To manufacture a meet-cute, she planned to rear-end the heir to the Hawthorne fortune, Adam Hawthorne. She was driving my new car. I slammed on the brakes in time, telling her the Hawthornes weren't fools. That car was a bespoke hypercar, something we couldn't afford to replace even if we sold our souls. Later, Adam Hawthorne threw a wedding so lavish it became national news. My sister was consumed with a venomous jealousy, insisting that if I hadn't stopped her that day, she would have been the bride. Fueled by that resentment, she ran me down with her car. I open my eyes again, and I'm back in the passenger seat. A confident smirk plays on my sister's lips, her eyes locked on the hypercar ahead. "The second he sees me, Adam will be completely captivated," she says, her voice dreamy. "And when that happens, I won't be caught dead in a piece of junk like this." This time, I don't stop her. She stomps on the accelerator. With a gut-wrenching crunch, our car slams into the back of the eight-million-dollar machine. 1. The force of the impact sent the hypercar sliding several feet before it shuddered to a halt. The deafening noise drew a crowd of onlookers, their phones already out. The damage was catastrophic. The rear wing had snapped off, clattering onto the asphalt, and the carbon-fiber body was grotesquely buckled. My sister, June, paid it no mind. She recovered from the jolt with practiced ease, immediately checking her reflection in the rearview mirror. She artfully tousled her bangs, rubbed her eyes to induce a tearful sheen, and ensured her lipstick was smudged just so. If I hadn't witnessed the whole thing, I'd have mistaken her for a frightened little rabbit. Her primping complete, June glanced at me. She seemed surprised to find me sitting perfectly still, my expression unreadable. She had cushioned her side with two thick pillows and had floored it when I wasn't looking. If I hadn't been prepared, my hand already gripping the overhead handle, my face would have been smashed against the dashboard. She’s been like this since we were kids, always engineering situations to make me look flustered and foolish, to better highlight her own poised beauty. "Adam rarely makes public appearances," she muttered, dipping a finger into a compact. "Just play along and don't ruin this for me." She smeared the pale powder onto my lips without asking. "When I'm Mrs. Hawthorne, I'll let you be a maid at the estate. The pay's better than what you make now." With a final tug to lower the neckline of her tight-knit sweater, June pushed open the door and stepped out. In my last life, June blamed me for ruining her shot at a fairytale ending. She held me responsible for the train wreck her life became. This time, I'm curious to see if her own machinations will change her fate. June’s appearance caused a stir. A few men on the sidewalk were already snapping pictures. She’d always been proud of her figure, and the form-fitting dress she wore did its job, drawing every eye. Adam didn’t get out of the car. Only a chauffeur in a crisp suit emerged, circling the damaged vehicle before leaning in to speak with his employer. June bypassed the driver, walking straight to the passenger-side window and rapping on it with her knuckles. She spoke in a trembling voice, wiping away imaginary tears as the wind whipped her long, dark hair around her face, creating a perfect picture of broken fragility. After a moment, the hypercar’s gull-wing door swung upward. Adam Hawthorne emerged, his gaze sweeping past his car before landing on me. Then, his eyes settled on June. The legendary Hawthorne heir was notoriously private, a phantom pursued by countless starlets who could never find a way into his orbit. June lowered her head, her perfectly manicured hands twisting together nervously. Then, as if making a momentous decision, she pulled out her phone to call the police. I saw Adam raise a hand, a silent command for her to stop. He strode toward our car. Thanks to the deathly-white powder June had smeared on my mouth and a week of sleepless nights from overtime, I must have looked ghastly, my lips bloodless against my pale skin. Through the windshield, I saw Adam Hawthorne up close for the first time. It was the middle of August, yet a silk scarf was wrapped around his neck. From beneath it, a scar snaked its way up to his left cheekbone. Even with what was clearly expensive scar revision treatment, the skin was ridged and uneven, a testament to the severity of the original wound. June hurried over, her voice laced with concern. "My sister suddenly doubled over with stomach pains. I was rushing her to the hospital, and I must have mixed up the gas and the brake…" "But it doesn't matter," she added quickly. "It's all my fault. I'll cover all the damages, I promise." The scene seemed to move him. The icy mask on Adam’s face thawed slightly. "Don't worry about it for now," he said, his tone flat. "Get your sister to the hospital first." "My driver, Alex, will handle the rest." As Adam turned to leave, June stepped in front of him, holding out a business card. "This is my contact information. I won't run from my responsibility." Adam’s eyes dropped to the pristine white card in her hand. It listed her as a partner at a veterinary hospital and a guest lecturer at a local college. He looked her up and down, a slow, deliberate appraisal. Then, he took out his phone. "Let's not make it complicated. Just add me on WhatsApp." 2. A Maybach arrived to collect Adam, and a flatbed truck hauled away the mangled hypercar. The hood of my own car was crumpled, one of the headlights shattered. "I just picked this car up yesterday," I said flatly. "What are you going to do about this?" June ignored me the entire ride home. The moment we walked through the door, she ran to our father, Stephen, clinging to his arm and complaining that I was giving her a hard time. Dad patted her arm indulgently before turning to me. "You can handle it yourself. Why are you fighting with your sister over something so trivial? You're supposed to be the older one." June had insisted on driving that morning. She didn't have a license, having failed the driving test five times. Dad, worried for her safety, had made me go with her. My stepmother, Brenda, emerged from the kitchen with a platter of fruit. It held only three forks. They sat there, happily eating watermelon and mango, as if I didn't exist. "He couldn't take his eyes off me," June bragged, pulling out her phone to flash Adam's contact information. "I thought the Hawthorne heir would be a tough nut to crack, but he's just like any other man." "When June marries Adam, we'll be family with the Hawthornes!" Brenda clapped her hands, and Dad was instantly lost in the same beautiful daydream. June’s tone shifted. She speared a piece of durian and held it to Dad's mouth. "Dad, I still owe $50,000 for my tuition." Dad’s brow furrowed. He didn't agree immediately. Our family lived off the income from a small shop on the old town road, but business had been dismal ever since the city's new development plans bypassed our street. The so-called "Finishing School" June attended charged each student $75,000, guaranteeing they would cross class barriers and marry into wealth. June, a community college graduate, hadn't worked a day in three years, too busy with cosmetic procedures and curating a "socialite" persona online. The initial $25,000 payment had already drained Dad's savings. "Stephen, June is only taking these classes so you can have a better life," Brenda said, pushing at the heavy gold bracelet on her wrist. "If you won't even pay for this, don't expect to ride her coattails later." Her eyes flicked to me. "Besides, someone in this house has a job. A family should help each other out." The implication was clear: I was to foot the bill. In my past life, the Kimo family had drowned in debt funding June's high-society ambitions. Debt collectors had even shown up at my office, causing such a scene that I lost my job. And right now, they seemed utterly oblivious to the gravity of the situation with Adam's car, blithely assuming he wouldn't make June pay. I wasn't about to pin my hopes on their delusional fantasy. Before they could ask me for money, I made my own announcement. "I'm moving out. I've already found a place, and I'll be transferring my residency records as well." Brenda scoffed. "You're just jealous. You can't stand to see June become a lady of luxury." She looked me up and down with contempt. "A pretty face is a woman's greatest asset. Marry a rich man. You can be as jealous as you want, Stella, but it won't change a thing. Moving out on your salary? Don't make me laugh." My phone vibrated. A colleague was messaging me about a last-minute meeting. I went to my room to grab my files. "She's wasting her time," June said loudly, making sure I could hear. "Killing herself for a pittance. She'll never make in a lifetime what I'll have on one finger." Dad’s tone was condescending. "Stella, you need to start sucking up to June now. If you make her happy, she might throw a condo your way. Then you wouldn't have to rent." June smiled magnanimously, waiting for me to bow and scrape. I tightened my grip on my portfolio, my gaze sweeping over the three of them. "The Hawthorne money isn't June's. But the money I earn will always be mine," I said, my voice level. "Beauty is an advantage, yes. But when it's all you have, it's a catastrophe. You all should probably start by finding out what kind of car Adam Hawthorne actually drives." 3. The emergency meeting was about a new joint venture with the Hawthorne Group: the Clearwater Creek tourism project. The Hawthornes were handling development; my company, Alpha Media, was in charge of marketing and publicity. I had joined Alpha Media five years ago through their graduate recruitment program. As a top-tier global media firm, the work was demanding, but the compensation was excellent. I had, however, told my family I was a low-level gofer there, making minimum wage. Given that Brenda and June already looked down on me, they believed it without question. After briefing us on the project's progress, my director made a solemn announcement. "The lead on this project has been changed to Adam Hawthorne himself. This is the first major project he's managing as the official heir." He continued, "Mr. Hawthorne is not satisfied with our current proposal. We need to prepare two alternative strategies for a review session with him in two weeks. The heir is extremely detail-oriented and has already slashed the budget. Everyone needs to be on their A-game." After the meeting, my colleagues gathered in the breakroom, gossiping about the Hawthornes. "I heard Adam's face was disfigured when he was a kid. That's why he's so reclusive." "Disfigured? Who would dare?" "No idea. My mom was a reporter back then. She managed to get a covert photo of him at the hospital, but her editor forced her to delete everything." "You have no idea what goes on in those old-money families. The death of his older sister was suspicious, too. A little girl, going to the beach alone in the middle of the night?" "Old man Hawthorne has three ex-wives and four sons. Adam is the youngest, yet he's the heir. He must be ruthless." "Let's just focus on our work. You heard the director; the guy's a perfectionist." I recalled the face I'd seen through the car window. Even with the scar, he was handsome. But there was a profound darkness about him, an inscrutable depth like a whirlpool. He was nothing like the easily manipulated, lust-driven man June imagined him to be. Sipping my coffee, I idly opened Instagram. June had posted a new set of photos. She was in a Chanel suit, sipping red wine on a hotel balcony, surrounded by massive bouquets of flowers. Two distinguished-looking foreign men were artfully included in the shot. The caption read: Another delivery of the '82 vintage from the Italian vineyard. The aroma fills the palate, a truly romantic experience. Girls, you should really start collecting high-end wines. Out of frame, there were probably a dozen other girls in meticulous makeup, waiting their turn. The finishing school provided its students with a shared collection of props for their photoshoots: luxury cars, designer goods, jewelry, ocean-view penthouses. The goal was to cultivate an image of good breeding and refined taste. It was an effective lure for wealthy men who didn't know any better. To complete the illusion, they also pretended to be career-driven. June’s "partnership" and "professorship" were all fabricated by the agency. My realtor sent over two more listings for me to consider. I had saved enough over the years to buy a two-bedroom apartment near the office. I needed to cut ties with my family as soon as possible, before their drama dragged me down with them. Three days later, the video of June's "accident" was trending online. The comments hailed her as a "once-in-a-generation natural beauty," even comparing her favorably to A-list celebrities and claiming half of Hollywood would be out of a job if she ever decided to become an actress. Soon after, people started reposting her Instagram photos, gushing about her family background and exquisite taste. It was a brilliant PR move. It made it impossible for Adam not to notice her, and a positive public image was the best stepping stone into a family like the Hawthornes. I had to admit, the finishing school was ruthlessly efficient. After signing the purchase agreement for my new apartment, I went back to the family home to pack my things. Brenda opened the door, her eyes sweeping over me with disdain. "So, did you find a place to rent in the slums?" Dad didn't even look at me. He was huddled excitedly around June, looking like he'd just won the lottery. "It's Adam! Adam messaged me first!" "Kat said that once you get the man to make the first move, you're halfway there!" June closed her eyes, clutching her phone to her chest for a few dramatic seconds before finally opening the message. The three of them stared at the screen, silent for a long time. I put down my suitcase and walked over to look. The message from Adam read: The car is being sent back to the headquarters in Sweden for repairs. The estimated cost is $1.2 million.
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