The engine purred like a smug cat before the door swung open. Out stepped Tristan Everhart, all sunshine and recklessness in one annoying package. The kind of guy who could charm your grandmother, steal your wallet, and somehow still get invited to dinner.
His shirt—beige and criminally casual—looked like it cost more than a month's rent. Tousled hair framed his smirking face, and those green eyes sparkled with the kind of mischief that screamed: "I'm here to ruin someone's day, but nicely."
He strolled around the car, swinging open the passenger door with the flair of someone used to applause.
And out she came.
Ivonne Reynolds. The heels hit first—crimson stilettos clicking against the stone driveway like warning shots. Then came the crimson dress, hugging every inch with lethal precision. She looked like she had walked off a red-carpet disaster survival guide—glamorous, practiced, and dangerous.
"Aunt!" she chirped, arms already wide before Aunt Eleanor could blink.
The hug was quick, warm, and a little too familiar.
"Ah, Ivonne," Aunt Eleanor said, smile politely stitched in place. "You're glowing."
Ivonne beamed. "Aunt, you've gotten even more beautiful! What serum are you using? Or is it happiness?"
Translation: I'm still fishing for your approval, please forget that I spent years chasing your son like a bloodhound in heat.
Eleanor laughed softly. She used to enjoy Ivonne's flattery—back when Leo was single and everyone thought the two might end up together. But now, with Melisa in the picture? Different game. Different stakes.
"Well, come in. You both must be exhausted from the flight," Eleanor said, motioning toward the villa.
Ivonne walked ahead with elegance, the sway of her hips just shy of theatrical. Tristan lingered by the doorway, glancing around like he expected someone to jump him. (Honestly, a reasonable fear.)
Eleanor's eye twitched. She resisted the urge to drag him in by the ear. Just like old times.
"No one's home right now," she said pointedly. "They're all at work."
Ivonne giggled. "What a shame. I was hoping to meet the elusive bride."
Tristan gave her a sharp look, but Ivonne was immune to those. Probably vaccinated against guilt trips at birth.
Inside, the living room was awkwardly quiet. Aunt Eleanor busied herself slicing fruit—a peace offering, maybe. Ivonne sat on the couch like she owned it, chatting sweetly, her eyes sparkling every time Leonard's name came up in conversation.
And then the front door opened.
Cue dramatic timing.
Melisa walked in, quiet as ever, carrying the faint scent of outside air and exhaustion. Her work attire was still pristine, not a strand of hair out of place—but her eyes? A little too blank. A little too used to walking into rooms she wasn't meant to be in.
The living room stilled.
"Melisa, dear!" Aunt Eleanor's voice jumped a little too quickly. "You're back!"
Melisa nodded, eyes brushing past Tristan and Ivonne like they were background props.
And then Ivonne spoke.
"Oh, you must be Leo's swapped wife, right?"
The word swapped hit like a backhand. Melisa blinked once. No flinch. No bite. Just the faintest purse of her lips.
"Oh, I didn't mean it like that," Ivonne added immediately, all innocence and air.
"It's okay," Melisa replied flatly. Which, in Melisa-language, meant: I'll remember that.
Aunt Eleanor coughed. "She must be tired. Go rest, dear. Leo and George will be back soon."
Melisa didn't need to be told twice. She muttered a quiet thanks and disappeared upstairs like a ghost, leaving behind the scent of clean perfume and tension.
In her room, she sat on the edge of the bed, eyes vacant. The dream from last night still clung to her—flashes of her own death, a blurry figure walking toward her, the cold, suffocating silence of it all.
Before she could spiral deeper, sleep dragged her under.
Sometime later—
A warm hand patted her cheek. "Melisa, wake up."
She stirred, eyes fluttering open to see Leonard's face far too close.
"What time is it?" she mumbled, voice half-asleep.
"Eight," he said.
She sat up with a jolt. "I didn't mean to fall asleep…"
Leonard's eyes rested on her for a second longer than necessary. "Dinner's ready. Everyone's waiting."
By the time she followed him downstairs, the table was full. Tristan lounging like a satisfied cat. Ivonne practically glowing beside him.
And when they saw Leonard and Melisa enter together?
Ivonne's smile sharpened like a dagger dipped in sugar.
"Melisa," she purred, "you have to tell me your secret. Leo waking you up personally? I tried for years. Everyone called me his tail—remember, Tristan?"
Tristan shrugged, mouth full of grapes.
Ivonne's gaze didn't waver. "But I never got that kind of attention."
Melisa smiled, the kind that didn't reach her eyes.
"Well," she said coolly, "maybe you were barking up the wrong tree."
The silence that followed was delicious.
Aunt Eleanor coughed into her soup.
Leonard raised a brow.
Tristan choked on his grape.
And Ivonne?
Still smiling.
But now it was war.