Chapter 2
ROXIE
Ipower walked down the sidewalk, my ponytail bouncing with each irritated step, trying, and failing, to shake off the encounter I’d just had.
Of all the people to run into on my evening walk around campus, it had to be him.
Ledger Hayes.
A dripping, brooding mass of muscle and attitude, dark hair a wet mess, dark eyes fixed somewhere between a scowl and that infuriating almost-smirk he wore like armor. He somehow managed to irritate me just by breathing in my direction.
And he’d been extra unbearable today. Snapping.
Scowling. Drenched like he’d crawled straight out of a chlorine vat and stomped into my path solely to ruin my day, water darkening the beige hoodie clinging to his shoulders, his stupidly muscular thighs on full display thanks to his tight blue swim jammers that left very little to the imagination.
My gaze had snagged for half a second longer than necessary.
I hated that I noticed. Hated that my pulse kicked up like my body had missed the memo that I couldn’t stand him.
But the part that stuck with me, annoying and persistent, was that something seemed off.
Not in an Oh wow, he finally grew a personality way. Not even in an Oh dear, he’s even more of a menace today way.
More like …
He hadn’t called me Roxanne.
He always called me Roxanne at least once during our interactions. Loudly. Wrongly. Intentionally. Because he knew it wasn’t my name. Because it annoyed me. Because Ledger Hayes lived solely to irritate me.
But today? Nothing. Just Roxie. My actual name. And not thrown like a dart, either. Delivered quietly. Distractedly.
And for reasons I absolutely refused to unpack, it landed low in my belly instead of bouncing harmlessly off my armor.
I slowed my steps.
He’d looked … tired. His dark brown eyes didn’t have their usual spark, exhaustion clinging to him, and his dark hair fell forward like he hadn’t bothered fixing it after the pool. It softened him in a way that was deeply inconvenient.
And I’d sensed irritation, yes, but not at me. More like … at the world in general. Or at a weight only he seemed to be carrying.
I shook my head. “Nope. Don’t care,” I muttered to myself, picking up my pace again.
I didn’t care about Ledger. He was a mutual acquaintance among friends.
A nuisance. An annoyingly tall, broad-shouldered nuisance who took up too much visual space and far too much mental bandwidth for someone I allegedly disliked.
A man whose moods swung between scowl and deeper scowl.
Well, maybe only when it came to me. He was actually more a life-of-the-party kind of guy, but with us it had been hate at first sight.
So whatever his deal was today, it wasn’t my problem.
Even if something inside me—something small, traitorous, and nosy—wondered whether he was okay.
I shoved that thought so far down, it fell through the emotional floorboards.
The only person I needed to worry about was me.
Which was becoming increasingly terrifying, considering I still wasn’t entirely sure who “me” was outside of my last name, my parents’ expectations, and a trust fund I refused to touch.
Which was depressing enough.
By the time I reached my apartment building, the annoyance had baked itself into my bloodstream, settling next to my usual cocktail of stress and mild career despair.
I really needed one of my roommate Livvi’s calming teas.
And possibly a new life.
My apartment was small but cute, filled with thrifted furniture and mismatched pillows. Normally it gave me comfort, my own little pre-loved style.
None of it matched. None of it was expensive. And that was the point.
Every scratched table and thrifted pillow was an item I’d lovingly chosen myself, not something picked out by an interior designer hired by my mother.
But today the cramped living room felt more like a shoebox, and someone had forgotten to poke air holes.
I opened my laptop at the tiny kitchen table and logged in to my job.
And by “job,” I meant: the lowest-paying, most soul-sucking entry-level social media position in the history of corporate America.
I managed posts for a chain of discount home-goods stores that insisted I remained relatable online by using phrases like #Blessed and #LiveLaughLamps.
My paycheck barely covered rent and groceries. I’d started rationing coffee like it was an endangered species.
The paycheck wasn’t the worst part.
The worst part was the quiet, creeping fear that five years from now I’d still be here, still orbiting other people’s brands instead of building one of my own.
I could’ve found something else. Probably.
Another junior role. Another cubicle. Another version of the same ceiling.
But I didn’t want a job. I wanted my own thing.
Something I could build, shape, claim. I just hadn’t figured out what that was yet, and jumping sideways for marginally better pay felt like it would take time I couldn’t afford to waste.
Besides, I was good at this. Very good. I could run circles around my supervisor with strategy, analytics, aesthetics. I told myself that eventually someone higher up would notice. That hard work counted. That I’d advance without having to beg or settle.
Until then—or until one of the managers retired, evaporated, or was abducted by aliens—I was stuck.
I opened the content calendar.
Another thrilling day to spend scheduling posts about end tables and baskets. The stuff dreams were made of.
My phone started buzzing across the table, vibrating aggressively against the wood.
I didn’t even have to look at the screen to know who it was.
My mother.
I briefly considered throwing the phone out the window. Unfortunately, I couldn’t afford a replacement.
With a sigh, I answered. “Hi, Mom.”
“Roxie, darling!” she sang through the speaker. “How is my princess?”
I pressed two fingers to my temples. “I’m not a princess, Mom.”
“You’ll always be my princess,” she said, ignoring me completely. “Are you eating enough? You sounded thin the last time we spoke.”
“I sounded thin?”
“You did! There was a hollowness in your voice. You know, the kind that comes from not eating real meals.”
“I’m eating.” I opened my fridge. Inside: a lone yogurt, half a lemon, and a suspicious stick of butter. “Totally thriving.”
“Well, good. I just worry. You’re so far away, and you know how I get anxious when I imagine you in that tiny, little apartment.”
“It’s not tiny,” I lied.
And I wasn’t far away. I was twenty minutes from their house.
She made a disbelieving noise. “Anyway, I was calling because your father and I were talking, and we really think it’s time you consider coming home.”
I flopped down on the couch. It was that time again: the weekly lecture. The pitch disguised as concern. I could practically recite it.
“Mom—”
“Hear me out,” she said quickly. “You could stay with us while you figure out what’s next. You wouldn’t have to worry about bills. And there are so many nice young men here. Men with ambition. Men with futures—”
“Mom.”
“I’m just saying, darling. You’re twenty-five. Most of your cousins are already settled down.”
“Settled down? They got married at twenty-two. That’s barely old enough to rent a car.”
“Well, some people are simply more mature than others.”
Translation: Not you, Roxie.
I gritted my teeth. “I like my life. I like my job.” Kind of.
“You like your job that pays you less than working at a fast-food restaurant?”
Ouch. That stung.
“I’m working on things,” I said. “I have a plan.”
“What plan?”
I hesitated.
Because … okay, my plan wasn’t fully fleshed out.
Not yet. More like a collection of ideas duct-taped together.
But still, something real. Something that felt like mine.
I wanted to build something creative. Something meaningful.
Something that would let me be more than a girl posting sale announcements for throw pillows.
Maybe a startup? A content agency? A creative platform? I didn’t know yet.
But I knew I wanted to make something bigger than this.
“You don’t need a plan,” Mom continued. “You need stability. And a husband. Preferably one with a career that can support you until you figure yourself out.”
I sat up straighter. “Mom, my worth isn’t determined by my marital status.”
“No, of course not. But you’d have access to your trust fund.”
My stomach twisted.
The trust fund. The cursed carrot on a stick my grandparents had thought was “fun.” The money I could use to start my dream project, money I needed to escape the cycle I was stuck in.
But only if I got married.
Married. At twenty-five. When I could barely commit to a houseplant.
It wasn’t just the condition that bothered me.
It was what the money represented—that no matter how hard I tried, my family still believed my future would be funded by someone else’s last name instead of my own work.
“I’m not marrying someone just to access the trust,” I said. “That’s ridiculous.”
“It’s not ridiculous,” she argued. “It’s practical. You’re not financially independent, Roxie. And I worry. I really do.”
I squeezed my eyes shut. “I’m not coming home.”
Was this really her way of being supportive? She knew I didn’t want to live off her and my father’s money anymore, that I wanted to stand on my own two financially stable feet. But she hated it, so this was her alternative. To get me married off to some rich country-club boy.
“That’s your pride talking.”
“No. It’s me trying to build a life without depending on a husband. Or on you.”
A pause. Frosty and heavy.
“Fine,” she said. “But when you’re tired of struggling, the door is always open.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And don’t forget, the Donovan boy’s mother asked about you—”
“That’s my cue to go.” She kept talking like she hadn’t heard me, and I ended the call before she could start texting me photos.
I slumped back in my chair, tossing my phone aside.
My heart hammered with frustration. Anger.
And fear.