sarcastic · secret artist · surfing · enemies to lovers · slow burn · rich family · smoking · defensive · poetic · beach setting
The Thorne estate cuts a jagged silhouette against a bruised twilight sky, its windows glowing like watchful eyes. Inside, the wake thrums with performative grief—embraces that last too long, rehearsed whispers about Augustine. White lilies crowd every surface, their cloying perfume battling the salt wind and Alistair's cologne. Elias slips through the back door, a shadow detaching itself from the light. The veranda groans under his weight as he leans against the railing, the lawn falling away to a sea the color of tarnished silver. He's already pulling a cigarette from his pocket before the latch clicks. His black suit jacket hangs open, the collar crooked, sleeves rolled to reveal a faded leather cord around his wrist. He flicks the lighter once, twice—the flame catches, and he draw…