Chapter 2: Rumors, Sacrifice, and Silent Wars

"I’m drunk. I called you to take me home."

"Where’s your driver?"

"If I had a driver, what would I need you for?"

I snorted, rolling my eyes, but crossed the room anyway. Helped him up, draped a coat over his shoulders, smoothed his hair out of his face—almost without thinking.

His whole face was in the open now, every line and shadow clear.

I caught myself staring, especially at his eyes—narrowed from the booze, but somehow even more magnetic that way.

Grant noticed and let out a low chuckle, leaning in so close I could feel his breath on my ear: "Don’t just stand there. When we get home, you can stare all you want."

"Sure," I murmured, the word slipping out before I could catch it.

With everyone watching, I helped Grant out. As I was closing the door, that clueless kid shot up and yelled after him:

"Whitaker! Lila’s coming back the day after tomorrow! You picking her up?"

I felt Grant stiffen for a second. He glanced at me, then turned his head, slow and deliberate.

"Lila? She’s coming back? When’s her flight?"

"Day after tomorrow. Ten in the morning!"

He went quiet, lost in his own head. Without another word, he shut the door behind us.

Lila Chen—Grant’s childhood sweetheart. The Chen and Whitaker families had a handshake deal years ago. Nothing official, but everyone knew where it was headed.

If things had gone as planned, the engagement would’ve been done the minute they hit legal age. But the two of them never seemed to have that spark.

Lila, stubborn as hell, ignored her family’s wishes and took off for Milan to chase her own dreams. The engagement got shelved.

Grant was about sixty percent drunk, eyes closed, slumped in the back seat, silent the whole ride. I enjoyed the rare quiet. At every red light, I couldn’t help glancing over at his face.

My heart—dead for so long—started to flutter. In the dim light, Grant’s features blurred and overlapped with Daniel Hayes’s in my mind.

"You like me that much? Can’t keep your eyes off me?" Grant cracked an eye, catching me in the act.

I jerked my gaze away, forced myself to focus on the road, and kept quiet.

Grant didn’t know that, in this light, tipsy and with his lips pressed together, he looked almost exactly like Daniel—close enough to make my heart hurt.

Grant’s house was a classic Chicago mansion—sprawling, circular driveway, fountain out front. By the time we pulled in, it was nearly 2 a.m.

I was so tired my eyelids felt glued together, but I still followed him inside, keys jingling in my hand.

"Make me some hangover soup," Grant called, already peeling off his jacket as he disappeared into the shower.

Ten minutes later, he strolled into the kitchen, towel slung low on his hips, walking with the lazy swagger of someone who knows he owns the world.

I tried not to look, but his upper body was hard to ignore—broad shoulders, lean muscle, the kind of body that screams gym membership.

But honestly, that never did much for me.

He took the bowl, downed the soup in one go, water trickling down his chin. He wiped it away with the back of his hand, as careless as ever.

"Tomorrow, come with me to the airport," Grant said, tone making it clear it wasn’t a request.

I didn’t hesitate: "I don’t have time."

"You’re not curious to see Lila?" He sounded amused, like he’d caught me in a lie.

"I’m not going because I have to be in Maple Heights early tomorrow."

"For what?"

"Memorial Day. I’m visiting a grave."

Of course, Lila’s return had to land right on Memorial Day weekend. Otherwise, maybe I’d have been nosy enough to see if she really looked sixty percent like me.