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.
