The banter does what I hoped it would––lift the awkwardness—at least a little. But as he rounds the car and slips behind the wheel, one thing’s for sure.

This night is going to be precarious.

Because Tyson McRae is dangerous.

Music hums low through the car’s speakers, a steady pulse under the quiet. I glance at the display panel, seeing the song title on the screen. “I’m God” by Clams Casino & Imogen Heap. The ethereal melody fills the space, a strange contrast to the tension between us.

“I don’t recognize this song,” I say, half to myself.

Ty shifts gears, his eyes flicking to me before returning to the road. “That’s not surprising.”

I arch a brow. “You think you’ve already got my music taste all figured out?”

He smirks, tapping a rhythm against the steering wheel. “Not yet. But I’m getting there.”

Something about the casual way he says it makes my stomach tighten, but I shake it off, looking out the window at the city lights flashing past. My gaze drifts back to him. “How’d you hear about the William Bloom show?”

“I keep up with artists I like. Would’ve been criminal to be in the States and not catch one of his shows—especially with it happening right here in the city I’m in.”

Tyson McRae––a cocky, unpredictable force of nature––appreciates fine art. Surprising.

“I own one of his pieces.”

He glances at me, interest flickering in his eyes. “Yeah?”

I nod. “Bought it a few years ago. His work is raw. Layered. I’m not sure how to explain it, but it makes you think on a deeper level.”

“I agree with that.”

Ty stares ahead, but his gaze keeps flickering to me, like there’s something he wants to say.

I shift in my seat, overwhelmed by the tangle of emotions clawing for a way out.

It’s reckless, it’s stupid, but I can’t stop myself. Or my mouth. “Why do you hate Alex so much?”

The mood shifts in an instant.

A muscle tics in his jaw, but there’s the flash of something darker that flickers across his face and makes my stomach twist. “You want to get into this now?”

“Yeah. I do.”

Ty exhales hard, his hands white-knuckling the steering wheel. “I grew up with nothing, Magnolia. No privilege. No money. No safety net. Pure survival.”

There’s a razor-sharp edge beneath his voice.

“I worked my ass off. Every damn day. Pushed harder than anyone. Scraped by on talent and grit alone. And I made it—my dream position, my shot. But Alex-fucking-Sebring-the-third walked in and took it from me like it was nothing.”

I hear the bitterness in his voice, the raw resentment pulsing beneath his words.