After All This Time (Breaking the rules #2)

1. Amelia

Chapter 1

Amelia

" I know you hate moving, but if you're going to be here, could you please help me carry this shit?" I shift the weight of two overstuffed duffel bags and glare at Tobias as he casually strolls through our apartment.

"I am helping. If it weren't for me, it would still be sitting down there in the moving van," Tobias remarks as he points out the window.

With an unlit cigarette dangling between his lips, he steps toward me, holding the smallest box he could find labeled bedroom .

I quickly drop the two bags of clothes I've been hauling and snatch the box from his grasp before he can even open his mouth.

I swear, if he ever opens this box, I'll end him so thoroughly they'll need dental records to piece together what's left.

"What's up your ass?"

"Nothing, but could you please grab something that weighs more than your ego?"

I don’t even bother looking back as I head toward my bedroom, but I definitely catch the "Wow" he lets out, paired with a chuckle, as he trails after me down the hallway.

I step into my personal cotton-candy hell and drop to my knees beside the bed. My "self-care"box—the one containing things I would rather burn than have Tobias find—gets shoved under the bed with more force than necessary. Vibrators, lingerie, and every other indulgence that screams keep out or lose your balls are now tucked safely away from his reach.

"Where do you want this?"he mumbles, his voice muffled where his cigarette still hangs between his lips.

"Just at the end of the bed, please."

Tobias lowers the heavy box of my dance books to the floor, his hands resting on his hips as he catches his breath.

"Too heavy for you?" I tease, my gaze drifting to the cigarette now tucked behind his left ear.

"You wanna move the rest in here yourself, Firefly?"

It's not that I'm weak. My core strength and legs could easily take him down—thank you, years of dance—but my arms? Not so much.

"Yeah, that's what I thought," he adds as he walks out of the room.

Fifteen minutes later, my bedroom looks like a hoarder's wet dream. There are piles of random crap everywhere, and I'm convinced half of it spawned out of thin air because I sure as hell don't remember packing all of this.

"Right," Tobias says from the doorway, leaning against the frame like he walked straight out of a smutty book. "Do you need me for anything else?"

"How do you feel about unpacking?" I ask, half-hoping he might actually stay and help but fully aware there's zero chance of that happening.

"Fuck no, I’m out," he says, pushing off the doorframe and disappearing out of the apartment.

Asshole—good thing he’s pretty.

Tobias and I first met when his dad started dating my mom. She was David's secretary once upon a time— yeah, shady as shit —and their relationship was definitely going on for much longer than either of them has ever admitted.

Three months after they stopped pretending they weren't already sleeping together, Mom and I moved into their palace. Okay, so it's not a palace, but we went from a modest two-bedroom house to this enormous, hallmark-worthy mansion I didn't think I would ever get used to.

Admittedly, I got used to it; anyone would, and if they told you they hated living in luxury, they would be lying.

I was almost fourteen when we met, and I was instantly hit with a weird little flutter in my chest. However, as the years rolled by, the undeniable and extremely inconvenient physical attraction toward him never went away.

But I guess some attractions aren't a choice; they're your body betraying your mind and ignoring you no matter how many times you remind yourself you're technically family.

Being into Tobias before he hit six-foot-something and covered himself in ink isn't a thread I enjoy pulling at, so I've always just blamed it on teenage hormones and the awkwardness of not being entirely comfortable in my own skin. But honestly, I've been fighting against my morals for years, torn between this dumb crush and what I know to be right and wrong, and it is wrong to look at Tobias like he's anything but my stepfather's son.

But what can I say? I'm a slut for blue eyes and tattoos.

I'm not in love with him or anything. Love isn't the issue here—it doesn't even exist in the same universe. But lust is an entirely different beast altogether, and unfortunately, I'm irresistibly drawn to tall, dark-haired guys covered in tattoos who look like they could completely wreck your life, and you'd thank them for it.

Yeah, that's my kryptonite.

After four years of pirouetting my way through school under my mother's suffocating supervision, I finally claimed something that was entirely mine. Two job offers landed in my lap like golden tickets after our final recital, but my heart was already set on Chicago. However, what I didn't anticipate was how my dream would collide with my mother's relentless need to control every single breath I took.

It wasn't because she genuinely cared about my happiness but because it gave her something to brag about and show off at her country club lunches. To her, my achievements were a reflection of her parenting skills, not the countless hours I'd poured into perfecting every turn, leap, and plié.

Every blistered toe and sleepless night at the barre belonged to me, but in her world, they were hers to flaunt.

It was my mom's idea that Tobias and I move in together. Just another way for her to boast to her rich bitch friends about what a selfless, incredible mother she is—never mind that half their precious kids are probably coked out most weekends, snorting lines off asses their parents are unknowingly funding.

Okay, maybe that's a bit of rich-kid stereotyping, but my best friend Allison has stories that would make your therapist need a therapist.

I was tempted to tell my mom no—to find my own place, if only to reclaim a shred of independence from her constant need to control everything. However, David, Tobias's father, just couldn't resist wading in with his manipulative bullshit. He painted this little picture of how it would make my mom happy, how she just wants to make sure that I have someone looking out for me, and how it's such a small thing to ask of us—so reasonable that neither of us should even think about complaining.

To the outside world, my family appears to have it all—an overpriced and unnecessarily large house with a pool and a gym, while flashy cars sit unused in the driveway and my mom walks around dripping in designer clothes. However, the reality is that my mom married into money when she married Tobias's dad, and without him, she'd never have the life she does.

The day my mom made my dad pack his bags and leave, he didn't just walk out with his beaten-up suitcase. He took with him every ounce of softness she had left, leaving behind a woman I barely recognized.

I was nine when my parents split—old enough to understand that love doesn't pay the bills but still young enough to hold onto the idea of happy endings.

That fantasy didn’t last long.

Six years later, my dad was gone for good, and by then, my mom had fully transformed herself into Mrs. David Sinclair—a polished trophy wife with a designer wardrobe, a cold smile, and an asshole attitude to match.

And the worst part? She acted like her new life was the ultimate achievement, like everything she had was all I should ever want for myself, but all it did was show me exactly who I never wanted to become.

I saw how it ate at my Dad during those last years. The way his jaw would clench when he picked me up from our new house, while his worn-down Toyota looked like nothing more than a stain on the pristine driveway.

He never said anything—he wasn't that kind of man—but I knew.

As the years go by, my memories of my dad have started to blur together. But the ones that stand out are the ones I hold onto tightly. Like the countless times he drove me to dance class and how he would sit in the front row at every recital, smiling up at me with pride.

I miss him with an ache that never really goes away.But I'm okay.The world keeps turning, and it won't stop while I break down, so I do what he taught me. I get up. I breathe. I fucking live—even when it feels like I'm leaving him behind with every step forward.

He died when I was fifteen in a plane crash— the safest way to travel, my ass —and it shattered my world, throwing everything off-balance. But as I entered my late teens, I slowly pieced myself back together from the grief. Nobody prepares you for losing a parent, and because I was so young, I knew that I'd have to live my life remembering him for longer than I knew him.

God, he would be so disappointed in me if I ever turned into what my mom has over the years—a money-hungry, people-pleasing puppet caring only about the opinions of her rich dipshit friends, who she always seeks validation from.

This is where Tobias and I are exactly the same; nothing about him screams privileged little rich boy—except maybe his car—but you'd never realize what his upbringing was like just by looking at him.

Before this weekend, I hadn't seen him in a while. We would talk all the time, but it had been about seven months since I last saw him. He came home for Christmas, but like always, it was a quick in-and-out trip. Tobias and his dad's complicated relationship isn't something I fully understand, but I've learned that some wounds cut too deep for even the closest people to reach.

Still, being here now, with him, it feels familiar—it feels like home.