Chapter 6 [Cole's POV]

Vivian Kelly was a strange creature.

Other kids, I could see right through them at a glance. The ones trying to please me, the ones afraid of me, the ones wanting to steal my things—it was all written on their faces. Boring as hell.

Only her, I couldn't read.

She was afraid of me. That much I knew. She'd shrink whenever she saw me, eyes dropping to the floor, shoulders hunching up to her ears. But unlike the others who'd either keep their distance or run crying to the adults when scared, she just sat there in my playroom, quiet in her fear, nose buried in a book.

As if being afraid of me mattered less than whatever was printed on those worn pages.

It pissed me off.

Pissed me off so much that I started paying attention to her.

When she read, she'd twist a strand of hair around her pinky finger. At scary passages, her voice would unconsciously soften. She always sat in the same corner of the bean bag chair, knees pressed together tight, like she was ready to bolt at any second.

When she smiled, her eyes curved into two crescents. But she rarely smiled. At least not around me.

I catalogued all of this. I had no idea why. Other kids, I couldn't even be bothered to remember their names.

Once, another visiting boy tried to talk to her, asking what book she was reading.

I don't know what came over me. I walked over, yanked the book from her hands, and shoved it into my pocket.

"This is my book," I said. "In my house, everything's mine."

The boy slunk away. Vivian stared at me with wide eyes, speechless.

That night I couldn't sleep. I pulled the book from my pocket and flipped through it for what felt like hours, not absorbing a single word.

I just didn't want anyone else touching her book.

No. That wasn't it.

I just didn't want anyone else talking to her.

What the difference was between those two statements, I couldn't quite parse at the time.

I was used to people orbiting around me. The moment I entered a room, all the kids would stop and look. The ones wanting to play with me, the ones trying to curry favor, the ones afraid I'd take their things—their eyes would all stick to me.

Only Vivian Kelly's eyes stuck to a book.

When I fell from the monkey bars, she gasped "ah"—and that was it. Back to her book.

I fell a dozen more times. On purpose. Wanting to hear her gasp again.

She didn't. The sound of her turning pages was louder than me hitting the mat.

It made my teeth itch with frustration. I'd never been so thoroughly ignored in my life.

So I took her book and made her read to me. Reading meant looking at words, which meant no time to look at anything else. Which meant she had to spare me some attention.

Thinking about it that way, even I felt it was a bit pathetic.

The day I pushed her off the swing, I didn't actually mean to. She was in my way and wouldn't speak up, and I got impatient and shoved her. She ended up with a gashed head and a trip to the hospital.

Those few days, I couldn't sleep well.

I refused to admit I was worried. Ashfords don't worry about the groundskeeper's daughter. I just... found the playroom too quiet. No one occupying my spot on the bean bag chair, no one reading aloud those words I was too lazy to read myself, no one softly gasping "ah" when I tumbled from the monkey bars.

So quiet I wanted to smash things.

So when Mom told me to apologize, I didn't put up much of a fight. Though that "I'm sorry" stuck in my throat like swallowing a stone.

When she accepted the book, her shoulders relaxed just a fraction. Just that tiny movement, and somehow the stone lodged in my chest loosened too.

So annoying.

The day before the match, I called her up to the greenhouse.

I'd only meant to make her promise to come watch. But somehow, the words "I'm afraid of losing" just slipped out on their own.

I'd never said that to anyone. Couldn't say it to Dad—he'd only respond that Ashford men don't get afraid. Couldn't say it to Mom—she'd get more anxious than me.

But with Vivian, I said it.

Because she wouldn't laugh at me. She'd just widen those big eyes and seriously try to think of a solution.

And she did. She pulled out a tiny silver sugar pearl, pressed it into my palm, and said it was lucky.

Of course I knew it was nonsense to fool kids. A sugar decoration from a cake couldn't possibly help.

But I still clutched it tight.

Because it was hers. She'd picked it from her treasures and given it to me.

That night, I placed the sugar pearl on my nightstand. Lay down, then got up to look at it. Lay down again, looked again.

I was afraid it would melt. Afraid it would disappear.

I'd never cared about anything this much. Just a stupid sugar pearl. But because Vivian gave it to me, it was different.

I couldn't figure out why it was different. But I knew it was.

The next day, I won.

The match was actually brutal. My opponent was a year older, with serves that were both fast and vicious. I lost the first set.

During the changeover, I slipped my hand into my pocket and felt the sugar pearl. Hard and cool.

I thought of how Vivian looked when she gave it to me. So afraid of me her hands were trembling, yet she still gave me her most precious thing.

Somehow, touching that sugar pearl, the panic inside me dissolved.

Second set, I didn't drop a single point.

Standing on the court, gripping that sugar pearl in my pocket, when the referee announced the score, my first instinct was to look toward the stands.

She was there. Huddled in a corner, small hands on her knees, face pale with nerves. But the moment I won, she smiled. Smiled with her eyes curved into two crescents.

That smile was for me.

I'd played plenty of matches, taken plenty of first places. Dad would clap my shoulder, coaches would nod, Mom would cry. But no one had ever looked at me and smiled like that. Not because winning was impressive, but simply because they were happy for me.

That feeling was better than winning. A hundred times better.

That smile looked better than any trophy.

I'd won so many trophies in my life I'd lost count. Every single one, Dad would glance at it, nod once, and lock it away in the cabinet. Trophies meant completed tasks to me, meant brief satisfaction on my father's face.

But Wren's smile was different. That smile was for me. Not for the champion, not for the Ashford heir, but for me, Cole, the person.

I never told anyone this. If I did, they'd definitely laugh—a prodigy on the court, and what he wanted most was a smile from some poor girl in the corner of the stands.

Too embarrassing.

But I knew in my heart that smile was worth a whole cabinet of trophies.

In that moment, I made a decision.

Vivian Kelly was my lucky charm.

From now on, she had to come to every match. Her sugar pearl, her books, that little gasp of hers, that smile when I won—all of it was mine.

I wouldn't say something stupid like "I like you." That was too dumb, too soft. Ashford men don't say things like that.

I'd just say: You have to come. If you don't come, it won't work.

Same meaning. Just less stupid.

After that, I moved her things to my side, piece by piece.

The bean bag chair she sat in became her exclusive seat—no one else was allowed to touch it. The books she'd read aloud, I wouldn't let Rosa put away a single one. On days she was coming, I'd ask Rosa first thing in the morning whether her mother was scheduled to work, whether she'd be here.

I wouldn't let other kids near her. Once, some guy named Rex talked to her at school and made her laugh. I wanted to smash things all day. After school, I found an excuse and kicked him off the team.

Vivian didn't know any of this. She thought I only used her as an audiobook.

Perfect. The less she knew, the less she could run.

I had this problem. Whatever I claimed as mine, I'd never let go. Dad called it the Ashford stubbornness. Mom said it was being spoiled rotten.

I didn't care what it was called. I only knew that Vivian Kelly was mine. From the moment she gave me that sugar pearl, she was mine.

I was eight that year. I didn't yet understand how heavy the word "like" could be.

I only knew that from the moment that sugar pearl warmed in my palm, Vivian Kelly would never escape my grasp.

Even many years later, when she stood at my door with red-rimmed eyes, selling herself to me for twenty-five thousand dollars.

I'd already decided long ago.

I would never let go. Not in this lifetime.