Chapter 2
ALFIE
The BMW’s dashboard lights up with another missed call from Drake.
The same reason I chose geology over business school, research over real estate, a cluttered lab over a corner office.
Drake is probably calling about the family’s summer plans.
He’ll want to make sure I’m ready for another carefully orchestrated few weeks of networking, deal-making, and not-so-subtle hints about suitable matches.
Mother’s already mentioned in her latest email that Marcie Bollingdon is back from her trip.
I understand perfectly.
As if I haven’t spent years dodging their attempts to push me toward Marcie. I turn up the music.
I arrive at the UMS geology labs quickly, itching to get stuck into my research.
Stepping into the lab, the chatter dims. It always does. Eyes dart to screens as a few heads subtly drop, trying not to get caught looking at me. Someone fumbles a coffee cup. The liquid sloshes over the rim, but no one says a word.
Good. I don’t need to be liked.
“Evening,” someone mutters, voice wary. A half-hearted attempt at civility. I don’t bother responding. It won’t change anything.
People don’t like me because they don’t know me. I don’t let them. They don’t like the way I look at them, the way I don’t fill silences with bullshit. That’s fine. I prefer it that way.
The simulation data blurs on my screen as I rub my tired eyes.
The Europa model shows promising results—minor variations in pressure that could indicate exactly what we’ve been looking for.
If I’m right about the mineral formations, it could change everything we thought we knew about potential life in our solar system. The time flies by as I work.
Professor Hammond’s words echo in my head. “This summer could make your entire career, Mr. Spencer.”
No pressure. As the first week of summer break comes to a close, the campus is noticeably quieter with most people gone. My friends and I had a last big blowout before summer on Friday. The memory makes my head pound. I should’ve said no to Ethan and his tequila. It is not a good time.
Fragments of the night come back to me, Ethan’s lethal punch, the geology building’s fluorescent lights, and... Tara.
I’ve spent two years trying not to look at Troy’s little sister.
Two years of pretending not to notice how she lights up talking about fossils, how she makes everyone around her feel more alive by existing.
Two years of forcing my eyes away when she walks into a room in those dresses that show off her legs.
Two years of pretending I don’t notice how her ass looks in jeans, or the way she bites her lip when she’s thinking.
Fucking torture.
And I threw it all away in one moment of drunken stupidity. One kiss that can never, never happen again. That I need to forget happened at all.
I glance at my watch—8 pm. The lab is silent except for the soft hum of equipment, exactly how I like it. No distractions. No complications. Just me and the possibility of discovering something that matters.
My coffee’s gone cold but I drink it anyway, Grandpa’ voice drifts through my memory.
“The universe doesn’t give up its secrets easily, boy. You’ve got to earn them.”
He was the first person who ever took my interest in science seriously.
While Father was pushing business schools and Mother was arranging “casual” meetings with daughters of her country club friends, Grandpa was setting up telescopes in the manor’s garden.
Teaching me constellations. Showing me that there were bigger things to care about than the family legacy.
My phone buzzes, it’s a notification from . ButterBoi69 has made their move in our ongoing game.
I snort, checking the board. They’ve put me in check with a move I should have seen coming.
ButterBoi69 might have a ridiculous username, but they’re the only online opponent who consistently challenges me.
We’ve been trading wins for months now, neither of us able to maintain an advantage for long.
Just as I’m contemplating my response, the simulation computer beeps. New data. Something in the pressure readings has changed.
“Well,” I mutter, setting aside the chess game, “show me what you’re hiding.”
Europa’s secrets might be hard to earn, but they’re worth every sleepless night. Worth every disapproving look from my father. Worth choosing this path instead of the one laid out for me since birth.
I simply have to prove it.
A text comes through from Drake, my big brother.
Brother
Bro, answer my calls. It’s important. Mother wants to know when you’re going to take Marcie out.
Delete. Like clockwork.
My phone lights up with a photo - Drake and Lisa at some charity event, perfect smiles, perfect clothes, perfect lies. Just like our parents. Just like every Spencer marriage for generations.
Brother
Here’s Lisa and I this weekend. What a blast. Raised 1.1 mil, the Montgomery’s only raised 500k at their event - Ha!
I turn back to my data analysis, but the numbers swim on my screen as an unwanted memory surfaces, sharp and visceral despite the years.
Dad’s study. Me at seven, bow tie choking, asking when we’re leaving for the annual Montgomery charity event.
The heavy mahogany door creaking open to reveal his secretary bent over his desk.
Him straightening his tie afterward, that practiced smile never wavering as he said, “Your mother understands how these things work, son. It’s all part of the arrangement. ”
The sickening part? She did understand. Never said a word about his affairs as long as he kept playing his role by attending her charity events, funding her social projects, maintaining their carefully curated image. A perfect business arrangement wearing the mask of marriage.
That massive Spencer family portrait still dominates their foyer - Mother draped in pearls, Father in his bespoke suit, Drake and I posed like expensive dolls. I remember the photographer’s frustrated plea.
“Mrs. Spencer, maybe something more natural? A genuine smile, maybe a laugh?”
Mother’s reply could have frozen hell. “This is my smile. Take the photo.”
Drake learned the lesson well. I watch him now, following the same path with Lisa - the society princess with the right connections. She gets status and security; he gets boardroom access through her family. Their engagement announcement might as well have been a fucking merger filing.
A shadow falls across my desk - Kinsey hovering in the doorway like she’s approaching a cornered animal. Most grad students avoid my lab entirely, whispering about the antisocial Spencer kid who practically lives here. The intense one. The broken one.
Good. Let them talk. Fear keeps people at a safe distance.
Kinsey clears her throat, still waiting with a stack of printouts. Her hands shake slightly. “The new pressure readings...”
“Right.” My voice comes out harder than intended, and she flinches. I don’t soften my tone. “Show me.”
This is why I chose earth science. Rocks are real, they’re hard solid proof of the past. They don’t lie. They don’t pretend to be something they’re not.
My phone buzzes again. Drake. I don’t even look.
I silence my phone, turning back to the simulation data and Kinsey. At least here in my lab, at UMS, I can escape their world. Here, I can lose myself in studying actual cold, lifeless rocks instead of becoming one.
“The calcium formations are showing unusual patterns,” Kinsey says, spreading out the graphs. She keeps a measured distance from my desk, like she’s learned exactly how close she can get before I snap at her.
“Good.” I lean forward, grateful for the distraction.
At least with science, the only relationship I need to worry about is between pressure and mineral formation. Simple. Clean.
No hearts involved, and therefore none to break.
An email notification pops up:
CALTECH REVIEW - URGENT
Dear Mr. Spencer, CalTech’s Planetary Science Division has expressed interest in your Europa mineral formation research.
Dr. Zhang specifically requested to review your preliminary findings during their summer visit to UMS. This could be an exceptional opportunity for your PhD application.
As you know, following in your grandfather’s footsteps at CalTech would be. ..
I stop reading, my throat tight. In my desk drawer, beneath stacks of research papers, lies my grandfather’s old CalTech ID badge.
I take it out sometimes, trace the edges of his photo, remember how he’d let me look through his telescope on the roof of their Planetary Science building. “One day,” he’d said, adjusting the lens for my small hands, “you’ll make your own discoveries up there.”
A different kind of legacy than what Mother and Father have planned. The Spencer Family Foundation’s newest board member, following Drake into the corporate world - that is their vision for my future.
The house is dark when I get back. Unusually quiet - Freddie’s likely at the gym where he’s been living since Alex left for California, and Troy and Ethan are out on their last night before they leave for summer.
I should enjoy the silence. Instead, it creeps under my skin, too familiar. Reminds me of dinners alone in the Spencer mansion--Drake away at his elite European boarding school, just me and our housekeeper Joan’s footsteps echoing through empty halls.
This house is different. Usually bursting with life - movie nights sprawled across mismatched furniture, impromptu parties spilling onto the back porch, Freddie and Alex’s laughter from the kitchen.
Tara curled in our beaten-up armchair, asking random questions about European monarchs that only she cares about while Troy and Ethan battle through late-night NBA tournaments.
Sometimes I retreat to my room, overwhelmed by all the noise, all the people. But even then, the sounds of life seeping through my walls remind me I’m not that lonely kid anymore.
My room is like a sanctuary after the long day. Everything in its place, no mess, no surprises. I settle at my desk, opening my laptop to . ButterBoi69’s waiting for their next move, probably thinking they’ve got me cornered.
Amateur.
Except... I stare at the board, frowning. They’ve actually set up a pretty clever trap. If I move my bishop like I’d planned—
A knock at the front door interrupts my analysis. I wait for someone else to get it until I remember I’m alone. The knock comes again, more insistent.
“For fuck’s sake,” I mutter, pushing back from my desk. If this is another freshman looking for last semester’s party house I’m going to flip.
I pull open the door and every curse dies in my throat.
Tara Hawkins stands on our porch, soaked to the bone and somehow still vibrating with that endless energy of hers.
She’s a human sparkle even drenched in rain.
Tara is loud, bright, unapologetically herself in a way that disrupts my carefully ordered world.
She’s exactly the kind of person I usually avoid - which is probably why I can’t stop thinking about her in ways I definitely shouldn’t.
Especially considering she is Troy’s little sister.
She’s creating a puddle on our welcome mat in what appears to be dinosaur-printed pajamas, her hair plastered to her face, mascara slightly smudged under her eyes. She’s shivering, arms wrapped around herself, looking small and lost in a way that makes my chest tight.
“Jesus, get in here,” I say before she can speak, pulling her inside by her elbow. She’s freezing. “What the hell were you thinking, walking here in the rain?”
“I ran, actually,” she says with a weak attempt at her usual smile. She’s clutching her phone like a lifeline, and there’s something in her eyes I’ve never seen before. Fear.
Every protective instinct I didn’t know I had kicks in. This isn’t just Troy’s little sister anymore. This is Tara - who brings coffee to everyone during finals week, who leaves encouraging notes on our doors, who fills every room she enters with light.
“Stay here,” I say, already heading for the stairs. “I’m getting you a towel.”
“Alfie, wait—”
“I’m getting you warm first.” My voice comes out rougher than intended, but I can’t handle seeing her shiver like that. “Then you can tell me what’s wrong.”
I take the stairs two at a time, trying not to think about how small she looked in the rain.
The first clean towel I find is the soft navy one Gran sent me - too expensive for a college house, but perfect for a girl who’s dripping on our hardwood.
I grab one of my UMS sweatshirts too, a thick gray one.
When I get back downstairs, she’s standing exactly where I left her, arms wrapped around herself, water pooling at her feet. Something about the sight - Tara Hawkins looking small and vulnerable - feels fundamentally wrong.
“Here.” I drape the towel around her shoulders, pretending not to notice how she leans into the warmth, or how her eyes flutter closed for just a moment. The gray sweatshirt swallows her when she pulls it on.
“Now,” I say, keeping my voice steady, “what kind of problem has you running through the rain in dinosaur pajamas at this hour?”
She holds up her phone.
Oh fuck.