Hate Me Like You Love Me (Serena and Caleb) novel Chapter 53

Serena’s POV

The most dangerous predators are the ones who smile while they’re circling.

Lucas chose a bright, crowded restaurant for lunch—the kind of place with floor-to-ceiling windows and cheerful noise levels and servers who check on you every five minutes.

Public. Safe. The kind of environment where nothing bad could possibly happen.

I tell myself this is fine as I slide into the booth across from him. Normal. Just two people sharing a meal, maintaining the appearances that keep everyone’s world from crumbling.

Lucas orders for both of us without asking what I want—a habit I’ve learned to tolerate, a small surrender in the larger war I’m fighting.

The food arrives looking beautiful on pristine white plates. I push my salad around with my fork, appetite nonexistent despite not eating breakfast.

“You seem distracted today.” Lucas takes a bite of his steak, watching me with those warm brown eyes that everyone else finds so trustworthy. “Everything alright at home?”

“Fine.” The word comes out automatic, rehearsed. “Just tired. Midterms coming up.”

“You work too hard.” He reaches across the table and covers my hand with his, the gesture performatively tender. “I worry about you, you know. Burning the candle at both ends.”

I manage a smile that probably looks more like a grimace. “I’ll be fine.”

We eat in silence for a few minutes—or rather, he eats while I rearrange my food into different patterns on the plate.

The restaurant buzzes with conversation around us, families and couples and business lunches all conducting their normal lives while I sit here pretending I’m not suffocating.

Then, halfway through the main course, Lucas sets down his fork.

He folds his hands on the table, his posture shifting into something more deliberate. When he speaks, his voice is calm—conversational, even, without a hint of anger or accusation.

“I know about you and Caleb.”

The words land like a detonation in the center of my chest.

“I’m sorry?” My voice comes out steady, but my heart has stopped beating. “What are you talking about?”

“You don’t need to pretend anymore, Serena.”

Lucas’s smile is sad, understanding—the expression of a man delivering difficult news with compassion.

“I’ve known for a while now. I just wasn’t sure how to bring it up.”

“There’s nothing to know.” The denial sounds hollow even to my own ears. “Caleb and I are stepsiblings. That’s all.”

“Is it?”

He picks up his water glass, takes a slow sip, sets it back down with precise care. Every movement calculated to draw out the moment, to let the dread build in my stomach until I can barely breathe.

“I came by the house that night.”

His tone remains pleasant, almost casual.

“The night you forgot our plans. I knocked, but no one answered. I thought maybe you were in the backyard, so I walked around to the side of the house.”

No.

“The living room curtains weren’t fully closed…” Lucas tilts his head, watching my face with clinical interest. “I saw enough.”

The restaurant noise fades to static. My hands grip the edge of the table to keep them from shaking, knuckles white against the polished wood.

“I might even have footage.” He mentions it casually, like an afterthought. “My phone was in my hand, after all. But I won’t show you—not yet. I’m sure your imagination can fill in the gaps.”

He’s lying. He has to be lying. There’s no way he actually—

But then he starts describing what he witnessed, and the hope dies in my throat.

“Bodies on the couch. You underneath him, your legs wrapped around his waist. The way his hands moved under your shirt.”

Lucas’s voice stays perfectly level, perfectly calm, each detail delivered with the precision of a surgeon cutting into flesh.

“You were quite enthusiastic, from what I could see. Not exactly the behavior of reluctant stepsiblings forced together by circumstance.”

My appetite vanishes completely. Nausea rolls through me in waves.

“What do you want?” The question comes out barely above a whisper.

“I want what I’ve always wanted.”

Dad. I see his face in my mind—my father, who still keeps my mother’s photo on his nightstand after all these years.

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