Zara Monroe stood at the gate of Northbridge Academy like it might eat her alive.
The towering iron gates, the stone walls wrapped in ivy, the kind of campus you only saw in movies, this wasn't her world. Not even close. She clutched her cracked phone in one hand and the acceptance letter in the other, her fingers shaking just slightly. It felt too good to be real. Or maybe too impossible.
"You really got in?" her mom had whispered the night before, folding the letter twice, like handling something sacred. "Baby, this is it. Your chance."
It wasn't just a chance. It was the chance. Full scholarship. One of the best schools in the state. The kind of place where senators' kids and celebrity offspring got their "humble beginnings."
And now… here she was. Zara Monroe. Seventeen. From the edge of Holloway Street where the buses came late and the roof leaked when it rained. Wearing her best thrift-store jeans, a pair of knockoff Converse, and a backpack held together with one safety pin and two prayers.
"Okay, Zara," she muttered under her breath. "You're not here to fit in. Just survive."
She pushed open the gate.
The first thing she noticed was the silence. No car horns. No chatter. Just clean, crisp air and the faint sound of piano coming from one of the buildings. The second thing was the cars lined up like a luxury dealership. Bentleys. Teslas. A baby blue Lamborghini that looked more like a spaceship than a vehicle.
She passed a group of girls laughing near the fountain. Their skirts were designer-cut, their nails fresh and shining. One of them looked up, eyes scanning Zara from head to toe before turning back to her friends with a whisper and a smirk.
Zara's stomach tightened. She didn't care. Not really. Not much.
Okay maybe a little.
She found the admissions office and checked in with a secretary who looked like she wanted to sanitize the pen after Zara used it. Within twenty minutes, Zara was handed a class schedule, a locker key, and a fake smile.
"Good luck, Ms. Monroe," the woman said, already typing again.
"Yeah. I'm gonna need it."
She was halfway to her locker when she heard the shouting.
It echoed from the student parking lot. Loud. Fast. Angry.
Zara slowed, then turned the corner just in time to see a black sports car screeching across the pavement wheels skidding. A figure stepped into its path without a second thought.
"No!" Zara yelled.
She didn't think. She ran.
She tackled the figure hard, both of them hitting the concrete just seconds before the car whipped past, its driver slamming the horn and disappearing without stopping.
Everything hurt. Her palms. Her knees. Her pride.
"You what the hell?" the guy she tackled groaned. "Are you insane?"
Zara blinked up at him.
Dark hair. Piercing gray eyes. Expensive jacket. Lip bleeding slightly from the fall. And very, very annoyed.
"Uh—" she panted, still on top of him, "you almost got hit by a car, you idiot!"
"I had it under control," he said, deadpan.
Zara rolled off him. "You didn't even look!"
"Because I knew it would stop."
"It didn't stop!"
He sat up slowly, groaning. "Still didn't need a flying tackle."
She stared at him. He looked… familiar. Like the kind of face you didn't forget. And judging by the way people were starting to gather and whisper, she wasn't the only one who recognized him.
"Wait," she said, piecing it together. "You're Jaxon Blackwood."
His lip curled. "Congratulations. Do you want a medal or something?"
Zara frowned. This was the infamous Jaxon Northbridge's golden boy, class rebel, and walking tabloid rumor? He looked more like trouble wrapped in leather and attitude.
"Next time," he muttered, dusting himself off, "mind your own business."
She watched him walk away, bleeding, limping, and still somehow smug.
"Yeah," she mumbled, "you're welcome."