2.

Chapter 2: Hate at First Fight

Brielle woke up the next morning still fuming from her encounter with Damian. She’d spent most of the night tossing and turning, replaying his smug smirk and condescending words. She hated how he’d looked at her, like she was some insignificant pest invading his space.

But today was a new day. She’d stay out of his way and focus on getting her van out of the driveway to explore the town. She had spent years restoring her beloved old van, affectionately named "Lulu." Sure, it wasn’t glamorous like the sports cars parked in the mansion’s massive garage, but it was hers. It was dependable.

Pulling her hair into a messy ponytail, she headed outside in a tank top and shorts, ready to breathe some fresh air and escape the mansion's suffocating atmosphere. However, her peaceful plans came to a screeching halt when she turned the corner and saw it.

Her heart dropped.

“No. Oh, hell no!”

There it was—her van, Lulu—knocked on its side, the driver's side window shattered. A trail of black skid marks led from the front lawn to the driveway. Pieces of broken glass and plastic littered the ground, along with deep tire tracks etched into the lawn like battle scars. And standing near his massive black power bike was Damian, shirtless again, wiping his face with a towel as if he hadn’t just destroyed her property. His leather gloves hung from his handlebars, and the powerful machine gleamed wickedly in the sun.

“What the fuck did you do to my van?!” Brielle screeched, stomping across the lawn toward him.

Damian turned slowly, raising an eyebrow in mock surprise. He glanced at the crumpled van like it was nothing more than a broken toy.

“Oh, that thing?” He shrugged casually. “Didn’t realize that rust bucket was still alive. It was blocking the driveway, so I handled it.”

“Handled it?!” Brielle’s voice cracked with disbelief. “You knocked it over like it was trash! You had no right—”

“I have every right, princess,” he interrupted, his voice calm and infuriatingly smug. He crossed his arms over his chest, flexing those obnoxious tattoos again. “This is my house. My driveway. And that piece of crap was in the way of my morning workout.”

Her blood boiled. She felt like she was about to explode. “Workout? Are you kidding me? You couldn’t just move it like a normal person?”

“Move it?” He scoffed. “Yeah, no. I’m not wasting my time on a pile of junk that belongs in a scrap yard. I thought I did you a favor.”

“A favor?” Brielle stepped forward, her fists clenched so tight her knuckles turned white. “You think wrecking something I spent years fixing is a favor?”

“Years, huh? Guess you wasted your time.”

That did it.

“You arrogant, selfish asshole!” Brielle shouted, shoving him hard in the chest. He barely moved, his expression darkening as he glared down at her.

“Careful, sweetheart,” he warned, his voice low and menacing. “You’re getting brave for someone who doesn’t belong here.”

Brielle jabbed a finger into his chest. “I belong here as much as you do, stepbrother. I’m not scared of you.”

Damian’s lips curled into a dangerous smirk. “You should be.” He leaned in close, his face just inches from hers. She could feel the heat radiating off his body and smell the faint scent of sweat and motor oil. “Listen carefully, Brielle. You stay out of my way, you keep quiet, and maybe—just maybe—I’ll pretend you don’t exist. Got it?”

“Like I’d ever want to be anywhere near you,” she spat, her heart racing. “You’re a spoiled little boy who thinks he can do whatever he wants because Daddy has money. Newsflash: You’re not special.”

His eyes narrowed dangerously. “You don’t know a damn thing about me.”

“Oh, I know enough,” she fired back. “You’re just another rich, entitled jerk who uses people like toys. Guess what? I’m not one of your playthings, so stay the hell out of my life.”

“Gladly.” He stepped back, his jaw clenched as if he were restraining himself from saying something worse. “And by the way, don’t even think about talking to me at school. I don’t need some rat following me around and embarrassing me.”

Her mouth dropped open. “Rat? Are you serious right now?”

“Dead serious.” He flashed her a cold smile. “Stay in the shadows where you belong, and I’ll make sure no one bothers you. You make noise, and I’ll squash you. Simple as that.”

Brielle saw red. “Squash this, asshole,” she snapped, flipping him off before storming back toward the house. Her footsteps were heavy and fast, fueled by pure rage.

Behind her, Damian chuckled darkly. “Good luck fixing that van, sweetheart. You’ll need it.”

She whipped around, fire blazing in her eyes. “You’re going to pay for this, Damian. Mark my words.”

“Sure thing,” he said lazily, climbing onto his bike and revving the engine. The deafening roar sent vibrations through the ground, and he sped off with a wicked grin, leaving behind a cloud of dust and tire marks.

Brielle stood there, fuming and shaking with anger. How could someone be so infuriating and reckless? She wanted to strangle him, punch him, something. Her van was ruined, her summer was off to a terrible start, and now she had to live with this walking nightmare of a stepbrother.

But one thing was clear: Damian Anderson had just declared war. And Brielle wasn’t the kind of girl to back down.

She marched back inside, already plotting her revenge. She didn’t care how rich or dangerous Damian thought he was. He was about to learn that crossing her was the worst mistake he’d ever made.

As she slammed the door behind her, she muttered under her breath, “This house isn’t big enough for both of us.”