The air at Blackwood Academy didn't smell like old books and lemon cleaner today. It smelled of ambition, desperation, and the distinct, greasy aroma of cheap pizza from the East Dorm's fundraiser booth. To Elara Vance, it was the smell of victory.
Or it would be, if the West Dorm's obnoxiously perfect banner wasn't flapping right in her line of sight.
"Stop glaring at the fabric, El. You'll set it on fire," a voice chirped beside me. I tore my gaze away from the gold-embroidered West Dorm crest to my best friend, Maya. She was cheerfully counting a stack of tickets, her optimism a stark contrast to my simmering resentment.
"It's a fire hazard," I muttered, adjusting the sleeve of my simple grey East Dorm sweater. "And it's blocking the view of our poster. They did that on purpose."
"Of course they did," Maya said, unfazed. "It's the Annual Spring Festival. Rule number one: the West plays dirty. Rule number two: we play dirtier. Now, are you going to help me sell these raffle tickets or just radiate rage all afternoon?"
I sighed, forcing my shoulders to relax. Maya was right. As East Dorm's class representative, my job was to lead, not to sulk. Our scholarship funding depended on us outselling the West this weekend. Every ticket mattered.
My eyes, however, had a mind of their own. They scanned the crowded courtyard, past the laughing clusters of students, past the music club's mediocre performance, and landed right on the source of all my academic frustrations: Leo Cassian.
He held court at the West Dorm's espresso bar—because of course they had an actual espresso bar. Leaning against the counter with effortless grace, he wore his navy blue blazer like it was a royal robe instead of a uniform. His dark hair was perfectly, artfully messy, and that infuriating, knowing smirk was plastered on his face as he chatted with a circle of admirers. He was the golden boy, the Head Prefect, the undisputed prince of West Dorm.
And I was the girl who was going to dethrone him.
"Don't even think about it," Maya warned, following my gaze.
"I'm just assessing the competition," I said coolly.
"Your face is doing that thing. That 'I'm-about-to-challenge-him-to-a-debate-and-crush-his-soul' thing. It's the festival, Elara. Not a battlefield."
But at Blackwood, they were the same thing.
The afternoon wore on. Our ticket sales were strong, but a quick mental calculation told me the West was still ahead. My mission became clear: I needed intel. I needed to see their prize list. The grand prize was a weekend getaway, and I was sure the Cassians had donated something absurdly expensive, which was the only reason they were winning.
"Cover for me," I whispered to Maya.
She groaned. "Elara, no…"
But I was already gone, slipping through the crowd with a singular focus. The West Dorm booth was a masterpiece of privilege. Everything was sleek, professional, and probably cost more than our entire dorm's budget.
And there, on an elegant easel, was their prize list.
I weaved through a group of freshmen, my eyes locked on the calligraphed sheet. If I could just get close enough to—
Thwack.
I walked straight into something solid. Very solid. And warm.
A strong hand shot out to steady me, preventing a complete catastrophe. My face smushed into soft, expensive wool that smelled like sandalwood and arrogance.
I stumbled back, my heart hammering. I knew that blazer. I knew that chest.
I looked up into the amused, hazel eyes of Leo Cassian.
"In a rush, Vance?" he drawled, his voice a low vibration that made my teeth clench. "The East Dorm ticket line isn't that long."
A few of his friends snickered. Heat flooded my cheeks. Of all the people to literally run into.
"Cassian," I said, my voice tighter than I intended. "I was just… admiring your display. It's very… shiny."
His smirk widened. "We like to invest in quality. Something you might want to consider for your…" He glanced over my shoulder at our booth, his nose wrinkling slightly. "…bake sale."
The insult was like a spark to gasoline. All my carefully maintained composure evaporated.
"Our 'bake sale,'" I shot back, stepping closer, "funds scholarships so people who aren't born with a silver spoon can actually afford to be here. Something you wouldn't understand."
He didn't retreat. He leaned in, his height suddenly very intimidating. "I understand a poorly balanced budget. Maybe if you spent less time on misguided charity and more on strategy, you wouldn't be losing. Again."
That was it. The gauntlet thrown.
Blinded by a fury so pure it was blinding, I jabbed my finger at his chest to emphasize my next point. "We are NOT losing—"
But in my rage, I misjudged the distance. As I stepped forward, my foot caught on the leg of a nearby table. The world tipped sideways.
With a gasp, I flailed, grabbing for anything to stop my fall. My hands found Leo's blazer and clung on for dear life. He grunted in surprise, stumbling forward as I yanked him off balance.
We crashed to the polished courtyard floor in a chaotic tangle of limbs, navy blue and dull grey.
A collective gasp rippled through the crowd around us.
The fall knocked the air from my lungs. For a second, there was only stunned silence and the weight of him half on top of me. Then, sensation returned.
I felt the solid plane of his chest under my palm. The fine weave of his blazer under my fingers. I registered, with dawning, mortifying horror, that my hand was not just on his chest. In the chaos of the fall, it had slid directly inside his open blazer, my fingers splayed against the crisp white cotton of his shirt. Right over his heart.
And his hand… his arm was wrapped around my waist, his own hand splayed firmly against my lower back, holding me securely against him.
Time froze. My brain short-circuited. I could feel the frantic beat of his heart under my palm, a wild rhythm that matched my own. The scent of sandalwood was overwhelming. I was staring up at him, my eyes wide, my lips parted in a shocked 'O'.
His face was inches from mine. The amusement was gone, replaced by sheer, unadulterated shock. His eyes searched mine, and for a single, terrifying second, something raw and unreadable flashed in their hazel depths.
The silence broke, shattered by the uproarious laughter of his friends.
"Whoa, Cassian! Getting a little handsy with the competition!" one of them yelled.
The spell shattered. Leo's mask snapped back into place, smoother and faster than I could process. He pushed himself up on one arm, looking down at me. The smirk returned, but it was tighter now. strained.
He leaned down, so close his whisper was for me alone. His breath tickled my ear, and a traitorous shiver ran down my spine.
"Getting handsy with the enemy, Vance?" he murmured, his voice laced with a new, unfamiliar tension. "I didn't know you East Dorm girls were so… forward with your negotiations."
Humiliation, hot and acute, burned through me. I shoved him off me, scrambling to my feet. My face was on fire. I could feel hundreds of eyes on me, and the laughter was like needles on my skin.
I straightened my sweater with trembling hands, refusing to look at him. "It was an accident," I hissed, my voice trembling with a mixture of rage and utter embarrassment.
He rose to his feet, brushing off his impeccable blazer with a casualness that felt like a personal insult. "Of course it was," he said, his voice dripping with false sympathy. "Though for a second there, I thought it was a declaration of war."
He gave me one last infuriating once-over, tipped a non-existent hat, and sauntered back to his friends, who clapped him on the back.
I stood there, rooted to the spot, the imprint of his heartbeat still burning on my palm. Maya appeared at my side, her eyes as wide as saucers.
"Oh my god, Elara. Are you okay? That was…"
"A disaster," I finished, my voice hollow. I finally met her gaze, a new, steely resolve crystallizing out of the ashes of my humiliation. "No. Not a disaster."
I looked back at Leo Cassian, who was already laughing with his friends, the perfect prince once more. But I'd seen it. The crack in the armor. The shock. The rapid heartbeat.
He thought it was a declaration of war?
He had no idea.
I smiled, a sharp, dangerous thing. "It was just the opening move."