Sometimes I wonder how people see me. Not what they say—because people always say nice things when you come from a good family. Pretty. Polite. Graceful. A Westwood. The kind of girl who doesn't make noise, doesn't mess up, doesn't get involved in the kind of trouble that sticks. But if anyone really looked close, I think they'd see something else. Someone else. Someone quieter. A little lost. A little selfish. A little too good at pretending everything is okay.
I wake up most days wishing I felt more like myself. But I don't even know who that is anymore. Maybe I never did.
I'm twenty-one. Final year at Bensley University. Business and Arts. Not because I want to take over my father's old gallery or become some high-flying executive like everyone expects—but because I don't really know what I want. I just know I don't want to disappoint anyone. Especially not Elijah.
Elijah Westwood. My older brother. My protector. My personal superhero growing up. Seven years older, brilliant in every way that matters. He's a lawyer—top of his field. Makes people cry in courtrooms. Mom used to call him the golden child. And for a while, I didn't mind being the shadow he cast. It felt safe.
We were raised by order and reputation. Mom ran a luxury spa brand. Dad ran a private art brokerage before he passed. Together, they built a name that made people stare a little longer when we walked into rooms. That kind of spotlight doesn't feel warm, though. It feels sharp. And cold. And heavy.
When Dad died, Elijah stepped up. He was only twenty-four, and already too serious. He made sure we stayed above water. Worked insane hours. Took care of Mom. Took care of me. And somewhere along the way, I stopped feeling like his sister and more like another thing he needed to manage.
That's when Kairo entered the picture.
Kairo Steele. He wasn't like Elijah's usual friends—Elijah's crowd is made of clean-shaven, suit-wearing professionals who say all the right things and marry all the right women. Kairo wasn't like that. He was quieter. Sharper. Dangerous in the way he didn't try to charm you but still made you lean in. The first time I saw him, I was seventeen and too naive to understand what kind of man he was. I just remember the way he walked into our living room and made the whole space feel smaller. Like he brought a storm in with him and no one noticed but me.
He didn't speak to me that day. Barely looked in my direction. But something about him lodged in my memory like a thorn.
Years passed. I went off to school. Tried dating boys who didn't make me feel like I was falling into something too deep. Tried smiling more. Dressing less. Being the girl everyone wanted.
It never worked.
Because somewhere in the back of my mind, I remembered Kairo's eyes. The way he looked at Elijah when they talked business. The way his voice dipped lower when he said something that mattered. And then one summer, I came home—and everything shifted.
He started noticing me.
He didn't say much. He never does. But the way he looked at me... it wasn't brotherly. It wasn't friendly either. It was heat wrapped in silence. It made my skin tighten under my clothes and my thoughts scatter. I'd catch him staring when no one else was paying attention. I'd feel his hand brush mine when we passed things at the table. I'd hear my name in his voice like a dare I didn't know how to take.
I should've ignored it. I tried.
But the more I tried, the more I started seeing pieces of him I wasn't supposed to know. Like the fact that he's obsessed with structure—every part of his world calculated and neat, except for the way he touches his whiskey glass when he's thinking. Or the way his jaw ticks when Elijah mentions other men in my life. Or how he never brings women around us, even though I know they exist.
I know I'm not special. Not really. But when Kairo looks at me, it feels like I am. And that might be the most dangerous lie of all.
Tonight was supposed to be simple. Family dinner. A few laughs. Some teasing. But everything about the way he looked at me felt like a fuse waiting to be lit. And I—I didn't stop him.
Now I'm here. Back in this room. Wearing his hoodie. Reading a message I should delete. And all I can hear is his voice behind my door, saying my name like it's already his.
'Lyra. Open the door.'
And for once in my life, I think I will.