Chapter 1 — Born Rivals
The first time Solayne Lyrae Sinclaire met Jiro Kaeil Ashton, she decided she disliked him within thirty-seven seconds.
Not thirty-eight.
Not forty.
Thirty-seven.
She knew because she counted.
Sol had always counted things.
Steps.
Words.
Mistakes.
Victories.
At five years old, she already believed numbers were more reliable than people.
People lied.
Numbers didn’t.
Unfortunately, the boy standing across from her looked like the kind of person who would lie just to be annoying.
He was sitting on the grass outside the Sinclaire estate with his arms crossed and an expression that suggested the entire world had personally offended him.
His dark hair was slightly messy despite the efforts of what Sol assumed had been a very determined nanny.
He looked bored.
Arrogantly bored.
Which, somehow, was worse.
Sol stared at him.
The boy stared back.
Neither spoke.
A few feet away, their fathers watched with the excitement of men who had made a terrible decision but refused to admit it.
“Look at them,” Mr. Sinclaire said proudly.
Mr. Ashton nodded.
“They’re getting along already.”
Sol looked at her father.
Then at Mr. Ashton.
Then back at the strange boy.
No.
No, they weren’t.
Not even a little.
“Solayne,” her father said. “Why don’t you introduce yourself?”
She folded her arms.
“I’m Solayne.”
The boy’s expression didn’t change.
“I’m Jiro.”
Silence.
The adults waited.
The children stared.
The silence stretched for several seconds before Mr. Ashton cleared his throat.
“Well?”
“Well what?” Jiro asked.
“Aren’t you going to be friends?”
“No.”
The answer came immediately.
Mr. Ashton blinked.
“No?”
Jiro shrugged.
“I don’t know her.”
Before either father could respond, Sol nodded.
“I agree.”
Both men looked horrified.
“You agree?” her father asked.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know him either.”
Mr. Sinclaire stared at his daughter.
Mr. Ashton stared at his son.
The children stared at each other.
Then, for the first time, Jiro smirked.
It was small.
Tiny.
Barely noticeable.
And Sol immediately hated it.
“Why are you smiling?” she demanded.
“Because you’re weird.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“I’m not weird.”
“You counted before introducing yourself.”
Sol froze.
“...How do you know that?”
“You were moving your fingers.”
“I was not.”
“You were.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You were.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You were.”
“I wasn’t.”
Their fathers exchanged a glance.
Mr. Ashton sighed.
“They’re arguing already.”
Mr. Sinclaire looked relieved.
“That’s communication.”
“That’s not communication.”
“It’s a start.”
Meanwhile, the children continued glaring at each other.
Sol disliked him more with every passing second.
Which was unfortunate because their fathers clearly had other plans.
“Why don’t you two play together?” Mr. Sinclaire suggested.
“No.”
“No.”
The answer came simultaneously.
Both children looked surprised.
Then offended.
Then annoyed that they had answered at the same time.
Jiro pointed at her.
“See? She’s copying me.”
“I answered first.”
“No, I did.”
“You didn’t.”
“I did.”
“You didn’t.”
“I did.”
Their fathers were beginning to regret everything.
Over the next hour, every attempt to force friendship failed spectacularly.
They tried board games.
The children argued over the rules.
They tried coloring books.
Jiro accused Sol of stealing his blue crayon.
She hadn’t.
But after he accused her, she considered doing it anyway.
They tried building blocks.
That lasted approximately six minutes before becoming a competition.
“My tower is taller.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“Yes, it is.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
The argument continued until both towers collapsed.
Neither child apologized.
Neither child admitted fault.
The fathers aged visibly.
By lunchtime, they were exhausted.
The children were not.
The children seemed to gain energy from irritating each other.
“How is this possible?” Mr. Ashton asked.
“I don’t know.”
“They’ve spent four hours together.”
“And?”
“They dislike each other even more than before.”
Mr. Sinclaire rubbed his forehead.
“That’s impressive.”
Nearby, Sol and Jiro sat at opposite ends of a table.
As far apart as physically possible.
Sol was quietly eating fruit.
Jiro was pretending not to watch her.
Then he noticed something.
She was arranging the fruit by color.
Red.
Orange.
Yellow.
Green.
His eyebrow lifted.
“You’re weird.”
Sol looked up.
“What now?”
“You’re sorting fruit.”
“So?”
“Why?”
“Because it looks better.”
“It doesn’t.”
“It does.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“You’re wrong.”
“You’re annoying.”
“You’re weird.”
“You’re annoying.”
“You’re weird.”
“You’re annoying.”
“You’re—”
“Children,” both fathers said simultaneously.
The children stopped.
For approximately three seconds.
Then continued eating while glaring at each other.
By the end of the day, the adults had learned two things.
First:
Solayne Sinclaire and Jiro Ashton could not be forced into friendship.
Second:
They refused to ignore each other.
Which was arguably worse.
Most children avoided people they disliked.
Not these two.
They sought each other out.
Specifically to argue.
The next week, the Ashton family visited again.
The moment Jiro arrived, Sol groaned.
“Oh no.”
Her father looked hopeful.
“You remembered him.”
“Unfortunately.”
Inside the car, Jiro had a similar reaction.
Mr. Ashton smiled.
“Look. We’re here.”
Jiro sighed.
“I know.”
“You remembered.”
“Unfortunately.”
The fathers remained convinced friendship was possible.
The children remained convinced the fathers were delusional.
Months passed.
The families continued meeting.
Birthdays.
Family dinners.
Business events.
Vacations.
Every gathering ended the same way.
An argument.
A competition.
A challenge.
Or all three.
At age six, they raced across a garden.
Sol won.
Jiro demanded a rematch.
At age seven, they entered a children’s spelling contest.
Jiro won.
Sol demanded a rematch.
At age eight, they competed in mathematics.
The scores tied.
Neither slept properly for two days.
Their parents stopped asking them to be friends.
Instead, they focused on preventing property damage.
Because whenever Sol and Jiro competed, things somehow broke.
Usually not intentionally.
Usually.
One afternoon, when they were both eight, their fathers made a mistake.
A catastrophic mistake.
“Who do you think is smarter?” Mr. Ashton asked casually.
The room went silent.
Sol looked up from her book.
Jiro looked away from his tablet.
Their eyes met.
Dangerous.
Terrible.
Immediate.
Mr. Sinclaire realized his friend’s error too late.
“Oh no.”
“What?”
“You shouldn’t have said that.”
“Why?”
Before he could answer—
“I’m smarter,” Sol announced.
Jiro laughed.
“No, you’re not.”
“Yes, I am.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
The argument lasted three hours.
It ended with both children creating lists of evidence supporting their intelligence.
The lists eventually became binders.
The binders became folders.
The folders became an ongoing war.
The rivalry officially began that day.
Not that either of them would admit it.
Years later, people would ask how Solayne Sinclaire and Jiro Ashton became rivals.
Most assumed there had been a dramatic reason.
Some major betrayal.
Some life-changing event.
Some intense competition.
The truth was disappointingly simple.
They met.
They annoyed each other.
Then they continued doing it for years.
Neither knew how to stop.
Neither wanted to.
Because somewhere between the arguments and competitions...
Between the victories and losses...
Between the endless need to prove themselves...
The presence of the other had become normal.
Expected.
Necessary.
Though neither child understood that yet.
At five years old, all Sol knew was that Jiro Ashton was annoying.
And all Jiro knew was that Solayne Sinclaire was impossible.
As far as they were concerned, that was the entire story.
Their fathers knew better.
Watching the children argue from opposite sides of a room, Mr. Ashton sighed.
“They still hate each other.”
Mr. Sinclaire smiled.
“Maybe.”
“You sound happy about that.”
“I am.”
“Why?”
Mr. Sinclaire watched as Sol immediately noticed Jiro trying to sneak an extra cookie.
She pointed at him.
Jiro pointed back.
Another argument began.
The adults ignored it.
“They’ve never missed a single thing the other does,” Mr. Sinclaire said.
Mr. Ashton paused.
Then laughed.
“You think that’s a good sign?”
“I think,” Mr. Sinclaire said, “that one day they’ll either kill each other...”
Across the room:
“That’s my cookie.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“It is.”
“It isn’t.”
“It is.”
“It isn’t.”
“...or?” Mr. Ashton asked.
Mr. Sinclaire smiled.
“...or they’ll never be able to stay away from each other.”
Neither child heard him.
Which was probably for the best.
Because if Solayne Sinclaire and Jiro Ashton had known that this rivalry would follow them through childhood, adolescence, and beyond—
They would have been horrified.
And they certainly would not have believed the truth.
That one day, after years of trying to defeat each other...
The person they would struggle most to live without...
Would be the very rival they never stopped looking for.
