No One Will Know

Prologue

Dane Gallagher

Five hard knocks land on my bedroom door.

Dad always knocks three times. Ryan does two. The brat doesn’t knock at all—she wouldn’t dare come near my room. And Jameson? He always barges in like he owns the place.

It’s Tara.

I ignore her and keep reading. Or try to. That lasts about five seconds before my door—my locked door—swings open.

What the hell? I’m a twelve-year-old bloke. There are things I could be doing in here she really doesn’t want to walk in on.

She stands in the doorway, and I can feel her staring at me before I even look up. There’s this long sigh, like she’s already exhausted, like I’ve done something wrong just by existing.

Great. Here we go.

“Michael Dane!”

I clench my jaw. I hate when Tara calls me that. That’s what my real mum calls me.

“It’s just Dane,” I say, not looking up. “How many times do I have to tell you that?”

“Fine. Dane. What are you doing in here? Or better question—what are you not doing?”

I keep my eyes on the page. A Game of Thrones. “What does it look like I’m doing?”

“Testing my patience.”

Yeah. Sounds about right for me.

Her eyes flick to the book in my hands. “That’s not something you should be reading.”

I don’t even look up. “It’s about dragons.”

“It’s about far more than that.”

“Still has dragons in it,” I say, turning the page like I’ve got all the time in the world.

Truth is, I’m hungry and bored and looking for a fight. Pushing her buttons is basically my favorite hobby at this point.

And yeah—I know I sound like a little shit.

I don’t care.

Tara—my dad’s wife—is the reason my parents aren’t together anymore. She showed up and everything fell apart after that. Now I get dragged back here every couple of weeks like I’m supposed to play happy family.

I’m not playing.

“Come on, Dane. It’s time to go. You’ll have plenty of time to read once we’re on the yacht.”

Two weeks stuck on a boat with them. You’ve got to be kidding me.

“I’m not going on your dumb family trip. How many times do I have to say it?”

“You are part of this family. This is your trip too.”

I almost laugh. I’m not part of this family. Not really.

“Let’s get something straight,” I say, staring at the ink on the page. “I come here to see Dad. That’s it. You and Charlotte? Not my family.”

“Charlotte and I are your family, whether you like it or not.”

Mum. Dad. Ryan. Me. That was my family. We weren’t perfect, but we were good. Better than most. None of my friends had parents still together. I did.

Until I didn’t.

Now I’m stuck in this version of a blended family, where everyone pretends we all belong together.

Every couple of weeks I get pulled out of my actual life and dropped into this one, like I’m supposed to just slot in and go along with it.

And Ryan does. Acts like everything’s fine.

Like nothing ever happened. Like Mum didn’t cry herself to sleep for months.

“We’re all Gallaghers.”

Yeah. Nah.

Not all of us.

That’s enough to drag my eyes off the page. I look straight at her, making sure she sees it—everything I’m not bothering to hide. “I’m never going to accept you as my dad’s wife. And Charlotte’s not my sister. Not now. Not ever.”

“I hope one day you’ll change your mind.”

I let out a short laugh. “You’ve got your own kids. Go deal with them and leave me alone.”

“I will after you pack.”

I drop my gaze back to the book. “Not happening.”

“Dane, please. Don’t ruin this for everyone.”

I laugh under my breath. “You and your daughter came as a package deal. Dad married you, not me. That doesn’t make her my sister.”

“She is your sibling. Same as Ryan and Jameson.”

I’m not blind to the way Dad treats Charlotte. Like she actually matters. Sometimes more than me.

Whatever. Doesn’t change anything.

“You don’t get it,” I say, looking up again. “Ryan’s my full brother. Same mum, same dad. Jameson’s my half-brother. Fine. That’s just how it works.” I shrug. “But Charlotte? She’s yours. That’s it. She’s not my sister. And you’re not my mum. You can stop trying to make that happen.”

I go back to reading, but I can see her moving in my peripheral vision.

“I’ve let a lot slide from you,” she says, sharper now. “That stops here.”

Before I can react, she snatches the book out of my hands.

“Hey—”

She’s already moving toward the door, holding it up like it’s hers now. “Get up. Get packed. We’re leaving.”

I push up off the bed. “You can’t just take that.”

“I asked you three times,” she says. “That was me being patient. This is me done asking.”

She lifts the book. “You’ll get this back when you’re packed and in the car.”

“That’s bullshit.”

My voice comes out sharp—too sharp. I feel it straight away. My mistake. I shouldn’t have said that. She’s the adult. I’m not. And she’ll tell Dad. She always does.

For a second, I think about going for it—just crossing the room and taking it back before she can react. She’s smaller than me. I could do it.

But I don’t. Dad would lose it. And that’s not a fight I feel like having right now.

“Fine.”

I wait until she’s out of sight, then slam the door hard enough to rattle the frame. I throw up two middle fingers at her.

“Fuck you, Tara.”

God, I hate her.

She might’ve won this one, but I’m not done. Not even close.