I slammed into the passenger seat, trying to make it look like I was fine, like I hadn’t just humiliated myself in front of half the town. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking, gripping the edge of the leather like it could keep me tethered to some kind of sanity.

Silence. Absolute, unbearable silence. I stared out the window, replaying the café scene over and over. Every word I’d screamed, every insult that had left my lips in a rush of fire and shame… it all danced behind my eyelids.

God. Why couldn’t I shut up?

I had made myself a spectacle. The girl who flipped out, screamed at Kevin, shamed Cassie, and turned Falcon Falls High into a live reality show. I would be a meme for weeks. Maybe forever.

And for what? For a boy?

I risked everything on a boy who didn’t even blink at me afterward.

Rayan sat beside me, calm as ever. No comment, no sigh, just hands on the wheel and fingers tapping like a metronome on the leather. His eyes didn’t flick to me once, and I hated him for it. He drove like some perfect Uber driver in a suit I would never be able to afford, gliding through the streets while I tried to make myself disappear in the passenger seat.

Doesn’t he have a heart? Doesn’t he see what just happened? Doesn’t he care that I—

I swallowed hard. My throat felt raw. My lips trembled. I couldn’t even trust myself not to cry. Red-faced, burning, humiliated, my chest heaving like I’d run a marathon I didn’t agree to.

The houses slid past in a blur. Every passing tree, every mailbox, every streetlamp was a reminder that the world hadn’t ended for everyone else, even though mine had.

And then… he stopped.

Just like that, the car rolled to a smooth halt on the side of the road. My heart leapt, a chaotic drum that wouldn’t slow.

“Why—?” I started, my voice trembling.

“Do not waste your tears on a boy like that,” he said. His voice was low, measured, impossibly calm.

I blinked. My stomach flipped. Oh. He does have a heart.

His hand lifted, slow, deliberate. My pulse jumped into my throat. I panicked, fingers curling into my lap. His thumb brushed my cheek. My breath caught. Then his hand gripped my chin, firm, unyielding, forcing me to meet his gaze.

Why was he so unbearably handsome? So cold? So… consuming?

I wanted to look away. I wanted to scream. I wanted to curl into myself and vanish. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t because his eyes—dark, unreadable, too intense—pinned me like I was standing in the middle of a storm, and I was the one trembling in the wind.

“Why—what are you—” my voice was nothing more than a hitch in the air.

He leaned just slightly closer, not touching, not yet, but close enough to feel the heat between us. Close enough that I imagined all the things he could do. Close enough to feel my chest tighten, my heartbeat skitter, my mind spin.

I was ready for him to order me to the back seat, to strip me bare and make me spread my legs—let him taste me, finger me, or do whatever he wanted.

I’m so fucking wet…

But instead

I shoved his hand away before I could lose control. “Oh, he has a heart. He can speak. He can give me orders,” I snapped, words faster than my thoughts. Too fast, too loud, too sharp.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink. His lips curved into a dangerous line, the kind of line that made your stomach twist and your mouth go dry at the same time.

“Careful, little Nightingale,” he murmured. “You’re not ready to play with me.”

Play.

The word hit me like a blade wrapped in silk. My stomach lurched, my chest heaving, my thoughts colliding. What did that even mean? What did he mean?

And oh god. My cheeks were on fire. My head buzzed. I could feel every nerve in my body standing at attention, trembling, aching, wanting.

“Then teach me,” I said before I could stop myself. The words tore out raw, reckless, untamed.

I almost wanted to scream at myself.

Congratulations, Yara, you just volunteered yourself for sex. For the stepbrother of your best friend. For someone ten years older.

For… him.

He stared at me like I had just undone myself. Like he could see every frayed edge, every raw thought, every heartbeat that betrayed me. And he said nothing. Nothing. Not a word.

For one moment, the world felt like it had narrowed to just the two of us, trapped in the expensive cramped car with the engine humming beneath us. My chest rose and fell like it could break free from my ribs. My mind raced, twisting and curling around every thought I wasn’t supposed to have.

Then he exhaled and pulled back. Restarted the car. Drove on like nothing had happened, like he hadn’t just pulled me into some gravity I didn’t know I could feel.

By the time we reached my house, I was trembling so hard I had to press my hands to my face. His silence as he parked made it heavier, almost suffocating.

I mumbled a thank-you I didn’t even feel, fumbling for the door handle with fingers that wouldn’t cooperate. The second I stepped out, my feet carried me up the stairs without hesitation. My mother’s puzzled look didn’t register, didn’t matter.

My room door slammed shut behind me. I dropped to the floor, face buried in my pillow.

The tears came fast. Hot. Sharp. And when they ran, I let them, shaking, choking, heaving, letting every ounce of humiliation, shame, and confusing want spill out onto the carpet.

I cursed aloud. Cursed every person and thing that had brought me here. Kevin. Cassie. Falcon Falls High. Even him, Rayan, the infuriating, handsome, untouchable man who had just broken me and held me at the same time.

“Go to hell, Kevin. Go to hell, Cassie. Go to hell, Falcon High. Go to hell, Arabian prince,” I hissed between sobs, my throat raw, my body trembling with the echo of everything that had happened.

And still, even beneath the fury, beneath the burning shame and confusion, his words lingered.

Careful, little Nightingale.

I whispered them back at the ceiling, at myself, at the empty room, shivering.

For a moment, I wondered if I’d ever be careful again. Or if I even wanted to be.