CHAPTER ONE
Alice
The universe, it seems, has a twisted sense of timing.
Today is supposed to be the day. The official launch of Alice Miller 2.0.
No longer the quiet, predictable finance student from a non-descript state school, I am finally moving up.
I have fought for this transfer, practically building a shrine to the Wall Street-pedigree business school I am finally about to walk into.
I spent hours steaming my crisp white button-down—the psychological armor that declares I am organized, serious, and ready to dominate derivatives.
I'm twenty minutes early, practically flying on cloud nine. I might have even hummed something on the walk over. I'm a walking cliché of optimistic new beginnings, and I hate myself for it...
The city air, usually thick with exhaust, smells like opportunity.
Then I hear it.
A guttural growl of a powerful engine accelerating entirely too fast for a residential university street.
I barely have time to turn my head before the world goes sideways.
There is a massive pothole in the asphalt, a deep, jagged scar filled with oily, black, days-old rainwater.
The sleek, aggressive silhouette of a black European luxury sports car—gleaming as if it were carved from solidified shadow—doesn't even tap the brakes.
Thwack.
It happens in slow motion and then too fast all at once.
A massive, fan-like wall of putrid, cold slurry launches from under the tire.
I can't move.
I am paralyzed by the sheer absurdity of it.
The sensation of cold, muddy water soaking into my armor—my crisp shirt, my light-wash jeans, the very fiber of my dignity—is a profound and sudden violation.
I gasp, a wet, choking sound, standing drenched from shoulder to ankle.
The mud immediately sets to work seeping into my skin, turning my optimism into a freezing, white-hot rage.
The car slows. Just enough.
Just enough for me to see the driver.
Dark hair, impeccably styled—he looks like he's just stepped off a yacht.
An intense, handsome silhouette currently turned toward the passenger side.
Laughter, clear and mocking, echoes from the open window.
He doesn't even check the mirror. He doesn't see the person he's just erased from the 'happy and chirpy' category.
He is encased in his glass and metal bubble, untouchable.
Then, he accelerates again, disappearing around the corner.
The chirpiness is dead. Long live the cold, calculating fury.
I push open the glass door of 'Campus Quick-Stop,' the bell jingling with annoying cheer.
I ignore the clerk's wide-eyed stare and march past the rows of snacks.
In the far aisle, I find a display of scratchy, grey university hoodies which i think is the sports team's fans. It isn't my tailored armor, but it is dry.
I am heading toward the counter to grab a coffee when a familiar silhouette at the register makes me freeze.
It is him.
Up close, without the window and the glare, he is… offensively attractive.
Like a visual designed by a committee to generate maximum female interest.
Strong jaw, a mouth that looks like it spends a lot of time smirking, and eyes that are a warm, golden hue—like old amber or rich bourbon.
He is holding a stack of cash, looking annoyed that the clerk is fumbling his change.
He is spotless.
The embodiment of unfair privilege.
The absolute audacity.
I walk right into his peripheral vision and stop. The cold sludge on my chest is already starting to crust, but the rage is fresh.
His gaze snaps to mine.
The annoyance is instant. He looks down at me, and his nose actually wrinkles.
"Watch where you're going,"
he says, his voice a low, smooth baritone that grates on my ears like coarse sandpaper.
I look him dead in the face.
"You."
He stops mid-step. "Do I know you?"
He looks me over, his gaze sweeping from my muddy boots to the mess on my chest with dismissive distaste.
"I'm pretty sure I'd remember… this."
"You just ruined my clothes. My entire day," I snap.
"And apparently, you can't even operate a motor vehicle with the spatial awareness of a toddler."
He blinks. A flicker of realization crosses his face, followed immediately by that slow, practiced smirk.
"Ah," he says, his tone lazy. "The puddle. You were… standing there."
"I was walking. On the sidewalk."
He shrugs, his oxblood blazer shifting smoothly over a broad, powerful back.
"Potholes happen. It's an urban environment. Get used to it."
I can't believe it. No apology. Just condescension.
"You're going to pay for these," I state, gesturing to my ruined shirt.
"I am?" His smirk broadens. He leans casually against the counter.
"And why would I do that? What's the proof I did that?"
"The proof," I begin, my voice trembling, "is that I am standing here, drenched in the specific black sludge from the specific hole you hit not ten minutes ago."
"Anecdotal," he counters, holding up a finger.
"Circumstantial at best."
I am filing him under 'target' and 'priority.'
I am about to say something that will get me banned from this store when the jingle of the door-bell is replaced by a high-pitched shriek.
"Zade! Zade! Oh my god, Zade!"
The smirk shatters.
The bourbon eyes widen.
For the first time, the untouchable ivory tower shows a massive flaw.
He blanches—actually turns pale.
He looks around wildly, like a trapped animal, and his gaze lands on the only cover available.
The counter.
A girl bursts in—all blonde curls and a neon-pink puffer jacket. She is scanning the store with predatory intensity.
Zade (I have a name now) is already crouching down, folding his giant frame behind the edge of the counter.
He makes eye contact with me from his new, lower vantage point.
The amber eyes are wide with genuine, humiliating fear.
He raises a finger to his lips, making an exaggerated shushing motion.
Then, he actually mouths the words: 'I'm sorry. Don't tell her I'm here.'
He is apologizing. Finally.
But it isn't for ruining my day.
It is a tactical, self-serving apology designed to buy my silence.
I look down at him.
A slow, cold smirk begins to spread across my face.
It is the smirk of someone who has just been handed the leverage.
I mouth the words back to him: 'Sorry.'
Then, I turn. I project my voice with all the authority of a referee calling a foul.
"He's here!" I shout, looking directly at the girl in the pink jacket.
I point a muddy finger directly towards the end of the counter.
"He's right behind here."
The girl in the pink jacket freezes, then her face breaks into a predatory grin.
She marches towards the counter.
I don't stick around.
I pivot, grab my oversized grey hoodie, and walk towards the bathroom.
Revenge, I have just discovered, is an excellent detergent.