Chapter Two

Alexander Carter

Another meaningless party at Blake Thompson's mansion. I stood among my so-called friends, forcing the practiced smile my mother had drilled into me since childhood. "Always maintain appearances, darling," she'd say, right before another charity gala where she and Father would pretend their marriage wasn't in shambles.

The music pulsed through the room as I laughed at some forgettable joke, my British accent carrying across the space just as it was meant to. Everything about me was calculated – the perfectly dishevelled blonde hair, the expensive shirt, even the way I held myself apart from everyone else. Being the soccer team captain and "king of the high school hierarchy" came with certain expectations, after all.

I noticed her the moment she walked in, though I pretended not to. Julie Vaz, the quiet bookworm who'd never attended a single party in four years of high school. She looked completely out of place in her floral dress, clutching her drink like a shield. Her friends were clearly plotting something – I'd seen that look enough times to recognize it. Another attempt to "crack the ice prince," no doubt. As if I hadn't learned my lesson about love and relationships watching my parents' perfect façade crumble behind closed doors.

I kept my distance, maintaining my careful orbit around the room. But fate, it seemed, had other plans. One moment I was engaged in another mindless conversation, the next I felt the cold splash of liquid seeping through my shirt. My carefully maintained composure slipped.

"Watch where you're going, bookworm," I snapped, my accent taking on the icy edge I'd inherited from Father. I expected her to stammer an apology, to shrink away like everyone else did when faced with my cold demeanour.

Instead, her eyes flashed behind those dark-rimmed glasses. "Maybe if your ego wasn't taking up so much space, there'd be room for people to walk."

The party fell silent. I felt my jaw tighten, a mix of anger and something else – something I couldn't quite name – flickering through me. No one spoke to me that way. No one dared.

"Guess being top of the class didn't teach you basic coordination," I retorted, watching her cheeks flush with anger.

"And all those soccer trophies didn't teach you basic manners," she fired back before storming out, her floral dress swishing around her knees.

I stood there in my ruined shirt, watching her leave, trying to understand why my carefully constructed walls felt slightly less steady. Her words had gotten under my skin in a way nothing had in years. It was infuriating. Unsettling.

Later that night, in my penthouse overlooking the city, I found myself replaying the encounter. I'd made an enemy tonight, I was certain of that. What I wasn't certain of was why the thought of Julie Vaz hating me bothered me more than it should.