Alexia Chase POV
I remembered the day I first stepped into the Hoffman estate. I was fifteen, awkward and overwhelmed, a middle-class girl thrust into an opulent world. Everything was grander, colder, utterly unfamiliar.
Jarrod introduced me to his closest friends. Among them was Elliott Castro, even then, at seventeen, a towering presence. He carried himself with a quiet authority. He was Jarrod's best friend, and from the moment I saw him, I felt a strange pull.
Our initial interactions were brief, polite, almost formal. He would offer a curt nod, a brief smile. I watched him from a distance, observing his calm demeanor, his quick intelligence.
One evening, at a charity gala, a clumsy waiter tripped, sending a tray of drinks hurtling toward me. Before the liquid could drench my dress, Elliott was there. He stepped in front of me, shielding me. His expensive suit bore the brunt of the accident. He simply brushed off the splashes, offering a small smile. "Are you alright?" My face burned with gratitude.
At school, where I was often the target of subtle snubs, Elliott would sometimes intervene. Once, a group of girls cornered me in the hallway. Elliott appeared, his presence immediately silencing them. He walked me away, his hand lightly on my arm. "Don't pay attention to them," he said. "They are not worth your time."
The year I turned sixteen, my feelings for Elliott deepened into an aching love. I wrote it all down, a long, heartfelt draft in my phone, a private sanctuary for my forbidden emotions.
Then came the catastrophic mistake. The draft somehow found its way to Jarrod's phone. His call was immediate, his voice a furious roar. "What is this, Alexia? You're obsessed with me? With your own step-brother? You gold-digging freak!"
He marched into the living room where Elliott was visiting. "Look at this!" Jarrod thrust his phone into Elliott's hand. "She's been after me all along!" Elliott read the message, his expression shifting from confusion to cold betrayal. He looked at me, and that's when the meter appeared—a violent crimson "37" above his head.
I tried to explain. "No, Jarrod, it wasn't for you! It was for Elliott!" But my words were swallowed by their fury. Jarrod crumpled my printed confession and threw it into the fireplace. The flames consumed my fragile hope.
Elliott snapped. "Alexia! How could you? Is this what your mother taught you? To chase after money?" His words confirmed Jarrod's narrative. The meter pulsed brighter.
His anger reshaped my understanding of his past kindness. The protection, the gentle guidance—they were not born of affection. They were acts of pity. Every past gesture now felt like a cruel mockery.
In the days that followed, each attempt to explain was met with icy indifference. The number climbed—52, 64, 78.
The night before I left, I heard shouting from downstairs. Jarrod and Elliott. I crept to the top of the stairs. "You're being too harsh on her," Jarrod said, his voice strained. Elliott's reply was cold: "She made her choice, Jarrod. Leave it alone." There was a crash—a glass breaking. The next morning, Jarrod had a bandaged hand. He never explained it.
The ride to the airport was silent. Before I stepped out, I turned to Elliott. "I am leaving for good. I won't bother you anymore."
He simply nodded. No relief, no softening. Just emptiness.
He watched me walk away, then drove off. The sense of abandonment was absolute.
A profound ache settled in my heart. Despite everything, I still loved him. The feeling persisted, a stubborn, agonizing truth.
As the plane took off, I whispered a promise to myself: "Never again." But deep down, in a place I was too wounded to acknowledge, I knew I was lying. The meter had driven me away, but it had also tied me to him in a way I couldn't explain. And one day, I would have to come back to find out what the numbers truly meant.
Alexia Chase POV
The words of the Reddit post echoed in my mind. The anonymous author, unmistakably Jarrod given his signature blend of smugness and victimhood, painted a picture calculated to garner sympathy. But there was a new update, a fresh torment.
A strange empathy stirred within me. The author expressed a profound loneliness, mirroring my own isolated existence. It was a dangerous, seductive connection.
Curiosity won out. I clicked on the new update. The post rambled on, detailing the author's frustration with a particular person. The words were laced with aristocratic disdain.
The author complained about a girl he was being pushed to socialize with. "She's too loud, too… common. Always trying too hard to fit in."
Then, the author posted a photo. A candid shot of a man in a tailored charcoal suit, standing on a balcony. The detail that caught my breath was the man's hand—a subtle scar on the knuckle of his left index finger. I knew that scar. It was Elliott.
The comments exploded. "Who is that?! He's gorgeous!"
But then I noticed the username: "LonelyHeir88." Jarrod's go-to online alias from years ago. My stomach turned. He wasn't just mocking me—he was pretending to be Elliott, spinning a fake sob story.
The coincidence was too much. "No," I told myself. It had to be Jarrod, still playing his cruel games.
But another thought crept in. What if the "first love" mentioned in the previous posts was me? My heart pounded. Could the meter have been a trick?
I zoomed in on the photo. The curve of his jaw, the tilt of his head—it was all him. My mind replayed countless moments, searching for clues. The more I looked, the more confused I felt.
I typed out a careful message, my thumb hovering over send. My heart hammered.
My phone rang. Jarrod. The suddenness felt like sabotage.
"Alexia, Mother wants you home for dinner. Don't be late."
Then a woman's voice in the background. "Oh, Jarrod, is that Alexia? Tell her I said hello!" Kira Stewart.
"Jarrod, are you still making Alexia run errands for you?" Kira laughed. "Poor thing."
Jarrod chuckled. "She's family, Kira. She helps out."
"Oh, Jarrod, you're too much," Kira said. "But seriously, Elliott's brother Daniel and I were just talking about you both."
Daniel. Not Elliott. Kira was marrying Daniel. I had misunderstood all along. But the casual intimacy between Kira and Jarrod—that was real. And it still stung.
My heart seized. The fragile hope shattered. The world spun, then went blank.
Before I lost consciousness, I heard Jarrod's voice one last time: "Alexia? Alexia! Someone call an ambulance!" The last thing I saw was the red number above Elliott's head—flickering, then turning a brilliant, impossible gold. Then darkness swallowed me whole, and I didn't know if I would ever open my eyes again.
