Chapter One

Julie Vaz

I had never been one for parties. I preferred the company of books, particularly my secret stash of romance novels, the quiet solitude of my floral-decorated reading nook, and the fictional worlds that kept me safe from the chaos of Upper East Side high school life. But on this particular Friday night, my best friends had other plans.

"Come on, Julie! It's the last party of senior year. You can't graduate without going to at least one high school party," Emma pleaded, already rummaging through my closet full of pastel and floral dresses.

"I've survived four years without them," I muttered, adjusting my dark-rimmed glasses, but my protest fell on deaf ears as Jenny joined Emma's mission.

Two hours later, I found myself standing in the corner of Blake Thompson's mansion, clutching a cup of soda like a lifeline. I wore my favourite light blue floral dress, my brown hair falling in soft waves around my shoulders. The music pulsed through the walls, my classmates were living their best lives – dancing, laughing, and creating memories I was supposed to regret missing.

"Target acquired," Jenny whispered, nudging my ribs. "Alexander Carter, twelve o'clock."

My heart skipped a beat as I spotted him – the soccer team captain, king of their high school hierarchy, and according to my friends, my "perfect match." Alexander stood across the room, his blonde hair perfectly dishevelled, blue eyes sparkling as he laughed, his British accent carrying across the room. He looked more like a young aristocrat than a high school senior.

"He's not interested in dating," I hissed, "Everyone knows that."

"Which makes you perfect for each other! Both of you are like, allergic to fun," Emma declared, already scheming. "Besides, you're literally the top student in our class. If anyone can catch his attention, it's you."

What happened next was a disaster of epic proportions. Jenny's "brilliant" plan to orchestrate a meet-cute resulted in me accidentally spilling my drink all over Alexander's expensive shirt. His cold stare made my blood freeze.

"Watch where you're going, bookworm," he snapped, his usual composed British accent taking on an icy edge.

"Maybe if your ego wasn't taking up so much space, there'd be room for people to walk," I retorted, surprising myself with my sudden boldness. My usual kind demeanour cracked under the pressure of embarrassment.

The party fell silent. Alexander's jaw tightened, and something flickered in his blue eyes – anger, surprise, or maybe both. "Guess being top of the class didn't teach you basic coordination."

I felt my cheeks burn. "And all those Soccer trophies didn't teach you basic manners."

I stormed out of the party, ignoring my friends' calls, my floral dress swishing around her knees.

As I walked home along the Upper East Side streets, I made a mental note to add Alexander Carter to my list of reasons why popular guys were nothing like the romantic heroes in my beloved novels.