He was tall.
That was the first thing I registered once my brain started working again, which took longer than I wanted to admit. Tall with dark hair that looked like he had run his fingers through it once and left it, dark eyes that gave away absolutely nothing, and a jaw sharp enough to cut glass. He was wearing a plain black t-shirt and grey sweatpants, nothing special, and he still looked like he had walked out of a magazine.
I hated him immediately.
Not really. But I wanted to, because wanting anything else felt dangerous and I had promised myself I was done with boys.
He reached the bottom of the stairs and stopped, his gaze landing on me with all the interest of someone noticing a piece of furniture that hadn't been there before. He looked at me the same way I might look at a lamp—acknowledging that it existed, deciding it wasn't worth further attention.
"Asher," Richard said warmly, moving toward him. "Come meet Claire's daughter, Ivy. She'll be staying in the east wing, and you'll both be attending Ashworth after the break."
Asher's eyes didn't leave mine. For a moment, just a moment, something flickered in them—curiosity, maybe, or irritation, I couldn't tell—and then it was gone, replaced by a blankness that felt deliberate.
"Ivy," he repeated, and my name sounded different in his voice. Lower. British accent curling around the vowels in a way that made my stomach do something I refused to acknowledge. "Welcome to England."
That was it. No handshake, no smile, no effort to pretend he cared about any of this. He walked past me toward the kitchen, close enough that I caught the scent of something clean and expensive, and then he was gone.
I stood there like an idiot, still feeling the echo of his presence in the space he had left behind.
"He takes a while to warm up," my mother said softly, appearing at my side with an apologetic expression.
I wanted to tell her that warm was the last word I would use to describe anything about him. The look he had given me wasn't cold, exactly—cold implied he felt something negative. This was more like absence. Like I had been assessed, dismissed, and filed away somewhere he would never think about again.
It shouldn't have bothered me. I didn't know him. I didn't owe him anything, and he didn't owe me anything either. We were strangers forced into proximity by our parents' choices, and the smartest thing I could do was keep it that way.
But something about the way he had looked at me, like I wasn't even worth the effort of disliking, made me want to prove him wrong.
---
Dinner was awkward.
Richard tried his best to fill the silence, asking me about my old school and what subjects I liked and whether I had any hobbies. I answered politely, keeping things vague, very aware of Asher sitting across from me with his attention fixed on his plate like the roasted chicken was the most interesting thing in the room.
"Ivy paints," my mother offered, and I shot her a look that she either didn't see or chose to ignore. "She's very talented. Always has been."
"Is that so?" Richard smiled, genuine warmth in his eyes. "We have a room in the east wing with wonderful natural light. You should set up there, make it your studio while you're here."
"That's very generous," I said, "but I don't want to impose."
"Nonsense. This is your home now." He said it simply, like it was already decided, and I felt something uncomfortable twist in my chest because I didn't know how to accept kindness this easily given.
Where I came from, everything had a cost. Every gift came with strings. Every nice word was followed by a request or an expectation or a betrayal waiting to happen.
I glanced at Asher without meaning to and found him already looking at me, his fork paused halfway to his mouth. He didn't look away when I caught him, just held my gaze for a second too long before returning to his food like nothing had happened.
What was that? What was he thinking? His face gave me nothing to work with, no hint of what was going on behind those dark eyes, and it made me want to shake him until something real fell out.
"Asher plays basketball," Richard continued, apparently determined to force conversation even if it killed him. "He's quite good. Ashworth's team has won regionals three years running, thanks in large part to him."
"It's a team sport," Asher said, his first words since we sat down. "Not a solo achievement."
"Modest as always." Richard chuckled, but there was something in his voice—pride, yes, but also something else. A carefulness, like he was used to navigating around his son's edges. "You should come watch a game sometime, Ivy. Fridays are sports days at Ashworth."
"Maybe," I said, which was my way of saying probably not without being rude about it.
The rest of dinner passed in that same strained politeness. My mother kept looking at me with hopeful eyes, willing me to make an effort, and I kept my answers short and my gaze away from the boy across the table who seemed determined to act like I wasn't there.
By the time dessert was finished, I was exhausted from the performance of it all and desperate for escape.
"I think I'll head to bed," I said, pushing back from the table. "It's been a long day."
"Of course." Richard stood, ever the gentleman. "Let me show you to your room."
"I can find it."
"The house is large, you'll get lost. Asher, why don't you show her? You're heading upstairs anyway."
The silence that followed was heavy enough to drown in. Asher looked at his father, something unspoken passing between them, and for a moment I thought he would refuse. Part of me hoped he would because the idea of being alone with him, even for the length of a hallway, made my skin feel too tight.
But he just pushed back from the table and stood, not looking at me.
"Fine," he said. "Let's go."
---
He walked ahead of me without checking to see if I was following.
The house was even bigger than it looked from outside, hallways branching off into more hallways, doors leading to rooms I couldn't begin to guess the purpose of. I tried to memorize the path—left at the painting of the coastline, right at the marble sculpture, straight past the library with its walls of leather-bound books—but it all blurred together after a while.
Asher didn't speak. His strides were long enough that I had to walk faster to keep up, which I suspected was intentional.
"You don't have to like me," I said finally, because the silence was suffocating and I had never been good at keeping my mouth shut. "But you could at least pretend you don't find my existence offensive."
He stopped walking.
When he turned to face me, there was something almost like amusement in his expression. Almost. Not quite enough to count.
"I don't find your existence offensive," he said. "I don't find it anything."
"That's supposed to make me feel better?"
"It's not supposed to make you feel anything." He tilted his head slightly, studying me in a way that felt too thorough. "You're here because your mother is marrying my father. That's not your fault, and it's not mine. But let's not pretend we need to be friends."
"I wasn't pretending anything."
"Good." He turned and started walking again. "Your room is the last door on the left. Bathroom is attached. If you need something, don't."
He disappeared around a corner before I could respond, leaving me standing alone in a hallway that felt colder than it had a moment ago.
I found my room and closed the door behind me, leaning against it and letting out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding.
This was going to be a long three weeks.