Chapter 1: Bad Boys and Brunch
The first thing Sammy registered was the smell of coffee. Not the cheap, burnt-gas-station kind, but the rich, dark, expensive kind that meant Javier was already in the kitchen. The second thing was the sunlight, sharp and persistent, slicing through the gaps in the blackout curtains of her ridiculous bedroom. It painted a hot stripe across her face.
She groaned, burrowing deeper into the absurdly high-thread-count sheets. The mansion was silent, a cavern of polished marble and glass, but it was a silence that vibrated with withheld sound. Then she heard it: a burst of deep, rolling laughter from somewhere downstairs. Her brother Caleb. Followed by a lower, quieter rumble she couldn’t identify.
Saturday. Brunch. Her stomach growled in agreement.
She shoved the sheets back, the air-conditioned cool raising goosebumps on her skin. She’d crashed in an old, soft tank top from her brief, disastrous stint in a band called ‘Static Discharge’ and a pair of black short shorts. She padded barefoot across the icy marble floor of her suite, through the sitting area bigger than her first apartment, and out into the hallway.
The scents intensified, weaving together into a promise. Sizzling bacon, caramelizing onions, fresh-baked pastries, and underneath it all, that perfect coffee. She followed the trail like a cartoon character floating on the aroma, her footsteps silent on the runner.
The laughter got louder as she approached the open-plan living area. Floor-to-ceiling windows presented a postcard view of hazy LA sprawl, the sky a relentless blue. The room was a study in minimalist luxury: low-slung sofas the color of storm clouds, a brutalist fireplace, a single massive painting that was just a slash of crimson on raw canvas. It cost more than she’d ever earn.
At the vast kitchen island, Caleb sat on a stool, his back to her. He was wearing faded jeans and a heather-gray tee, his dark hair still damp from a shower. He was speaking to someone mostly hidden by the open door of the commercial-grade refrigerator.
“…so I told him, if the contract doesn’t specify the type of water in the green room, you’re getting tap. He nearly had an aneurysm.”
The lower rumble answered. A smooth, calm baritone. “Weak. You should have said Fiji or nothing. Establish dominance early.”
Rebel.
Sammy leaned against the doorway, crossing her arms. “Establishing dominance over bottled water. Really pushing the boundaries of human conflict, guys.”
Caleb spun on his stool, a wide grin breaking across his face. “Look who ascended. We were about to send a search party. Or, you know, just eat all your share of the bacon.”
“You would never,” Sammy said, pushing off and walking toward the island. “You fear Javier’s disappointed glare more than you fear market crashes.”
Javier, a compact man with kind eyes and forearms like twisted rope, glanced over from the Viking range and gave her a small, approving nod. He slid a pristine white mug toward an empty spot at the island. The coffee inside was the color of midnight.
Rebel emerged from the fridge, holding a bottle of sparkling water. He was dressed in black, as usual—simple linen pants, a loose-fitting tee. His dark hair was perfectly messy, his jaw clean-shaven. He moved with an unnerving, silent efficiency. His eyes, the color of worn slate, found hers and held for a fraction of a second too long.
“Sleep well, Samantha?” he asked, his voice that same low pitch. It wasn’t quite a tease. It was a probe.
“Like a coma patient,” she said, sliding onto the stool and wrapping her hands around the warm mug.
Caleb watched her, his teasing smile softening. “Long week?”
“You have no idea.” She took a sip of the coffee. It was perfect. “My brain feels like overcooked ramen. What’s the agenda today? Board meeting? Hostile takeover? Polo match?”
“Brunch,” Caleb said, gesturing to Javier, who was now plating clouds of scrambled eggs and crispy potatoes. “Then maybe the pool. It’s supposed to be ninety. Rebel’s going over security protocols for the Gala next week. Dull stuff.”
Rebel unscrewed his water, his gaze fixed on the label. “Not dull. Essential. The guest list has… expanded. A few volatile elements.”
“Volatile elements,” Sammy echoed, rolling her eyes. “You mean rich people with too much ego and not enough sense. I’ll keep my butter knife at the ready.”
A ghost of a smile touched Rebel’s lips. It didn’t reach his eyes. “You do that.”
Javier placed a plate in front of her. It was a masterpiece: perfect eggs, bacon that snapped, a miniature tower of golden hash browns, a sprig of fresh herbs just for color. The decadence of it, the sheer normalcy of a Saturday brunch in this spaceship of a house, was sometimes the weirdest part of it all.
She was halfway through her first bite when Caleb’s phone buzzed on the marble. He glanced at the screen, sighed a sigh that carried the weight of filial duty, and picked up. “Hey, Mom.”
Sammy could hear the tinny, anxious voice on the other end even from her seat. A mother’s worry was a high-frequency signal only he could fully receive. He pressed the phone to his shoulder. “They just want to confirm I’m not dead in a ditch. Or, more accurately, that I’m not causing a ditch.” He put the phone back to his ear. “Yes, Mom. I’m eating. Vegetables and everything… Javier made them. I know… Yes, he’s a treasure. She’s fine… Yes.”
While Caleb was pacifying their parents, Sammy felt a tickle on her bare calf. She jerked her leg. Probably just her nerves, still fried from the week. She focused on her food.
A moment later, she felt it again. A deliberate, slow brush against her skin. She looked down.
Rebel had shifted his stance. He was now leaning casually against the island counter, one foot slightly extended. His expression was neutral, contemplative, as he watched Caleb on the phone. But his ankle, his foot in its soft-soled shoe, was resting lightly, purposefully, against her bare leg.
She froze, a forkful of eggs suspended halfway to her mouth.
He didn’t look at her. He didn’t acknowledge the contact at all. He took a slow sip of his water, his throat working. Caleb, distracted, laughed at something their dad said on the phone.
Rebel’s foot remained. A casual point of connection humming with a subtext Sammy’s overcooked-ramen brain was too slow to fully decipher. A flutter of unease, cold and small, dislodged in her chest. She carefully, slowly, shifted her leg away.
He didn’t pursue. He simply withdrew his foot, the movement as smooth and unremarkable as everything else he did. He finally turned his head and looked directly at her. His slate-colored eyes were flat, unreadable pools.
“You should eat,” he said softly, so only she could hear. “You need your strength.”
The unease tightened, coiling in her stomach. She looked at her perfect plate of food, the sunlight glinting off the polished cutlery, the safe, familiar bulk of Caleb a few feet away, and for a second, the mansion didn’t feel opulent. It felt like a very beautiful, very secure cage.
She forced a smile, more for herself than for him. “Right,” she said, her voice a little too bright. “Strength.” She took the bite, but the taste of the eggs had turned to ash.
She took the bite, but the taste of the eggs had turned to ash.
Caleb tossed his phone onto the marble counter with a soft clatter, the sound echoing in the vast room. He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Okay. Debrief.”
Sammy welcomed the distraction, pulling her focus from Rebel’s unsettling presence to her brother’s familiar, exasperated face. “Let me guess. National security threats? Requests for grandchildren? A detailed inquiry into the pH balance of the pool?”
“All of the above, minus the grandchildren, thank god,” Caleb said, reaching for his coffee. “Dad is obsessed with the quarterly report from the Singapore office. He thinks the numbers are ‘artfully vague.’ His words, not mine. He wants me on a call with the attorneys Monday.”
“Fun.”
“Mom is… concerned.”
“About?”
“You.”
Sammy set her fork down. “What about me?”
Caleb gestured vaguely with his mug. “The usual. Are you eating. Are you sleeping. Are you ‘socializing with appropriate people.’ She thinks you’re becoming a recluse in this ‘glass fortress.’ She asked if I’d noticed any ‘unhealthy patterns.’ I told her your only unhealthy pattern is listening to that depressing Nordic synth-pop at full volume at two a.m.”
A flicker of a genuine smile touched Sammy’s lips. “You’re a good brother. Terrible spy, but a good brother.”
“My point is,” Caleb continued, his tone shifting slightly, “they’re amping up the pressure for you to be at the Gala next weekend. Dad specifically said he wants you talking to the Clayton group. Their son is apparently a ‘very serious young man’ who just got his MBA.”
Rebel, who had been silently observing, chose that moment to speak, his voice smooth. “Tim Clayton. Twenty-six. His risk profile is low. No public scandals. Attends the Aspen Institute debates for networking. Drives a Tesla. He’s safe.” He said ‘safe’ like it was the most boring word in the English language.
Sammy felt a spike of irritation. “I don’t need a dossier, Rebel. I need a personality. Does he have one of those?”
“The dossier is his personality,” Rebel said without missing a beat. “It’s sufficient.”
Caleb ignored the exchange, plowing on. “Look, just show up, Sammy. Smile. Nod at Tim Clayton’s thoughts on market volatility. Then you can disappear. I’ll cover for you. Deal?”
The offer was typical Caleb—a mix of obligation and protection. She knew he hated these events as much as she did, but he wore the duty like a better-fitting suit. “Deal,” she sighed.
“Good. Mom also said to remind us that our aunt Beatrice is coming into town Thursday. She expects a family dinner.”
Sammy groaned. “Aunt Beatrice still thinks I’m twelve and tries to pinch my cheeks. Physically and metaphorically.”
“She brings those terrible mint candies that taste like toothpaste,” Caleb added, a shared childhood grievance uniting them for a second.
From the corner of her eye, Sammy saw Rebel move. He pushed off from the counter, his movement fluid and silent, beginning to clear the empty plates. His arm brushed against hers as he reached for Caleb’s dish—a contact that felt too deliberate, too slow. A whisper of expensive linen against her skin. She stiffened.
He paused, his head tilting down toward her. His voice dropped, a private murmur meant only for her ear amidst the hum of the massive refrigerator and Javier’s clinking at the sink. “You should wear the red dress to the Gala,” he said. “The one with the low back. It would be a statement.”
The words hung in the air, intimate and completely out of place. He knew which dress. He’d seen it, maybe in her closet, maybe in a delivery box. The cold coil of unease in her stomach tightened into a hard knot. This wasn’t a suggestion. It felt like a directive.
Caleb, oblivious, scrolled through his phone. “Yeah, wear whatever. Just not the black hoodie, okay?”
Rebel didn’t wait for her response. He carried the dishes to the sink, his back to her, seamlessly blending back into the role of efficient staff. But the space where he had stood felt charged, the air itself thin and difficult to breathe.
Sammy pushed her half-finished plate away, the perfectly cooked food now repulsive. “I’m gonna go… sketch by the pool,” she said, her voice thankfully steady.
“Take sunscreen,” Caleb said, not looking up. “The UV index is apocalyptic.”
She slid off the stool, the marble floor cold under her feet. As she walked away from the kitchen, from the sunlight and the normalcy of bickering about Aunt Beatrice, she could feel a gaze on her back. Heavy. Persistent. She didn’t need to turn around to know whose eyes were watching her walk away, cataloging her reaction, already planning the next quiet move in a game she hadn't agreed to play.
She didn’t need to turn around to know whose eyes were watching her walk away, cataloging her reaction, already planning the next quiet move in a game she hadn't agreed to play.
The hallway to the west wing was all cool shadows and recessed lighting after the solar blast of the main living area. Her footsteps echoed, a tiny, solitary sound in the vastness. She let herself into her room just long enough to grab her battered leather sketchbook, a stub of charcoal, and her phone. She slipped on a pair of oversized sunglasses, a floppy linen hat she’d stolen from Caleb last summer, and headed for the side exit that led directly to the pool deck.
Outside, the heat was a physical weight. The infinity pool glimmered, a rectangle of impossible azure overlooking the city haze. The automated cleaning system whirred softly, a robot vacuum ghosting along the bottom. She tossed her things onto a wide sunbed under a cantilevered shade sail and sank into the cushions.
The sketchbook lay open on her lap, a blank page staring back. She picked up the charcoal, let her hand hover. She started with loose, angry lines—the sharp angle of the roof, the brutal straight edge of a window frame. She was trying to capture the house’s cold geometry, but her mind kept supplying other shapes: the curve of an ankle against her leg, the flat plane of slate-gray eyes. She scribbled over it, blacking out the page in frustration.
The phone rang, startling her. The screen showed: LINDI, SHANTEL, CORA – GROUP CALL.
She swiped accept, putting it on speaker. A cacophony of voices spilled out.
“—literally can’t even deal with this traffic, I swear to god—”
“—told him if he doesn’t fix the blend on my latte I’m going to write a Yelp review that ends his bloodline—”
“Sammy! You’re alive!”
Sammy leaned back, a real smile finally breaking through. “Barely. What’s the emergency?”
“No emergency,” Lindi said, her voice cutting through Shantel’s coffee crisis. “Just a critical cultural update you’re missing, holed up in that spaceship of yours.”
“It’s not a spaceship. It’s a… sterile monument to capital,” Sammy said, shading a corner of her failed sketch.
“Whatever. New club. Downtown,” Cora interjected, her words quick and excited. “It’s called ‘BLOOD.’ All caps. Very dramatic.”
“BLOOD?” Sammy repeated, pausing her charcoal.
“Yeah,” Shantel said. “Like, apparently the whole vibe is… I don’t know, industrial gothic? But cool, not cringe. Exposed brick, cathedral ceilings, these insane light installations that pulse like a heartbeat. The music is supposed to be this crazy mix of darkwave, hard techno, some Balkan stuff. No top-forty bullshit.”
“The door policy is vicious,” Lindi added with grim approval. “No influencers. No bottle service posers. Just, like, people who actually want to be there to lose their minds on a dance floor. Sounds like our exact brand of mess.”
Sammy looked out at the pristine pool, the immaculate deck, the silent, looming facade of the house. She imagined the thump of bass you could feel in your teeth, a crowd of anonymous bodies, the sweat and the release. A place where no one knew her last name or cared about quarterly reports.
“Okay,” Sammy said, the word coming out before she could second-guess it. “That sounds fun. When?”
“Tonight,” all three of them said in unison.
“Tonight?” A flutter of nervous energy, the good kind, lit in her chest. “Isn’t that, like, zero notice?”
“That’s the point, idiot,” Cora laughed. “Spontaneity. Rebellion. Remember those concepts? We’ll pick you up at ten. Wear black. And for the love of god, don’t tell your brother’s creepy security detail where we’re really going.”
A shadow fell across her sketchbook. Sammy’s head snapped up.
Rebel stood at the edge of the shade sail, holding a tall glass of iced water with a slice of lemon. He hadn’t made a sound. His expression was neutral, professional. How much had he heard?
“Gotta go,” Sammy said quickly, her voice bright. “See you at ten. Text me the address.” She ended the call.
Rebel stepped forward and placed the glass on the small table beside her. Condensation already beaded on the sides. “Javier thought you might need hydration,” he said, his voice flat. “The sun is intense.”
“Thanks,” she said, not touching the glass.
He stood there for a moment, his gaze moving from her face to the black-smeared sketchbook and back. “Everything alright?”
“Peachy.” She closed the sketchbook with a definitive snap. “Just… making plans.”
“Plans are good,” he nodded slowly. “It’s important to have a schedule.” He didn’t move. “Will you need the car tonight?”
The question hung in the humid air. A normal question from a member of the household staff. It didn’t feel normal.
“No,” Sammy said, meeting his eyes through her dark lenses. “My friends are picking me up.”
A faint, almost imperceptible tightening around his mouth. “I’ll inform the gate.” He gave a slight, correct nod. “Enjoy your afternoon, Samantha.”
He turned and walked back toward the house, silent as a shadow retreating from the light. Sammy watched him go, then picked up her phone. She opened the group chat, where the address for BLOOD was already waiting.
She typed a single word.
Sammy: Yes.