June 14, 2019
Point Piper had a way of pretending nothing ugly had ever happened within its borders.
The streets were immaculate. The houses stood polished and symmetrical, gated and guarded like they'd been built to keep chaos out. From the outside, Duke Emre Teccer's life looked exactly like that—ordered, privileged, untouched.
But Vaier Lydia St-Claire had always been the crack in that illusion.
They grew up next door to each other, their lives stitched together before either of them had a choice. Same street. Same schools. Same friends. Same family dinners where laughter came easily for everyone except them.
Their parents adored each other. Serhat Teccer and Clyde St-Claire had been college friends—brothers in all but blood. Their wives followed easily, bonded by long shifts, professional pride, and shared values. Vacations overlapped. Holidays blurred together.
Only Duke and Vaier never fit.
It started young. Duke teased because it was easier than understanding why her silence unnerved him. He mocked her braces, her fear of clowns, the way she startled too easily. He hid things in her room, jumped out from behind corners, laughed when she cried.
Vaier learned quickly how to sharpen her tongue. She learned where to aim. She learned how to make him bleed without ever touching him—commenting on his skin when acne took over his face, on his temper, on how desperately he needed to win.
By the time they were teenagers, it wasn't childish anymore.
It was personal.
They shared classrooms, friend groups, lunch tables. Duke grew into his body early—tall, broad, athletic, already marked for leadership. Vaier changed more quietly, becoming observant, composed, and difficult to read. She didn't chase attention. She didn't need to.
And then there was Rain.
Rain hated Vaier on sight.
She was everything Vaier wasn't—loud, confrontational, openly cruel. When Duke started dating her, Vaier became a target. Whispers turned into pranks. Pranks turned into humiliation. Other people were pulled in, encouraged to participate.
Duke hadn't noticed at first.
When he did, it detonated.
He'd found out by accident—overheard laughter, careless bragging. He'd beaten up the guys Rain had used. Fought with Rain herself, furious and raw. She'd cried. Begged. Promised she didn't mean it.
He stayed.
Out of pity.
That alone should have been his warning.
...
Max's party was supposed to be harmless.
Music pulsed through the house, spilling out onto the sand behind it. The night was warm, the kind that made everything feel looser, more forgiving. Bottles passed freely. Laughter rang too loud.
Duke was already irritated when Rain started another argument.
Something about respect. Something about Vaier. Something ugly and familiar.
This time, he didn't fight it.
He walked away.
Again.
Across the room, Cameron had decided tonight was his chance. He hovered near Vaier, leaning too close, touching too often. Watching her like persistence would wear her down.
It only made her angrier.
So she drank.
Shot after shot. Laughing when she shouldn't have. Swaying when she stood. The edge she normally kept razor-sharp dulled, and Duke noticed before he meant to.
His phone vibrated in his pocket.
MAIA ST-CLAIRE
He frowned and answered.
"Hey," Maia said, breathless. "I'm stuck at the hospital. Late shift. Can you make sure Vaier gets home?"
Duke exhaled slowly. "Yeah. I'll find her."
He didn't say no. He never did when it came to the St-Claires.
It took him longer than expected.
When he finally checked the beach behind the house, the music was distant, swallowed by the sound of waves. Vaier lay stretched out on a lounge chair, eyes fixed on the sky like she was searching for something steady.
"Get your ass up," Duke said flatly.
She turned her head, squinting at him. Then she laughed. "Wow. You're still rude."
"Your sister can't pick you up. She asked me."
"I'll call a cab," she said lazily. "You can dismiss yourself now."
"You reek of alcohol," he snapped. "And if something happens to you after your sister asked me to take you home, I'm the one she'll kill. So you're coming with me."
She tried to stand.
She failed.
Duke swore under his breath, scooped her up over his shoulder, and ignored her half-hearted protests as he carried her to his car.
The drive home was silent.
Not peaceful—just heavy.
When he pulled into his driveway, reality hit him too late.
Wrong house.
Too tired. Too drunk. Too careless to fix it.
He carried her inside, dropped her onto the bed, and turned to leave.
He didn't make it far.
He sank down onto the floor instead, exhaustion dragging him under.
...
Vaier woke with a dry throat and a pounding head.
She sat up, disoriented, then stood too quickly. Her foot caught on something solid, and she stumbled straight over Duke.
"What the hell?" he snapped, sitting up.
They argued like they always did. Sharp words. Old insults. Muscle memory.
Then something broke.
Their eyes locked.
Too close. Too aware. Too quiet.
The kiss wasn't planned.
It was collision.
Heat. Surprise. The kind of pull that felt less like choice and more like gravity. They broke apart just as quickly, breathing hard.
"This is a mistake," Vaier said.
"Only once," Duke replied.
"No one finds out."
They agreed.
The door stayed closed.
What followed wasn't soft or careful—it was urgency, tension, years of resentment collapsing into something raw and undeniable. Hands gripping too tightly. Breath catching where it shouldn't. The line between anger and want dissolving completely.
His lips crashed against hers, a rush of heat igniting between them as if they'd waited for this moment forever.
"I hate you," she breathed, though her hands were already tangled in his hair, pulling him closer.
"I know," he rasped, his voice dropping an octave as he crowded into her space. "Show me."
She grabbed the back of his shirt, pulling him closer, their bodies pressed together in a fevered embrace. His hands roamed her body with urgency, as though he couldn't get enough of her, needing more with every second. His hands, usually so composed, gripped her waist with a bruising intensity, grounding her against him.
The temperature in the room seemed to spike, the scent of expensive cologne mixing with the salt of skin and the metallic tang of adrenaline.
She kissed him fiercely, her desire spilling out in the roughness of her touch and the fire in her eyes. His breath was ragged as he whispered her name, his voice thick with need and barely contained longing.
She wrapped her arms around him, her body arching into his, the heat between them intensifying with each passing moment. He pressed her against the wall, his body pinning hers, their breath mingling as they gave in to the heat of the moment.
As he finally merged their bodies, the transition was seamless but overwhelming a slow, deliberate claim. He watched her face closely, his eyes tracking the way her features softened and then tightened as she adjusted to the sudden, grounding weight of him.
The first movement was tentative, a stark contrast to the rough edges they usually showed the world. He entered her slowly, testing the limits of their shared heat, and the friction was a revelation.
With every slow, deep thrust, the tension in the room coiled tighter. Duke found himself hanging on every sound she made; it was a new kind of power struggle, one where her pleasure was the only victory he cared about.
A low, fluttery sigh escaped her lips, and he felt it vibrate against his own skin. It was a sound of pure discovery, and it urged him to press deeper. When her breath hitched into a sharp, melodic gasp, his heart hammered against his ribs. That small, involuntary noise acted like a spark to dry kindling, fueling a primal need to hear it again. He picked up the pace, his movements becoming more fluid and demanding. Each time she arched against him, her voice rising in a soft, breathless plea, he felt a surge of triumph.
The "enemies" they were an hour ago had vanished. In their place were two people stripped of their armor, communicating through the language of touch and sound. He wasn't just moving with her; he was responding to her, his rhythm dictated by the catch in her throat and the way her hands gripped his forearms.
The intensity grew until the room felt too small to contain them, every whispered moan a testament to the fact that, for the first time, they were finally on the same side.
The only sounds left were the slide of silk against skin, the frantic click of a belt buckle, and the ragged, synchronized rhythm of their breathing.
And then, Morning came.
Vaier left before the light fully claimed the room.
Duke woke alone.
And for the first time in his life, he understood something irreversible had begun.