Chapter Twenty-Five
MILA
Luke’s kiss pulsed under my skin like a second heartbeat—impossible to ignore.
I’d tried. I went to the studio along the boardwalk across from the beach to think, to escape.
I put my phone across the room. Stared at a blank canvas for twenty minutes.
Ignored Avery’s texts—three so far, asking if I was coming back out, which I didn’t plan to.
Because no matter how much I wanted to run into Luke and have it happen again, it couldn’t.
Too much still hung between us, unresolved.
The rental Mom and I were staying in carried a silence that wrapped around you and whispered all the things you didn’t want to hear. Normally, that would’ve been fine—better, even. But tonight it taunted, as if it knew what I’d done. And what I wanted to do again.
Luke King kissing me was not supposed to happen.
But it did. And now I couldn’t stop replaying it. The sound of his breath catching. The way his hands curled into my shirt like he couldn’t decide whether to pull me closer or push me away. The heat. The ache. The way the world dropped out from under us and nothing else existed.
My phone lit up again. I glanced at it.
Avery: Come on, it’s just us. You need out of your head. And I promise no more Simon.
I smiled, a small huff of a breath slipping out. But I didn’t answer. Instead, I texted my mom.
Me: You home tonight?
I wasn’t expecting much. She usually worked late. Or didn’t answer. Or gave me a vague timeline that meant nothing. But two minutes later:
Mom: Just finishing up. Be home in ten. Got stuff for pizza :)
My chest tightened. She hadn’t cooked in weeks. Not real cooking. Not homemade pizza with burnt cheese edges and flour on the floor and music blaring, loud enough to drown out the rest of the world.
When the door opened, she breezed in as if she’d never left.
Coat slung over one arm, grocery bag in the other.
She looked gorgeous, of course. She always did.
A slightly older, more polished version of me—but much prettier.
High cheekbones, wide eyes, and a smile that could melt or manipulate depending on her mood.
“Hey, baby,” she said, dropping the bag on the counter. “Hope you’re hungry. I got everything for pizza. Real pizza. None of that frozen cardboard crap.”
I blinked. “You okay?”
She laughed, already pulling her dark hair into a loose bun. “Why? Can’t a mom cook dinner without it being a red flag?”
“Not usually.”
She shot me a look but grinned. “Fair. Get the flour, will you? Bottom cabinet.”
We moved around the kitchen as though we hadn’t forgotten how.
She tossed me an apron—I caught it midair.
I dusted the counter in flour, too much probably, and she shook her head but didn’t comment.
She found the old cutting board and started chopping vegetables like it was second nature.
Somewhere between arguing about pineapple on pizza—absolutely not—and burning the first crust, something in my chest eased.
We danced to an 80s pop playlist. Sang off-key. Laughed too loud. It wasn’t perfect, but it was real. And I hadn’t had that with her in too long.
After the third mini pizza, she gestured to the living room. “Pick a movie. Something ridiculous. We deserve it.”
I picked a rom-com. One with a predictable plot and pretty people pretending heartbreak was something you could solve in ninety minutes. We curled up on the couch, plates balanced on our laps, and for a while, it felt similar to before.
Until it didn’t.
I couldn’t sit still. My leg bounced. My fingers picked at the crust until the edges crumbled.
Mom paused the movie then turned toward me. “Okay. Spill. You’re squirming like you’ve got ants in your pants.”
I hesitated. “It’s… about a few things.”
Her smile dropped into something quieter. Still soft, but focused.
“The principal,” I said. “The one who’s giving me the scholarship for the academy. You’re still seeing him?”
She nodded. “Until you graduate.”
“Is it real?”
She gave a dry laugh. “Real? No. Strategic? Definitely.”
I watched her. Tried to read beyond her practiced response. “But is he a good guy?” She said he wasn’t dangerous. I wanted to make sure.
“Mila.” Her voice dipped, gentler. “Don’t waste your empathy on him. He’s a mark. He gets to play savior. We get a scholarship and stability. He’s not the worst, but don’t romanticize it. That’s not what this is.”
I chewed my lip. “He wants us to move in. Doesn’t he?” They always fell hard and fast for her, even if they knew the score.
A flicker of surprise passed through her expression. “He’s mentioned it.”
“And?”
“And that’s not the right angle.”
“What is, then?”
She tilted her head, studying me. “You sure you want the answer?”
I nodded once.
“He wants to feel as if he belongs.” She broke the crust with her thumb.
“Like money and power. But he’s not one of them—he’s the help.
So he clings to me, treating me as his meal ticket into the club.
Younger woman, complicated past, pretty enough to distract from the fact that he’ll never really sit at the table. ”
It made my stomach twist. How easily she said it. How transactional it sounded. “And your job? You’re working for Elise’s dad.”
She stilled. “Did something happen?”
“She’s a problem. And she’s too connected. Are you working directly under him?” If Elise and I came to blows, it wouldn’t just be a social fallout—I could cost Mom her job. That was the only reason I hadn’t done the damage I’d wanted to.
“Not always. Mostly his second. But he knows who I am.”
“Can you find anything out?” I bit my bottom lip, not sure I liked what that said about me, but I was definitely my mother’s daughter in ways that mattered—being prepared, forewarned, doing my homework. “About him?”
Her brows lifted. “Why?”
“Because from what Elise is hinting at, he’s up to something. And I’m not walking blind through this town anymore.”
She leaned back, arms crossed, studying me as if I’d grown another spine. “You’re learning.”
“I’m surviving. There’s a difference.” My voice cracked, just slightly. “And I need to know—we’re not leaving, right? Not in the middle of the night. No packing bags while it’s still dark out. No ditching phones and switching cars. No starting over.”
She was quiet for a beat. Then she set her plate on the coffee table and clasped her hands in her lap, all the usual performative ease stripped away. Just her. Just us.
“We’re staying,” she said, steady and sure. “That’s the deal. Until you graduate. I gave you my word, Mila—and I meant it.”
Something in my chest unclenched. Not fully. But enough. I nodded. “Okay. Good.”
Her hand brushed mine. Brief. Gentle in a way that felt like comfort.
“As for Elise’s dad,” she went on, voice dropping into something sharper, “he’s not clean. Not even close. But the people who deal in shadows don’t just hand you their secrets. It takes time. Patience. And access.”
“Do you have that?”
“I’m working on it.” Her mouth curled, sly. “I always do.” She stood, stretching. “Pizza’s probably cold.”
But I didn’t care about the pizza. I just watched her move through the kitchen, part predator, part survivor, part mother—everything I knew and didn’t know about her wrapped up in one woman.
I wanted her to say more. That she had a plan. That we would be safe. That all this wasn’t just another slow-motion collapse.
But she didn’t. She reheated a slice. Sat back down.
Pressed play as though none of it weighed her down.
And I did the only thing I could. I let her—because Mom was on it.
There was a plan in place. And I’d get the information I needed so Elise couldn’t ambush me.
Or Luke. Not without me seeing it coming first.