Tom's POV
She slipped her phone back into her pocket and walked toward me, her face softer now—less weighed down, more… carefree. Like whatever storm she'd been carrying a few minutes ago had blown over.
"I take it whatever made you cry has been resolved," I said flatly, but my eyes lingered on her, searching.
She nodded with a small smile. "Yeah, thanks."
And just like that, she dropped back down beside me on the grass. This time the silence wasn't the heavy, suffocating kind. It was lighter. Easier. The kind of quiet where I didn't feel like I needed to run, didn't feel like the world was caving in.
I hated how much I liked it.
Then a faint jingle drifted through the park—the cheerful, music of an ice cream truck rolling somewhere close by. Imogen's head snapped up instantly, her eyes lighting up like a little kid's.
Before I could say anything, she was already bouncing to her feet, tugging at my arm until I followed. I rolled my eyes but didn't fight it.
At the truck, she glanced at me with that expectant smile. "What should I get you?"
I shrugged, shoving my hands into my pockets. "Doesn't matter."
She just hummed, like she didn't buy my bullshit for a second, and went up to order. A minute later, she came back balancing two cones—strawberry for herself, chocolate for me.
Just like at the frozen yogurt place.
She handed it over with that same too-bright grin. "Here."
"Thanks," I muttered, taking it from her. Our fingers brushed for half a second, and yeah, I felt it. That tiny spark I didn't fucking ask for.
We ate our ice cream in silence—only this time it wasn't suffocating. It was… fine. Almost nice. The kind of quiet that didn't demand to be filled, just sat there between us like it belonged.
Then, out of nowhere, she hit me with:
"Do you maybe wanna come over to my house and hang out?"
I nearly choked on my damn ice cream. My throat burned from the cold, and I coughed like an idiot. "What?"
Immediately I saw her face shift—her body pulling in on itself, shoulders tight, eyes darting like she regretted even asking. "It's okay," she said quickly, voice softer. "You don't have to, if it makes you uncomfortable."
Fuck.
That expression—the way her mouth tugged down like she was bracing for rejection—yeah, it cracked something in me. I hated it. Hated that it got to me.
"No, it's not that," I said too fast, too defensive. "I was just… caught off guard, okay?"
Before my brain could slam the brakes, my mouth kept running. "I'd love to." Her head snapped up, and her whole face lit up like the goddamn sun. "You mean it? Really? Thanks, Tom!"
Yeah. Thanks, Tom. Real smooth. Hand her the keys to your chest while you're at it, why don't you? I forced a shrug, shoving the last bite of ice cream into my mouth to shut myself up. But it was too late.
That afternoon, a sleek black car rolled up to the curb, and of course—it was hers. Not some beat-up ride like mine or even the kind of car normal rich kids flaunted. No, this thing practically whispered money. The driver stepped out, all polished suit and stiff posture, opening the door like she was fucking royalty.
I froze at the curb, staring at the leather interior like it might eat me alive.
"Come in, Tom. It's fine," she said, smiling like this was normal. Like dragging me into her world was no big deal.
I hesitated, my stomach tight. But her eyes stayed on me, patient, almost pleading. With a muttered curse under my breath, I slid in beside her, and the door shut with a soft thunk.
The ride was silent except for the hum of the engine. I couldn't even bring myself to look out the window—I just sat there, stiff, trying not to look like I didn't belong. Which I fucking didn't.
When we pulled up to her house—no, scratch that, her mansion—my jaw damn near hit the floor.
Extravagant didn't even cut it. It wasn't just big, it was ridiculous. White stone walls stretching high, a driveway that could double as a racetrack, gardens so neatly trimmed they looked fake. Security at the gates, cameras at every corner, guards patrolling like she was some kind of princess locked in a fortress.
Imogen Storm didn't just live well off—she lived like a fucking duchess.