The Monday morning sun hit the city with an unforgiving brightness, pouring into Becky Rivera's bedroom and dragging her out of sleep like a reluctant prisoner. Her eyes blinked open slowly, her body heavy under the quilted sheets. The events from the weekend still clung to her like smoke—Ethan's studio, the sketches, that quiet look between them that had felt like more than just an apology.
She hadn't told her mother.
She hadn't told anyone.
Some moments needed to exist unshared, preserved in silence, like glass-blown secrets that would shatter if handled too much.
She took a long shower, the warm water failing to wash off the memory of Ethan's voice—"Would you?" "I already do."
Her heart did a strange dance when she thought about it.
The penthouse was quiet again as she dressed—white ribbed tank top tucked into high-waisted black jeans, a cropped denim jacket thrown over her shoulders, and her dark hair pinned into a loose bun. Her makeup was soft, deliberate—brown eyeliner, pink gloss. Not for anyone in particular, she told herself. Especially not for the man in the other wing of the penthouse who may or may not be avoiding her.
By 10AM, she was at her favorite coffee shop near campus—The Silver Mug—where students filed in and out like ants on caffeine. She grabbed a cappuccino, pulled on her headphones, and headed to the university studio building for her afternoon design elective.
The class was a mix of architecture students and liberal arts majors. Becky wasn't officially majoring in anything—she was still "figuring it out," as she told her mother—but she'd found herself drawn to classes that involved creativity and expression.
That day's assignment was group work, which meant forced conversation and fake smiles.
Becky found herself grouped with a few people she knew only vaguely—two girls from her psychology seminar and a guy named Nate who never stopped talking about his start-up.
"You're Rivera, right?" one of the girls, Kelly, asked with a smirk.
"Yep," Becky replied flatly.
"The one with the stepdad who looks like he walked out of a GQ spread?"
Becky froze. "Excuse me?"
"Oh come on," Kelly laughed. "Everyone saw your IG story last week. That man handing you a wine glass at the dinner party—he's your stepdad, right?"
Becky's stomach turned. She'd forgotten about the short clip she'd posted—the tail end of Ethan walking past her in a suit, offering her a glass of red wine. It had barely been two seconds long.
"That's Ethan," she said carefully.
Kelly raised an eyebrow. "Ethan? You call your stepdad by his name?"
"Because I'm not five," Becky snapped.
The other girl, Sasha, leaned in with a knowing smile. "He's hot. Like, uncomfortable hot. Do you even concentrate at home?"
Becky gritted her teeth. "He's married to my mom."
"Still," Nate chuckled. "That man's energy screams I own the room and the woman in it. Just saying."
Becky's face burned.
"Do you live with him?" Sasha asked.
Becky hesitated, then nodded once. "Yeah."
Kelly whistled low. "Must be nice. Bet the penthouse has a spa in it. Do you even pay for anything?"
"I have a job," Becky shot back. "And no, the penthouse does not have a spa. Just walls, floors, and a coffee machine that talks too much."
Sasha snorted, but Nate leaned in, smirking. "So what's it like playing Cinderella with a sugar daddy stepdad? Does he buy you shoes, too?"
The comment sliced through her, and the laughter that followed only twisted the blade deeper.
Becky pushed back from the table, her chair screeching.
"You don't know a damn thing about my life," she hissed. "And next time you talk about my family, make sure I'm not in the room."
She stormed out, her coffee sloshing onto the sidewalk as she walked furiously toward the parking lot.
Her face was hot. Her chest was tight. She hated that they made her feel cheap, as if her presence in Ethan's world was something to be explained or defended. As if she hadn't earned her place. As if she were some sidepiece in a scandal when all she'd ever been was a daughter trying to navigate the mess her mother left behind.
Her phone buzzed.
MOM: Don't forget dinner with the Palmers next weekend. And maybe wear something decent. Love you.
She didn't reply.
Instead, she dialed Uber, climbed into the back of a hybrid, and told the driver one word.
"Home."
Twenty minutes later, Becky was stepping into the penthouse, kicking off her shoes harder than necessary. The sound echoed.
"Becky?"
She stiffened.
Ethan's voice came from the hallway.
She turned and found him standing at the kitchen island, shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows, laptop open beside a half-eaten sandwich.
He looked up, pausing.
"You're home early."
"Group work turned into a joke," she muttered.
His brow furrowed. "What happened?"
She didn't want to say. But the anger still simmered, and the memory of Kelly's laugh made her throat burn.
"They found out about you," she said. "Saw a clip I posted and decided you're some GQ fantasy I'm leeching off of."
Ethan's expression darkened. "They said that to you?"
"Pretty much called me a gold-digging brat with a sugar daddy complex." Her voice cracked despite herself. "One of them asked if you buy me shoes."
The silence that followed was sharp.
Then Ethan walked around the island, stopping just a foot from her.
"Becky."
Her eyes stayed down.
"Look at me."
She looked.
His voice was low but firm. "You don't owe anyone an explanation for where you live or who I am to you."
"I know that," she whispered, blinking fast.
"You're not a leech. Or a brat. Or a joke." He reached out, hesitating before resting a hand gently on her shoulder. "You're the smartest, fiercest person in that class. They mock what they envy."
His words, rough but deliberate, cracked something open in her chest.
"You don't have to say that," she muttered.
"I wouldn't say it if it wasn't true."
She felt the tears build before she could stop them.
"I hate that they make me feel small," she said. "Like I'm just some pretty face in a fancy apartment I didn't pay for."
Ethan's eyes softened. "You are a pretty face," he said, half-smiling. "But you've got more fire in you than most people I know."
Her laugh came out wet. "That sounded dangerously close to a compliment."
"Maybe it was."
They stood there, the air between them humming.
"You want to get out of here?" he asked.
She blinked. "Where?"
"I know a place. No one will bother you. No whispers, no judgment."
Becky nodded slowly. "Okay."
An hour later, they were driving through the city in Ethan's matte black Tesla, windows cracked just enough to let in the spring air. He didn't say much, and she didn't push. The silence between them had started to feel less awkward and more like a language only they understood.
He pulled up to a quiet bluff on the edge of the city where old stone benches overlooked a lake. The water shimmered under the late afternoon sun.
"This is where I come when everything's too loud," he said, getting out.
Becky followed, wrapping her jacket tighter around her.
They sat.
Neither of them spoke for a while. The breeze brushed past gently, carrying the scent of moss and pine. Birds skimmed the surface of the lake, their wings slicing through the reflection of the clouds.
"I was going to quit that class," she said softly. "But maybe I won't."
Ethan looked at her. "Good."
She turned to him. "Thank you. For earlier."
"You don't have to thank me."
"Still," she said. "No one's ever defended me like that."
His jaw clenched. "They should have."
Her heart did that thing again—that slow twist of recognition. Of ache.
She wondered if he knew what he meant to her now. If he realized the space he'd begun to occupy in her thoughts.
He reached over, brushing a fallen leaf from her hair.
The gesture was gentle.
Dangerous.
They both froze.
Their eyes met. For a second too long.
She looked away.
Ethan stood first. "We should head back."
"Yeah," Becky said, voice shaky. "Let's go."
But as they walked back to the car, their arms brushed. Once. Then again.
And neither of them moved away.
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