’m still your father. And this is happening.”

And that was that.

A week later, we pulled up to what could only be described as a mansion.

Massive gates. Cameras. A literal fountain in the driveway. The kind of place you expect to see in shows where rich kids have existential crises in designer clothes.

I stood there, suitcase behind me, staring at the towering white structure like it was mocking me.

“Claire’s really nice,” Dad said gently. “She’s excited to meet you.”

I didn’t answer. What was I supposed to say? Yay, I’m moving into a luxury prison with strangers?

The door opened before we even knocked. A tall, polished blonde woman stepped out. She was wearing slacks that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe.

She smiled like we were old friends. “You must be Nia. I’ve heard so much about you.”

I gave a curt nod. “Cool.”

She laughed, clearly thinking I was being charming. “Welcome home.”

This isn’t home, I thought. This is a showroom.

She walked us through a marble maze of rooms. Chandeliers. Gold accents. A kitchen that could feed a football team. My new room? Bigger than our entire old apartment, with a balcony that looked out over the entire city.

And I hated it.

Every square inch reeked of not mine.

Dinner was set for 7 p.m.

“You’ll meet my son then,” Claire said as if that was supposed to excite me.

I rolled my eyes.

By the time I sat stiffly at the overly polished dining table, I was already exhausted. Everything was too clean. Too shiny. I felt like I was starring in a reality show I hadn’t signed up for.

And then I heard them—those footsteps.

Confident. Heavy.

I didn’t even have to look.

But I did.

And every cell in my body screamed.

Leo Kent.

He stood in the doorway, looking just as shocked as I felt. His jaw tightened, his eyes narrowed.

Claire beamed, completely unaware. “Nia, meet my son—Leo.”

Oh.

Oh, God.

Of course.

Of freaking course.

Leo Kent. The boy I kissed in a moment of chaotic emotional implosion. The one who looked at me like I was nothing. Who promised I’d never get close to him again.

Was now my stepbrother.

Perfect.

Absolutely freaking perfect.