A SILENT FLAME
639 Words
Aliana POV — Lakeside (Continued)
We stop near the edge of the water, where the lake glimmers like spilled moonlight. The air is cooler here, quiet except for the soft ripple of water brushing the shore.
Atticus looks out at it for a long moment, hands still in his pockets, shoulders a little tense.
“You know,” he says finally, “people think they know me.”
His voice is lighter than before—but only barely.
“The tabloids.” He exhales a humorless laugh. “They’ve turned me into this… charming disaster. The Everheart playboy. The one who only cares about parties and scandals and being photographed everywhere.”
I stay silent, letting him speak. He seems grateful for it.
“The truth is,” he continues, “half the time I’m just… trying to breathe around the expectations. And the other half I’m trying to prove I’m not who everyone already decided I am.”
There’s something raw in his tone, something he doesn’t show people often.
“People misunderstand you,” I say quietly.
“Constantly.”
He looks at me with a small, crooked smile. “It gets old.”
I shrug lightly. “You can’t let people dumb enough to believe everything they read get to you.”
He blinks—caught off guard by my bluntness.
I cross my arms, smirking. “I mean, according to them? I’m the cute but mysterious Valencourt sister… who’s also slightly useless.”
He gapes. “They said useless?”
“Oh! And apparently I had an affair with Beckett when Adriana and he took a break.” I gesture dramatically. “So I’m also a secret slut.”
Atticus chokes. “What?!”
I shrug again, unbothered. “I know none of it is true. And besides—” my gaze lands on him, calm, steady “—I can tell what they say about you isn’t completely true either.”
Something shifts in his expression.
Something softer.
Something grateful.
“You really don’t care what people think?” he asks quietly.
“I care,” I admit. “But I don’t allow strangers to define me. Especially strangers who can’t even get my middle name right.”
He laughs—genuine, warm—and shakes his head like he can’t believe me.
“You’re…” he pauses, searching, “…not what I expected.”
“Disappointed?” I tease.
“Opposite.”
We hold eye contact for a moment too long.
He looks away first, clearing his throat. “For what it’s worth… you don’t strike me as useless or mysterious.”
“Good,” I say. “I was worried about my reputation.”
He snorts.
I tilt my head, smirking. “But you? You do strike me as a bad boy.”
His eyes widen. “What?”
“Well,” I say slowly, tapping my chin, “you have the whole brooding-rich-heir thing going on. Dark hair. A smile that screams trouble. Paparazzi obsession. It’s very… I read this in a novel once.”
He steps closer, amused. “Do you think I’m a bad boy?”
“I think…” I let my gaze trail over him, just enough to make his eyes darken, “…you’re misunderstood. And dramatic. And slightly full of yourself.”
He puts a hand over his heart. “Wounded.”
“But no,” I say softly, “I don’t think you’re a bad boy.”
Atticus looks at me then—really looks—and the emotion in his eyes is something quiet, tender, and much too sincere for the night we’re having.
“Thank you,” he murmurs.
“For what?”
“For seeing me.”
The words hit deeper than he intends.
And my heart—traitorous thing—reacts.
- Writer
