Blair stood in her cramped bathroom, the walls a mottled gray, their peeling paint revealing splotches of an unidentifiable shade beneath. A faint scent of mildew hung in the air, a reminder of the apartment's age and neglect. It was a stark contrast to her family's luxurious mansion, where baths were extravagant affairs with scented oils and hot water flowing from ornate fixtures.
"Okay, Blair," she muttered to herself, standing before the icy tap. "You can do this." She took a deep breath and turned the handle.
"Oh, my gosh! Cold! Cold! Cold!" she shrieked, hopping in place as if that would warm her up.
Blair imagine her past life as the water filled the tub with a reluctant gurgle. In that life, every morning began with a hot shower in a marble-clad bathroom. The water would cascade down like a luxurious waterfall. She'd step out, wrapped in plush towels, feeling like a queen. Now? She was about to plunge into a frigid bath that would surely make her feel like a popsicle.
Next came the dreaded task of finding something to wear. She rummaged through her closet, which looked more like a war zone than a wardrobe. With dismay, she picked up a blouse and inspected it.
"Right. Ironing. How hard could it be?" she mused, imagining her maid deftly handling her clothes with the precision of an artist. A pang of nostalgia washed over her. Back in the mansion, she never had to lift a finger; her clothes were always crisp, her surroundings immaculate. Now, she was on her own, no maid to rescue her from fashion disasters.
The apartment creaked ominously, and she shivered—not from the cold but from the eerie atmosphere. "If only I had a ghost to help me," she joked, glancing around as if expecting a spectral maid to appear with an iron. "I can see the headlines now: 'Haunted Apartment Offers Unparalleled Service—No Ironing Required!'"
Finally, she settled on a slightly less wrinkled outfit that still looked like it had been through a wind tunnel.
With one last determined look at her reflection—hair slightly tousled, outfit still questionable—Blair stepped out of her apartment, ready to face whatever the day might throw at her. After all, she was a strong, ambitious, and independent woman.
*Meow* A tiny ball of fur darted into her path in the hallway. Blair rolled her eyes and leaned down, pointing an accusatory finger at the little feline. "Listen here, ugly. We had a deal. No pooping on my doormat, remember?"
As she made her way to campus, the chilly air nipped at her skin, but her mind was elsewhere. She rounded the corner toward the campus gate and froze, spotting Ezra Taylor standing there, a bouquet of vibrant flowers in hand. Her heart skipped a beat.
Every first day of the year, he performed this little ritual, holding a flower as if presenting it to someone. But today, the bouquet looked especially radiant against the backdrop of the campus, and for a fleeting moment, Blair's heart raced at the thought that perhaps—just maybe—these flowers were for her.
She shook her head, trying to dispel the fantasy. Get a grip, Blair. She knew deep down that Ezra didn't love her; he never had. It was all in her head—sweet delusions that she clung to like a lifeline.
Blair remembered the last time she'd raced toward Ezra, her heart pounding with excitement. It had been a beautiful spring day; the sun shining brightly as she had sprinted through the campus, arms outstretched like a kid chasing after ice cream.
"Move aside, ladies!" she had called out, a playful grin on her face as she dove toward him, narrowly avoiding a group of girls. She had seized the bouquet right out of his hands, the thrill of victory electrifying her.
But now, as she stood at the campus gate, the scene shifted dramatically. Blair was running again, but this time, it was away from Ezra. A strange mix of urgency and dread washed over her—a desperate need to escape the reality unfolding before her. The bouquet he held, so vibrant and tempting, wasn't for her. Deep down, she knew it even before, and the thought of witnessing that moment felt like a dagger to her heart.
"I didn't know you were doing a sprinting competition, Blair," Spencer spoke, leaning casually against the wall as she rounded the corner and stumbled into the isolated side of the campus. Blair paused, her heart racing not just from her run but from the shock of finding him there. She hadn't even realized where she was going.
Blair's surprise quickly morphed into annoyance as she squared her shoulders, striving to regain her composure. "Is this your morning workout—mocking me from the sidelines?" A thought struck her, something she had read just the night before. "You know, I remember reading on my phone that if a rival keeps poking at you, it's usually because they want to unsettle you and disrupt your focus. They might see you as a threat and hope that by distracting you, they can gain the upper hand—whether in academics, social standings, or personal goals."
Spencer's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Rival? You see me as your rival?" He chuckled, a mix of amusement and disbelief lighting up his face. "I'm flattered, but I didn't realize I was that intimidating. And wait—you have a mobile?"
Everyone around campus knew she could have all the luxurious things but a mobile. Her peers often joked about it, convinced she was so out of touch that she preferred life without the constant buzz of notifications.
"That's why I studied hard!" Blair exclaimed, her eyes sparkling with mock pride. "I bought it last week!" She leaned in closer, lowering her voice as if sharing a secret. "I couldn't believe how cheap this incredible piece of technology was." She paused and whispered to herself, though I almost had to sell a kidney to afford it now!
Spencer stood a few paces away, an amused expression on his face as she bragged about her new mobile. He was on the verge of informing her; she got scammed, that she had paid the same price for an imitation as the original. But he held his tongue, shaking his head slightly and muttering under his breath, "Idiot."
Blair's ears perked up at Spencer's quiet mutter.
"Ugly!"
With a huff, she turned on her heel and strode away.
As Spencer settled into his seat, he leaned closer to his desk mate and asked, "Am I ugly?"
His desk mate couldn't believe what he just heard. Who in their right mind would call Spencer ugly? He glanced at him, taking in his athletic physique and the way his dark, wavy hair framed his perfect face. His slightly brown skin radiated a healthy glow, and those captivating eyes—deep and expressive, sparkling with mischief and intelligence—were enough to make anyone weak in the knees. Seriously, someone must have lost their mind, he thought, shaking his head. There's no way you could look at him and not see how handsome he is.
As the bell rang, signaling the end of the morning session, a wave of relief washed over the classroom. Students gathered their belongings, chatting excitedly about the next class. But for Blair, that moment felt like an impending storm.
She glanced at the door, her heart pounding at the image of Samantha and the flower bouquet. The surrounding air suddenly felt heavy. Suddenly, she felt an overwhelming urge to escape the confines of the room. Without a second thought, she bolted from her seat, her backpack bouncing against her back.
Samantha was her cousin and their grandmother's favorite grandchild. While Blair struggled to navigate her career in medicine, Samantha thrived in the world of entrepreneurship, matching Ezra's course in their shared class.
As she hurried through the hallway, thoughts of Samantha swirled in her mind like a storm. It wasn't just the flowers that she dreamed of seizing earlier; it was the nagging feeling that Samantha had everything Blair felt she had lost—family, honor, and status.
Now, here she was, living in a cramped, haunted apartment with a little cat that seemed to take pleasure in decorating her doormat with surprise gifts.
She shook her head, trying to push down the bitterness that threatened to rise within her. It wasn't jealousy she felt toward her cousin because Blair knew she could carve out her own path, even if it felt like starting from scratch; it was the unsettling realization that Samantha embodied everything Ezra seemed to want.
Lost in her thoughts, she didn't notice that she had arrived at her apartment. Sinking down beside the doormat, she felt the warm rush of tears escape her eyes. The little kitten in her lap mewed softly, blissfully unaware of her turmoil, while a pile of cat poop sat mocking her just inches away.
"Great, just great," she murmured, wiping her face with the back of her hand. "I'm not crying. I have a runny nose because I'm allergic to you." The little kitten in her lap purred and looked up at her with wide, innocent eyes.
"And where's your mother? Seriously, go back to your family!" Blair exclaimed, trying to sound stern, but the kitten only tilted its head.
She shoved the kitten off her lap, but it bounced back immediately, purring louder than before. Blair sighed, trying to keep a straight face. "You really don't want to go away, huh? Well, then, might as well listen to my woe?" She leaned in closer, lowering her voice.
The kitten let out a soft mewl, as if agreeing to the idea.
"I saw Ezra Taylor today after two months," she began, her voice trembling slightly. "I didn't think it would hurt this much."
The kitten looked up at her. "You wouldn't understand how much I missed him," she continued, her voice thick with emotion. "He was the guy I thought I'd build a life with."
Damon and Scott had been best friends since they were young. To her, Ezra's home was a second sanctuary, an extension of her own lavish mansion, filled with warmth. Clinging to him felt as natural as breathing; the boy she thought would always be hers. Blair felt an unshakeable bond with the Taylors, who spoiled her like their own daughter. So practically, Blair didn't just lose one family; she lost two and the promise of a future with Ezra—all vanished in an instant.
"You know why I love Ezra?" she murmured to the kitten, her voice barely above a whisper. "My grandfather was always strict, especially with me, his only grandchild from his legitimate son. While my parents were too busy managing their businesses, Ezra was the only one I could talk to—the only one who made me feel seen."
She let out a heavy sigh, her heart aching with the weight of her thoughts. "But now, looking back, I realize how selfish I must have seemed, clinging to him as my only solace, without ever considering his own feelings. I never asked him what he truly wanted."
Blair swallowed hard, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. "To me, the decisions made by the Wilsons and Taylors for us always felt like a favor. But what about Ezra? Did he even like the idea of us being married in the future?"
"Perhaps I was so self-centered, just like my grandparents always told me. I never gave him the space to choose for himself or listened to his protest."
The kitten stared up at her, a small, comforting presence in a world that felt unbearably heavy. "I hope he's happy," she whispered. "I hope he finds what he truly wants, even if it's not me."
The next morning, however, the universe had other plans. As Blair trudged into the cafeteria, she saw Samantha, perched like a queen at the table, having coffee with none other than Ezra.
Blair felt a surge of anger wash over her. The sight of them together—felt like a slap in the face. "How dare he enjoy his breakfast with her?" she huffed, imagining herself launching a fork.
As she grabbed her coffee, she imagined a fantasy scenario where she stormed over. But this fantasy confrontation ruined by a familiar voice.
"Planning an Oscar-worthy performance, are we?"
Blair glared at him. "Shut it, Spencer. I'm busy plotting a dramatic confrontation with the universe," she snapped, not even trying to hide her annoyance.
"Oh, please! You can't be serious," he chuckled, shaking his head. "Think about how expensive that coffee is."
His words snapped her back to reality. The coffee she had just bought was a luxury she couldn't afford to waste. The money she had left from pawning some jewels was nearly gone. She needed to find a part-time job—fast.
"Right," she muttered, feeling the anxiety creep in. "Thank you for saving this coffee, jerk."