Tom's POV
Imogen she lived like a fucking duchess.
And yet… she never flaunted it. She didn't carry herself like the other Millwood rich kids, the ones who sneered down their noses at me like I was dirt under their designer shoes. She wasn't one of them, never once made me feel small for not having what she had.
I guess Imogen gets it from her parents. Her mother—the most sought-after socialite in the city—wasn't just some champagne-sipping, camera-flashing type either. No, she spent most of her time at orphanages, charity events, actually doing shit. The woman was practically worshipped for it. And her father? Polished, charming, shaking all the right hands on his way to either the presidency or at least the mayor's office. A perfect golden family, the kind that makes headlines for all the right reasons.
And then there's me.
All I had going for me was the fact that my mom scored a massive settlement after divorcing my cheating, deadbeat father. She used it to rebuild our lives, piece by piece. And now… she's with Daniel. Her lawyer. The guy she keeps calling my "dad" like the word will somehow stick.
But I know better. Daniel's a fake. Slick smile, sharp suits, always "working late." I know he's cheating. I've seen enough to be sure of it. But I can't bring myself to say anything. Not yet. Not when it would shatter her—again.
The car rolled up to the front steps, and stepping out felt like crossing into another fucking universe. The doors opened into an interior just as opulent as the outside promised—black and gold marble floors, everything polished to a mirror shine. The place screamed elegance and money, but not in a tacky way. Sophisticated. Intimidating.
At the top of the sweeping staircase, a massive family portrait looked down at me. Perfect smiles, perfect posture. A perfect family staring from the canvas like they owned the air in this place.
Imogen's voice pulled me back. She led me through the living room, the kitchen big enough to host a damn restaurant, and parts of the first and second floor. "I'd show you the entire place," she said with a laugh, "but it'd take too long."
She wasn't lying. This place was endless.
Finally, she pushed open a set of double doors and—holy shit.
An arcade room. An actual arcade room, like the kind you'd spend hours in at the mall. Lights, machines, games stacked wall to wall.
"Wow. You have an actual arcade in your house," I said, unable to keep the disbelief out of my voice.
She gave a small shrug, like it was no big deal. "Yeah… my dad won't let me go to a real one without security. You know, since he's a politician who exposes a lot of corruption… a lot of powerful people don't like him."
I raised a brow. "Either way, this is so fucking cool."
"Wanna play?" she asked, already heading for one of the machines.
I just nodded, and before I knew it, we were lost in the noise and flashing lights. Racing games, shooters, even that stupid claw machine that steals your money more than it gives you prizes. Somehow, I managed to snag a giant teddy bear out of it, the damn thing nearly bigger than her.
She smiled, and for a second it wasn't that polished, sweet smile she wore at school. It was real. "It's nice to share these things with a friend. It's not as fun when you do this alone."
Something twisted in my chest. I shoved the bear into her arms. "Here. This is yours." She giggled, shaking her head. "What? No—you won it. Keep it."
"Consider it a gift," I said, my voice sharper than I meant, but I held my ground. Her smile softened. "Thanks, Tom." And for the first time that day, I almost forgot why being here was dangerous.
Hours slipped by without me even realizing. We were neck-deep in her arcade world, moving from one machine to another, trash-talking each other like actual kids again. By the time we hit the basketball game, I was laughing harder than I had in years, throwing shots like my life depended on it.
Then a voice cut through the noise.
"Imogen."
Her father.
It wasn't a yell, but it carried, sharp and commanding. We froze mid-game, the sound of the bouncing ball dying between us.
She glanced at me, her smile faltering, then slowly turned toward the doorway.
Standing there was her father—tall, clean-cut, the kind of man who didn't need to raise his voice to own a room. His suit was crisp, his posture straight, and his expression… stern. Eyes locked on Imogen "Imogen. A word."
The tone wasn't a request. It was an order.
I stepped back instinctively, wiping my palms on my jeans. This wasn't my world, and the man's presence made that fact hit me harder than ever.
Imogen's shoulders tensed, but she forced a small smile anyway. "Yes, Dad."
She shot me a quick look—half reassurance, half apology—before following him out.
I stayed rooted in place, the giant teddy bear at my feet, suddenly feeling like a trespasser in a castle.
Fuck, Tom. What did you just step into?