Chapter 1
Her POV
I’ve always believed there are two types of brilliance in the world: the earned kind—built from sleepless nights, relentless studying, and the painstaking construction of color-coded notes—and the unfair kind, the kind someone is simply born with. I don’t need to say which one I am.
And I definitely don’t need to say which one Blake Harrison is.
It’s still dark when I step onto the stone path leading toward Aldermont University’s Old Academic Hall, my breath dissolving into the icy morning air. Dawn filters weakly across the gothic buildings, painting everything in melancholic violets and blues. It’s dramatic, but Aldermont has always had that vibe—like it’s judging you from its carved stone windows.
I tug my coat tighter and head across the courtyard, boots crunching through fallen leaves. At this hour, the campus is quiet. Peaceful. The only time my mind feels like it isn’t a battlefield of deadlines and expectations.
My phone buzzes.
Decathlon Midterm Results Posted.
A sharp sting pulses through my chest. I already know what this means. I’ve put in the hours. I’ve prepared. I’ve done everything a top student should do.
And yet, somewhere deep down, I know it won’t be enough.
Not when I’m up against him.
The auditorium feels colder than outside. Dim, buzzing with nervous energy. Students fill the seats in scattered clusters, whispering predictions I don’t want to hear.
I take my usual seat: second row, center. Strategically close to the screen without looking overeager. The pen in my hand taps against my notebook, in rhythm with my heartbeat.
Behind me, someone whispers:
“Blake’s gonna get first again.”
Another sighs, “When does he not?”
My jaw tightens.
Of course Blake Harrison is everyone’s favorite prediction. The golden boy. The prodigy. The one professor Meyers once called “effortlessly brilliant,” and I tried not to throw my textbook at her.
The lights dim.
My pulse spikes.
The screen flickers to life.
10th place. 7th. 5th. 3rd.
Then—
2nd Place — Avery Cole (98.6%)
I hold my breath.
Then the number above mine burns itself into my brain.
1st Place — Blake Harrison (98.7%)
0.1%.
A missing comma. A misinterpreted source. A single moment of hesitation.
It hits harder than It should.
I’m still staring at the score when someone slides into the seat beside me.
I don’t have to look.
“Morning, Cole,” Blake says. His voice is low—too smooth for someone who probably didn’t even study.
“Go away,” I mutter.
He laughs quietly. “What, no congratulations?”
I turn, slowly. His dark sweatshirt, messy hair, annoyingly bright blue eyes—it’s like he walked off a recruitment poster for Aldermont’s “ideal student.”
“I’ll congratulate you,” I whisper sharply, “the day you win by more than the statistical equivalent of dust.”
He smirks. “So never?”
I glare.
He nudges my elbow. “Come on. 98.6 is insane. You did great.”
“I didn’t get first,” I snap. “Great isn’t relevant.”
“Second place at this school is basically—”
“Don’t say it,” I cut in. “I will actually strangle you.”
He leans closer, playful. “Academic violence now? I’m flattered.”
I look away before he notices my pulse picking up.
Because I hate him.
I hate how easy everything is for him.
I hate that he can joke about this.
And most of all—I hate the way he says my name.
When the briefing ends, students pour out of the auditorium. I stand, gathering my things, just wanting space.
But naturally, Blake is standing in the doorway.
Waiting.
Holding a sheet of paper.
“What now?” I ask warily.
He lifts the page. “Saw this yet?”
I snatch it.
And my heart sinks.
Aldermont Debate Championship — Final Round Pairings
Team 7: Avery Cole & Blake Harrison
My voice escapes as a whisper. “No.”
“Yes,” he says.
“This has to be wrong.”
“It’s not.”
“Why would they pair us?” I demand.
He shrugs. “Maybe they want us to learn teamwork.”
“They want me to learn patience,” I correct. “With torture.”
He grins shamelessly. “I make an excellent educational tool.”
I smack the paper against his chest. “I’m requesting a switch.”
“You can’t.” He’s too calm. “Roster’s already locked.”
“Then I’ll talk to Dean Arliss.”
He tries not to laugh. “Please do. I’d pay to watch that showdown.”
I want to scream.
Or cry.
Or both.
But I won’t. I refuse to give him the satisfaction.
We walk outside into sharp autumn wind, leaves swirling around our feet. I put at least twelve inches of space between us.
“So,” Blake says, hands shoved in his pockets, “we should set a practice schedule.”
“Not today,” I say immediately.
“We have two weeks to prep.”
“I have plans.”
“Let me guess—organizing your bookshelf by theme and color again?”
“That was one time.”
“And it haunts me,” he says dramatically.
I glare. “When are your plans ever academic?”
He grins. “I plan to not fail. Does that count?”
“No.”
He laughs again, and the sound irritates me more than it should.
And confuses me more than I want to think about.
He stops suddenly in front of the library steps. I do too, because I’m not walking up them with him breathing down my neck.
“So,” he says, “tomorrow then?”
I sigh through my nose. “Fine. Tomorrow.”
“Great,” he says. “Don’t be late.”
I blink at him. “I wouldn’t be late. You would.”
“Not for you,” he says casually.
My brain stutters.
He says it like it’s nothing.
Like it’s normal.
Like it doesn’t turn my stomach into a chaotic knot.
I turn sharply and march up the stairs. “Tomorrow,” I repeat, forcing my voice steady.
He gives me a small smile—not the cocky one. A different one.
Something softer.
I hate that I notice.
I disappear into the library before the moment can swallow me whole.
Hours pass in my favorite corner. I do everything I can to bury myself in work—editing my thesis, annotating articles, reorganizing citations.
But my mind keeps drifting back.
His voice.
His grin.
The way he said—
You’re the only person here who can keep up with me.
I hate the warmth that curls in my chest.
I hate that it’s him who puts it there.
I shut my laptop slightly too hard.
I need air.
The sky is fully dark when I walk across the quad toward my dorm.
Then—
“Cole!”
I stop.
Only one person says my name like that.
He jogs up, slightly breathless. “You leave the library like it’s on fire.”
“Maybe I prefer it that way.”
We walk. Not side by side—just close enough that our footsteps sync.
Blake is quiet for a moment. Then—
“Does it really bother you that much?” he asks. “The score?”
“Yes,” I admit.
“Why?”
“Because I should have been better.”
He slows. Then stops.
When I turn, he’s standing under the lamplight, shadows cutting across his face.
“I work hard too, you know,” he says quietly.
The sincerity in his voice surprises me.
“You think everything’s easy for me,” he continues. “But it isn’t. I put in the work. I just don’t… talk about it like you do.”
I swallow.
“I didn’t mean—”
“You did,” he says gently. “But it’s okay.”
The air between us feels charged.
Dangerously so.
I look away before the moment can dig deeper.
“We should get back,” I say, stepping away.
He falls into stride beside me.
When we reach my dorm, I pause at the entrance.
“Tomorrow,” I say.
He nods. “Tomorrow.”
I hesitate, then—
“Don’t be late.”
His smile is small, warm.
“I wouldn’t miss it.”
I slip inside quickly, heart pounding.
Leaning against the door, I close my eyes.
This partnership is going to be a nightmare.
But deep down—too deep for me to admit—I know one thing:
It won’t only be a nightmare.
Something else is lurking in the space between us.
Something dangerous.
Something electric.
And I’m not ready for it.
