This chapter has been written from Nicolai's POV.

The world hit me with a vengeance, and yet, the alcohol in my system couldn't dull the sting of my heartbreak.

My skull throbbed in protest as sunlight clawed its way through the battered blinds of my apartment, slicing across the room like judgment. My mouth tasted of stale tequila and something I couldn't quite place—desperation, maybe. I groaned, half-heartedly burying my face in the pillow. If I stayed still long enough, maybe the world would stop spinning. It didn't.

My phone buzzed, slicing through my self-pity. I groaned louder, swiping blindly until my hand finally closed around the device. A glance at the caller ID turned my groan into a grimace.

"Of course," I muttered, pressing the phone to my ear.

"Hello?" My voice was hoarse, barely audible.

"Nicolai," came the sharp, precise voice of my father, each syllable clipped as though uttered from the edge of a knife. "Are you still in bed? Did you forget the commitment you assured me of last night?"

Memories surged through me like a tide I couldn't hold back—the impulsive decision to book a flight, desperate to escape the sight of Jace and his perfect boyfriend, the hollow ache in my chest growing unbearable with the realization that Jace, my best friend, the love of my life, was finally, irrevocably out of my reach.

And then, the reckless, tequila-fueled mistake of calling my father in the dead of night, blurting out my plan to move to New York, clinging to the faint hope that, for once, I might receive a shred of validation.

I closed my eyes, pressing my thumb and forefinger to my temple. "Good morning to you too, Dad." I forced a dry chuckle. "How thoughtful of you to check in."

"You think this is a joke?" His voice had the same chill as always—polished, composed, with just enough bite to make me sit up despite the protest from my head. "Your flight leaves at noon. I assume you're packed and ready?"

The words hit me like a bucket of cold water. Noon? Today? I glanced at the clock on the wall, and my stomach sank. 9:47 AM.

"Of course," I lied smoothly, dragging a hand through my hair, the brown strands sticking up in odd directions. "All packed. Just finishing my coffee."

There was a pause on the other end. I could practically hear his skepticism sharpening. "If you want this to work, you'll need to take it seriously. The last thing you need is to arrive in New York as a mess. This is an opportunity, Nicolai. You're going to inherit my business one day. Don't waste it by dilly-dallying in the kitchen and focus on real work."

"Right," I said sarcastically. "I'll forget about my dream of becoming a chef and be a perfect, idealist data-crunching son."

He sighed. It wasn't frustration or disappointment—it was resignation. Somehow, that stung more.

Before the call could end, I heard my mother in the background. Her voice was softer, her tone meant to soothe rather than chide. "Let me talk to him for a moment."

A pause, and then she came on the line. "Nicolai, I know this isn't easy for you," she said gently. "And I know what you're giving up. But going to New York doesn't mean the end of everything you love. It's a chance to find some stability and security—and who knows? You might even come to enjoy this path in corporate."

I swallowed hard, my throat tight. "Yeah, sure," I mumbled, though my voice lacked conviction.

"I mean it," she continued, warmth seeping into her words. "You're talented, sweetheart, and I believe in you. You'll figure out how to make this work, even if it's not exactly what you had in mind right now."

"Thanks, Mom," I muttered, my voice softening despite myself.

"Be safe, Nicolai," she added quietly. And then, just as quickly, my father's voice returned.

"The driver will be there in an hour. Don't keep him waiting."

The call ended abruptly, leaving me holding the phone, staring at the blank screen.

"Nice catching up," I muttered, tossing the phone onto the mattress. I exhaled sharply and leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees.

What am I even doing?

The thought curled up inside my chest, sharp and cold.

My dreams of becoming a chef, my feelings for Jace—they felt too big, too fragile. Like they could break me if I let them.

But I didn't have time to overthink.

I had an hour to shove my life into a bag and make it to the airport.

My apartment greeted me in all its chaotic glory: crumpled clothes draped over furniture, a stack of unopened mail on the counter. The place reeked of old takeout and bad choices, but it was home—or at least it had been.

Dragging a battered duffel bag from the closet, I began throwing clothes in. Jeans, t-shirts, sneakers, a jacket that might pass for decent in my father's world—it all went in. It wasn't practical for New York, but I shoved it in anyway and called for an Uber.

I reached the airport an hour later.

Navigating the check-in line with a hangover-fueled efficiency, I kept my sunglasses on to avoid the glare of fluorescent lights and judgmental glances.

Moments after takeoff, I settled into my seat, my fingers tapping restlessly against the armrest. I stared out the window, watching as the buildings and skyscrapers of L.A. receded, fading into the distance.

It was happening. I was going to New York.

A new start.

It was also an opportunity. The restaurant scene in NYC was leagues ahead of L.A., with its Michelin stars and cutthroat kitchens. Maybe, just maybe, I could slip away on weekends, lose myself in the flavors of the city, and test my recipes against the inspiration I found.

One day, if I could summon the courage, I'd tell my father the truth—that spreadsheets and dashboards weren't my future.

My dream was in a kitchen.

I started jotting down a list of restaurants I wanted to visit in my journal, but midway through, sleep crept in and claimed me.

___________________________________________________________________________

New York hit me like a slap to the face. 

The terminal hummed with a chaotic energy only a city like this could produce. A strange combination of exhilaration and dread settled in my chest as I stepped into the flood of people, my duffel bag slung over one shoulder. My thoughts were drowned out by the rush of it all, but when the chauffeur's face appeared above the crowd, holding up a sign with my name in clean, precise letters, I felt a brief sense of calm. The driver led me to a sleek black sedan parked at the curb. I slid into the backseat, the cool leather a sharp contrast to the warmth of the day.

The drive was silent, save for the soft hum of the engine and the occasional murmur from the driver. I stared out of the window, watching the city unfold. It felt like I was being pulled deeper into something I wasn't ready for.

"You'll like it here," the driver said, his voice cutting through the silence. He glanced at me through the rearview mirror. "If you're lucky, it'll like you back."

I offered a faint smile but didn't respond. It wasn't luck I was after. I was here to escape. Clinging to my only chance to start fresh.

The car stopped in front of a gleaming apartment complex. Inside, the building smelled of fresh paint and something metallic, like the promise of newness that came with starting over.

My footsteps echoed in the hallway, the sound filling the space with an emptiness I couldn't shake. My apartment door stood ahead, clean and unassuming—like a fresh start waiting to be claimed.

But as I slid the key into the lock, the sound of another door opening behind me froze me in place.

"Of course," came a smooth voice, laced with sarcasm. "It had to be you."

My stomach tightened. I didn't need to turn around to know who it was.

Paxton Garroway.

Even after all these years, I could still feel that immediate, searing heat of hatred rise in my chest. The awkward, lanky kid I remembered was gone, replaced by someone more... substantial.

Paxton stood in the doorway of his apartment, one hand braced against the frame, the other stuffed in his pocket. His shoulders were broader, his arms more defined beneath the tight henley that clung to his frame. His blond hair was styled carelessly, like it belonged to someone who never needed to try.

But his smirk—God, that smirk—hadn't changed at all.

"Paxton," I said, my voice a tight knot of anger and disbelief.

Paxton's gaze was unwavering, as if my surprise didn't matter. "It's like fate keeps punishing me. First high school. Now this?"

The knot in my chest tightened, and I swallowed the unwanted memories before they consumed me completely. "I didn't know you lived here," I said stiffly, my eyes fixed on him.

Paxton raised an eyebrow, his voice cold, his smirk curling. "No kidding. Though I'd think you'd remember. Jace talked about me nonstop when I went to NYU Stern."

I turned to my door, willing myself to ignore the bait. I wasn't seventeen anymore. I didn't have to engage.

But Paxton wasn't done.

"Speaking of avoiding things," he drawled, "how's it going, pretending Natasha, your only ex, didn't leave you for me?"

The words were a punch to the gut. My hand froze on the key, my entire body stiffening. I turned slowly, my eyes narrowing. "Excuse me?"

Paxton shrugged, his expression almost bored. "What? Too soon? Or are we still pretending that was all her fault?"

"You don't know what you're talking about," I snapped.

Paxton took a step closer, his smirk hardening into something cruel. "Don't I? Because from where I stood, it looked a lot like she got bored of being with someone who dragged her down. Same thing with Jace, isn't it?"

The mention of Jace hit even harder than Natasha. My stomach twisted. "Leave Jace out of this," I said, my voice low and dangerous.

"Why?" Paxton pressed on, his voice dripping with mock concern. "You think you're good for him? The way you cling to him, pulling him into all your bullshit? Maybe you haven't noticed, but you're a bad influence on my brother."

That was it. The years of bitterness, of guilt, of self-doubt—all of it boiled over. I didn't think; I acted.

The punch landed squarely on Paxton's jaw, the impact reverberating up my arm. Paxton staggered back, his hand flying to his face. For a brief, stunned moment, the hallway was silent.

Then Paxton laughed.

It was a dark, humorless sound that sent a chill down my spine. "Oh, that's rich," he said, wiping the blood from the corner of his mouth. "That's the problem with you, Nicolai. You cling to this perfect version of how life should be. But the second things get difficult, you back down like a damn coward."

"And what about you, Paxton? You always act so indifferent, like nothing matters. You've pushed so many people away that you don't even have anyone left who knows you. You're not better than me. You're just... lonely." I hissed, my hands curling into fists.

"Wow, someone's been watching Dr. Phil," Paxton drawled, his tone as smooth as oil and twice as flammable. "Fine, I'll try my hand at small talk instead." His eyes glittered with mischief as he leaned casually against the doorframe, arms folded. "It's so good to see you, Nicolai. How's life been treating you? Now, it's your turn to say it back to me. I'm trying to be a nice, welcoming neighbor here."

I felt my fists clench at my sides. The anger simmered just beneath my skin, hot and insistent, begging to be unleashed. But no. That's what Paxton wanted. I wouldn't give him the satisfaction.

This wasn't just an argument; it was a game.

And the rules? Don't flinch. Don't falter. Don't stop the insults.

I took a deliberate step closer, closing the distance between us. If Paxton wanted war, I wasn't about to back down.

"I won't say it back to you," I said, my lips curving into a saccharine smile. "Because I'm not a two-faced, lying bitch like you, dear neighbor."

Paxton's laugh was sharp, almost delighted, as if he thrived on my venom. He stepped closer, his smile all teeth and malice. "Wow. Still as charming as ever."

"And you're still as—" I caught myself, unsure whether the word that wanted to escape was annoying or infuriating or destructive. "Never mind," I finished, my tone flat.

Paxton tilted his head, his eyes narrowing as he studied me, like he could see beneath the surface, like he always had. "You're not gonna finish that sentence? Too bad. I was curious."

"Curiosity doesn't suit you," I muttered, jiggling the key in the lock with forced indifference. "It might overheat that tiny brain of yours."

Paxton smirked. "Well, moving halfway across the country to avoid people doesn't suit you either."

I froze, his words cutting deeper than I cared to admit. He wanted to hurt me back.

"You think this is a game you can win?" I whispered. "You don't even know the rules."

Paxton's smirk widened. "Oh, I know the rules. Press, bait, break. Repeat. I wrote them."

I smirked right back. "Then you should know how this ends. With me winning."

A/N

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