The cold evening air wrapped around Elena like an unwelcome embrace, seeping through the thin fabric of her coat despite her efforts to pull it tighter. Each gust of wind felt like icy fingers brushing against her skin, making her shiver—not just from the chill but from the lingering frustration pulsing in her chest. Her heart still raced, beating with the stubborn remnants of irritation after the unexpected collision earlier that day. Jaxon. That was his name. She'd overheard someone mutter it when he'd stalked away, his broad shoulders tense with defiance, not even bothering to offer an apology.
His sharp gaze had been like a blade, cutting through her with ease, leaving behind an imprint she couldn't shake off no matter how hard she tried. It wasn't just his arrogance that irked her—it was how effortlessly he'd gotten under her skin, like a splinter buried too deep to remove. His face flashed in her mind repeatedly, especially those piercing blue eyes that seemed to see right through her, peeling away the fragile layers she'd been desperately trying to hold together since… since everything fell apart.
By the time she reached her uncle Damian's sprawling estate, the sky had surrendered to dusk, painted in streaks of deep violet and burnt orange, like nature itself was exhausted. The gates loomed tall and imposing, wrought iron twisted into intricate patterns that felt more like prison bars than a grand welcome. Elena hesitated for a brief second before stepping through, her footsteps echoing against the long, stone driveway that led up to the mansion.
It was beautiful in a way that felt cold—like admiring art from a distance but knowing you could never touch it. The Aster estate had once been her home—or at least, it was supposed to be. Now it felt like a stranger wearing her family's face, a place filled with echoes of memories she couldn't fully grasp. The towering pillars, the polished marble floors, the crystal chandelier hanging like a frozen cascade above the grand staircase—everything was too perfect, too pristine. It was as if the house itself was pretending, much like the people inside it.
As she pushed open the heavy oak door, the warmth from the interior met her with all the enthusiasm of a lukewarm handshake. The faint scent of polished wood and expensive perfume clung to the air. Vivian, Damian's wife, stood at the top of the staircase, her posture rigidly graceful. Her perfectly coiffed blonde hair didn't have a single strand out of place, and her tailored dress hugged her figure like it was sewn onto her skin. She was the kind of woman who didn't just walk into a room—she curated it.
"You're late," Vivian remarked, her lips curling into a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. Her voice was light, almost airy, but the sharp edge beneath it was impossible to miss.
Elena forced herself to respond, her voice flat. "I lost track of time."
There was no point elaborating. It wasn't like Vivian—or anyone in this house—really cared about where she'd been or how her day had gone. They asked questions for the sake of appearances, not because they wanted answers.
Dinner was the same as always—a perfectly choreographed performance. The dining room was absurdly large, the long mahogany table gleaming under the soft glow of the chandelier. Damian sat at the head of the table, his presence commanding even when he was silent. He wore authority like a second skin, his sharp features made more severe by the glasses perched on his nose. He barely glanced at Elena as she took her seat, his focus shifting between his glass of wine and whatever business thoughts were undoubtedly swirling in his mind.
Nate, sat to his right, his expression carefully neutral, though the subtle lift of his eyebrow whenever Elena spoke betrayed her simmering hostility. He was flawless in that effortless, intimidating way—polished like the rest of the house. Lucas was the opposite. His easy smile and quick jokes were the only warmth Elena felt during these dinners. At least he seemed genuine, his friendliness not another mask to be worn and discarded when convenient.
But even Lucas light couldn't pierce the heaviness that hung over the table. The clinking of silverware against porcelain plates filled the silence, punctuated by the occasional polite remark about school or upcoming events. Elena nodded along, her thoughts miles away. No matter how much she tried to stay present, her mind kept drifting back to Jaxon—the sharpness of his words, the arrogance etched into every line of his face, and the way his laughter had echoed long after he'd walked away.
That night, sleep remained just out of reach. She lay in bed, staring at the ornate ceiling, tracing invisible patterns in the shadows. Her thoughts were a tangled mess of fragmented memories—some real, some imagined—and the frustrating blank spaces where her past should've been. Faces she couldn't recognize flashed behind her closed eyelids, and amidst them all, his face appeared. Those piercing blue eyes haunted her, vivid and unsettling. She hated that she remembered them so clearly.
When morning finally crept in, painting her room in dull gray light, she wasn't ready to face another day. But life didn't wait for grief or exhaustion.
---
Bellrose High was already buzzing with activity when she arrived. The chaotic symphony of lockers slamming, laughter echoing, and footsteps pounding against the linoleum floor created a backdrop of controlled chaos. Elena moved through it like a shadow, clutching her books tightly to her chest as if they could shield her from the world. She kept her gaze low, her nerves humming with an uneasy anticipation she couldn't quite explain.
Before she could get too lost in her thoughts, Lydia materialized beside her like a burst of color in an otherwise gray landscape. Her blonde curls bounced with every enthusiastic step, and her grin was as bright as ever. She linked her arm through Elena's without hesitation, her energy unapologetically infectious.
"Elena! You look like you got hit by a bus. Rough night?" Lydia chirped, tilting her head with faux sympathy, though her eyes sparkled with amusement.
Elena managed a weak smile. "Something like that," she muttered, shifting the weight of her books awkwardly.
Lydia didn't press, which Elena appreciated. But fate, as always, had a twisted sense of humor.
As they rounded the corner, there he was.
Jaxon Rivers leaned casually against a row of lockers, earbuds dangling from his neck like an afterthought. His dark hair was messily perfect, as if he'd just rolled out of bed and didn't care—except it suited him. He was surrounded by a few students, his posture relaxed, his presence impossible to ignore. But it wasn't until his gaze snapped to Elena that the air seemed to shift.
His grin spread slowly, like he'd been waiting for this exact moment. "Well, if it isn't the human traffic hazard," he drawled, his voice cutting through the hallway noise with effortless precision. The smugness in his tone was unmistakable.
Elena froze mid-step. A flush of heat crept up her neck, fueled by embarrassment and righteous indignation. She could feel the curious stares from other students, the weight of their attention pressing down on her like a physical force. But she refused to let him see her flustered. Straightening her spine, she forced herself to meet his gaze head-on.
Jaxon's grin didn't falter. If anything, it grew, like he was amused by her attempt to stand her ground. His piercing blue eyes sparkled with something between mischief and defiance—a challenge without words.
Lydia's grip on her arm tightened. "Ignore him," she whispered under her breath, casting a quick, disapproving glance in Jaxon's direction. But ignoring him felt impossible. He had this way of taking up space, of pulling attention toward him like gravity itself had shifted.
Elena took a deep breath, feeling the sting of his words linger like an echo. She wasn't going to let him win. Not today.
"If I'm a traffic hazard, you must be the roadblock," she shot back coolly, her voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through her veins. "Completely unnecessary and in the way."
The smirk on Jaxon's face faltered for a split second, surprise flickering in his eyes before amusement took over again. A low whistle escaped from one of the boys standing beside him, and a few scattered chuckles followed, but Jaxon didn't seem bothered. If anything, he looked intrigued.
He pushed off the locker, sauntering toward her with the kind of lazy confidence that made her stomach twist—not out of admiration, but sheer irritation. His steps were unhurried, deliberate, like he was savoring the moment.
"You've got sharp claws for someone who looks like she belongs on the cover of a prep school brochure," he murmured, stopping just a foot away from her. His voice was lower now, meant only for her ears, and that infuriating grin had softened into something more dangerous—something that felt like a dare.
Elena clenched her jaw. "And you've got a big mouth for someone who clearly doesn't know when to shut it."
For a moment, they just stared at each other, the tension crackling between them like static electricity. The noise of the hallway faded into the background, replaced by the sound of her own heartbeat pounding in her ears.
Jaxon's grin returned, slow and lazy. He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "I like you, Aster. You're fun."
She blinked, caught off guard by the unexpected words. Before she could formulate a response, he straightened up and walked away, leaving her standing there, her heart racing for reasons she didn't want to acknowledge.
Lydia finally exhaled beside her, tugging on her arm. "What was that?" she whispered, her eyes wide with disbelief.
Elena shook her head, trying to shake off the lingering frustration—and something else she couldn't quite name. "I have no idea," she muttered, turning sharply and heading.