The rest of the ride drags in silence. Me in my head about stupid Mateo, the weird text I just got and my dying brand deals. Three months without posting really tanked my momentum.

Unless I fix my image fast, my reputation and everything that comes with it is gone.

After what seems like forever, we're finally in Caldera Heights in the northwest corner of Los Angeles. Palm trees and smog-filled air welcome me home. The Santos estate hides behind a hedge so tall it could block out the sun. It's charmed to re-bloom daily with the family's crest. That's Old Magic money for you, the kind of magic you inherit, not earn.

I've been coming here for two years and it still makes me feel like a fraud. My mom, who never really quite acclimated to Caldera Heights moved back to the West side years ago. Her entire apartment could fit in the Santos's foyer. Sometimes I used to catch Dr. Santos looking at me like she could see right through the designer clothes to the kid who used to eat free lunch at school. Like no matter how much money Dad makes now, I'll always carry the smell of poverty.

Dad whistles under his breath. "The market value on this place must be--"

"Please don't turn this into a Zillow ad," I cut in.

He rolls his eyes but stops talking as we pull up to a sleek keypad built into the stone wall.

A voice crackles from the speaker, "Please sign for entry."

Dad signs a verification sigil with a charmed pen he retrieves from the glove box and the gates swing open without a sound.

"My gilded prison awaits," I mutter, trying not to think about the apartment I won't get to have next semester.

We follow the familiar winding driveway under arches of old trees, sunlight breaking through in patches. The hedges shimmer faintly with protection spells. Enchanted flowers bob along the walkway, petals opening and closing on their own. The sheer beauty of all of it almost takes my breath away. Then I remember that the boy who stomped on my heart lives here.

The Range Rover glides to a stop in the circular driveway. The main house looms ahead. It's massive and cold, with big windows that bounce the sun back at us.

And then I see her.

Dr. Alana Santos descends the front steps like she's been waiting for us. Dark hair in a perfect bun, cat-eye shaped glasses and a tailored blazer that means business. Her stilettos click on the stone.

Dad kills the engine but waits, like maybe she'll open my door for me. She doesn't, so I roll down my window.

"Hello, Preston." She offers her hand through the opening.

I shake it and wince at the use of my birth name. All of my friends just call me Press.

"Did you have a comfortable ride?" There's no warmth in her voice so I seriously doubt she actually cares.

"It was fine."

"Good to see you again, Dr. Santos," Dad says, flipping on his professional charm. "I appreciate you taking Press in. As you know, our options were...limited."

He elbows me.

"Thanks," I say, though we're both aware this is less a "favor" and more like court-ordered chaperoning. I still don't know why she agreed. Maybe she's collecting lost causes for research.

"Bring your things," she tells me. "I'll show you where you'll be staying."

I exit the car, my legs screaming as I stretch them. She gives me a look I can't quite read, like I'm roadkill.

Dad unloads my bags from the back and gives me a hug I don't return. "Take care of yourself, son. I'll check on you in a few days."

I don't say anything back.

When he drives off, I hoist one of my bags on my shoulder and pull the other two behind me, starting the familiar path toward the house. But she stops me by holding up one perfectly manicured hand.

"You won't be staying in the main house," she says in a tight voice. "You're in the guesthouse in the back."

Of course.

We cut through the side yard. She glances at the rose bushes like she's waiting for me to explode them again.

The view to the backyard is hidden by large hedges. She murmurs a short incantation and a section of hedge slides aside to reveal a backyard that's as fancy as a luxury resort. Marble pool, a waterfall and enchanted statues of naked Roman men whose eyes follow your every move.

Once Mateo and I swam here, in that pool, at midnight while Dr. and Mr. Santos were in Italy on vacation. He splashed water in my face and when I tried to splash him back he grabbed my wrists and pulled me closer. Our feet found each other in the water and then my legs found his waist. As we floated there, me wrapped around him, I thought he'd be mine forever. The magic we made that night didn't come from any charms or affinities. What we had was real. I felt it in my bones.

Mateo never made me feel like I didn't belong. When I told him about the apartment I grew up in with the leaky ceiling, he didn't flinch. He just pulled me closer and said, "You're the realest person I know. That's why I love you."

"There are rules while you're staying here," Dr. Santos says over her shoulder, still walking. "Text me whenever you leave the house. Where you're going, who you're with, when you'll be back."

What else does she want? For me to check in during bathroom breaks too?

I keep dragging my bags behind her without replying.

"And no magic," she adds, turning to look me dead in the eye. "No elixirs or affinities. No enhancements. You'll earn them back if and when you prove you can handle it."

Heat prickles at the back of my neck.

The guesthouse is a white cabana tucked behind the pool, with a blue rooftop and matching shutters on the windows. Inside there are hardwood floors, a twin bed, a small kitchenette, a bathroom and a ceiling fan clicking overhead. It's spotless with the faint smell of roses...as if to remind me that I destroyed her rose bushes at that damn garden party.

"This is yours for now," she says. "We'll meet daily to discuss your progress. If you cooperate, you'll find this arrangement...beneficial." She forces a smile I don't believe. "Preston, I'm on your side."

I don't say anything. She stares at me so long I squirm.

After a while she asks, "What do you remember about the garden party, Preston? Halcyon Center told me you have some sort of amnesia? That's not uncommon with elixir-overdoses."

I clear my throat as my face goes hot. The gleam from the floors is suddenly more interesting than her eyes. "I remember a few things. Like I know it was your party. And that I...ruined it. And your rose bushes. I don't know how or why I did that." My mind always blanks when I try to remember. All I can see is static.

"I'm sorry," I add, because what else can I say?

Her lips press together into a hard line. "I've already forgiven you. The rose bushes have been repaired. I've moved on. I suggest you do the same."

"Speaking of moving on." She turns to leave, then pauses and faces me again. "Mateo has been instructed not to interact with you. You're to do the same. It's for the best of everyone involved."

My stomach drops to my toes.

Best for him? Because it definitely isn't best for me. The way I still think about him...dream about  him...should be studied? Three months away didn't ease the burn in my chest for him.

On her way out, she nearly collides with a young woman in a staff uniform carrying fresh linens. Dr. Santos doesn't acknowledge her or even break stride. She just keeps walking like the woman is a piece of furniture.

The woman steadies herself, cheeks flushing with embarrassment.

"Sorry about that," I say quietly. "You okay?"

She looks surprised that I'm speaking to her at all. "I'm fine. Thank you." She answers with an Eastern European accent. She hands me the towels, then adds, "Welcome to the estate, Mr. Gregor."

"Press," I correct her. "Just Press. And you're Katya, right?" I've seen her around dozens of times.

"Please let me know if you need anything." She takes her hand and shields her eyes from the sun. "And I mean anything," she finishes, almost smiling before hurrying off. 

I don't know how to respond, so I just nod and close the cabana door, letting out a deep belly sigh. This guesthouse is too-clean and the heavy silence starts closing in. At the bathroom sink I throw cold water on my face and catch my reflection in the mirror. Big brown eyes on warm tawny skin stare back at me. I run my fingers through my short coiled curls. A pimple is breaking out on my chin and I'm not even allowed to use any affinities to deal with it.

Between the threatening text and this sterile-ass room, this is not the warm welcome back to Caldera Heights I was hoping for. I need to do something with my hands. Or else I'll go crazy. Dropping onto the bed, I pull my sketchbook out of one of my bags and sketch sigils to keep my mind busy. Before, I could use an affinity to make my sigils jump from the pages and hover in front of me. But these sigils are just ink. 

There's no magic.

Maybe I should text my best friend, Harley. She always knows what to say to cheer me up. I grab my phone. No signal.

I check the Wi-Fi and find no bars there either. Mateo and I were together for two years so I used to automatically connect to the Santos Wi-Fi whenever I came over. The fact that I can't anymore feels like a personal attack.

I head outside to find Dr. Santos. If she wants me to check in, she can start by giving me the Wi-Fi password. Halfway past the pool, my feet stop.

It's him.

There.

Balcony, second floor. No shirt, white gym shorts slung low on his hips. His skin is a warm brown which tells me summer was good to him. His shoulders are leaner now and there are sharper lines in his torso that weren't there before, like he's been working out more than usual. His hair is buzzed. I didn't think he'd ever cut it that short. Somehow it makes his cheekbones stand out even more. He looks like he belongs on a billboard. He's got wired headphones in, one hand holding his phone, the other resting on the railing. His head moves slightly to music only he can hear. Probably some K-Rock band he's been forcing everyone in the group chat to listen to.

And then he looks up.

A lump forms in my throat.

His eyes lock on mine. He doesn't smile or scowl.

My vision starts to blur as he just takes me in.

It's the ruins all over again. That wrecked beach house we'd sneak down to at low tide, making out on the foundation while the ocean tried to cover it. Bodies pressed together, waves crashing louder, closer. The night air thick with salt and magic. My lips on his like I was drowning and he was the air. His hand on my jaw, pulling me closer, like he could keep me forever if he just held tight enough.

But now he doesn't move or take the headphones out. He just watches me.

My chest pounds like crazy. I wonder if he can hear my pulse from up there. I think for a second he might come down. Maybe say something to me. Tell me that he's missed me...or hates me. Anything at all.

But he doesn't.

So I crack first. Turn and walk back to the guesthouse so fast it probably looks like I'm running from him.

Forget the Wi-Fi. I have bigger problems. Like the fact that I'm still in love with a boy I'm not allowed to talk to.