Brandon's POV
The house felt wrong the second I stepped inside — too bright, too cheerful, too… performative. Like someone had stretched a smile across the walls and forced it to stay there.
And then I saw why.
Casey.
Sitting at our dining table like she belonged there, her legs crossed, head tilted, smirk sharp enough to slice marble. And beside her — her mother, Paige. The queen of loud perfume and louder opinions.
Of course.
Of course.
Perfect. Just what my day needed.
I closed the door, trying not to slam it, and forced a breath through my nose. If irritation had a heartbeat, mine was breakdancing.
Casey's eyes met mine, and her smirk widened.
"Brandon," she sang, like she owned the moment.
