Lovely Rivals

SCARLETT

The wrought-iron gates of Ashford Academy loomed before me like the entrance to a prison I’d paid six figures to enter. Well, technically my parents had paid. But considering I’d spent the last three months begging them not to send me here, it felt like I was the one footing the bill in other ways.

“Miss Monroe, we’ve arrived.”

I glanced at Gerald, our driver, through the rearview mirror. His eyes were kind, apologetic even. He’d been driving me around since I was eight years old, had witnessed every tantrum, every paparazzi chase, every moment of my life that had been deemed too “normal” for the daughter of Vivienne and Marcus Monroe to experience without supervision.

“Thanks, Gerald.” I grabbed my phone and designer backpack—the only two items I’d been allowed to bring in the car. Everything else had been shipped ahead last week. “I guess this is it.”

“It’s only a semester, miss. You’ll be home for winter break before you know it.”

Only a semester. Four months trapped in the Connecticut wilderness with the children of politicians, tech moguls, and old money families who’d probably never heard a pop song written after 1985. Four months away from LA, from my friends, from my life.

All because of one fucking video.

I pushed the thought away as I stepped out of the car, my boots crunching on the gravel drive. September in Connecticut was nothing like September in California. The air had a bite to it, a crispness that made me pull my leather jacket tighter around my body. Around me, other students were arriving—some in town cars like mine, others in Teslas and Range Rovers driven by parents who actually gave enough of a shit to drop their kids off personally.

The main building of Ashford Academy was exactly what I’d expected: all Gothic architecture and ivy-covered stone, the kind of place that screamed “we’ve been educating the elite since before your country was founded.” It was beautiful in an intimidating, old-world way. The kind of beautiful that reminded you that you didn’t belong.

“Scarlett! Scarlett Monroe!”

I turned to see a girl with dark skin and box braids jogging toward me, her smile wide and genuine. She was wearing the Ashford uniform—navy blazer, white button-down, plaid skirt—but she’d styled it in a way that actually looked good, the skirt rolled up to show off her legs, a delicate gold chain visible at her throat.

“I’m Zara,” she said, slightly breathless as she reached me. “Zara Williams. I’m your student ambassador. I’m supposed to show you around, help you get settled.”

“Hey.” I managed a smile. It wasn’t her fault I was here. “Thanks for doing this.”

“Are you kidding? When I found out Scarlett Monroe was coming to Ashford, I literally screamed. I’ve been following your mom since I was like, ten. ‘Midnight Confessions’ is still my favorite album of all time.”

Of course it was. Everyone loved my mother. Vivienne Monroe, pop royalty, the woman who’d sold out stadiums on five continents and won more Grammys than she had shelf space for. The woman who’d decided that her seventeen-year-old daughter’s very public, very messy breakup and subsequent “incident” at a club in West Hollywood was too much of a PR nightmare to handle at home.

“She’s pretty great,” I said, because that’s what I always said. What I was supposed to say.

Zara started walking toward the main building, and I fell into step beside her. “So, I know this probably isn’t your first choice for senior year, but Ashford’s actually not that bad once you get used to it. The classes are intense, but the teachers are mostly cool. And there’s always something going on—parties in the woods, trips into the city, drama that would make your mom’s lyrics look tame.”

“Sounds thrilling.”

She laughed. “Okay, I get it. You’re not excited. But seriously, try to keep an open mind. Some of the people here are pretentious assholes, sure, but some of them are actually decent. You just have to figure out who’s who.”

We entered the main building, and I was immediately struck by the smell—old books, lemon polish, and something else I couldn’t quite place. History, maybe. The hallways were wide and lined with portraits of stern-looking men in suits, probably former headmasters or donors who’d paid for a wing of the library.

“Your room is in Whitmore Hall,” Zara said, leading me up a grand staircase. “It’s the girls’ dorm. Boys are in Caldwell, which is on the other side of campus. Officially, there’s no co-ed visiting after ten PM, but...” She grinned. “Let’s just say the rules are more like suggestions.”

“Good to know.”

We walked down another hallway, this one narrower and more modern, until Zara stopped in front of a door marked 304. “This is you. Your roommate is Priya Sharma—she’s cool, super smart, kind of quiet but in a good way. Her dad is some big deal in tech.”

Of course he was.

Zara pulled out a key and handed it to me. “I’ll let you get settled. There’s an assembly in the auditorium at five, and then dinner in the dining hall at six-thirty. I’ll come grab you before the assembly, okay?”

“Okay. Thanks, Zara.”

“No problem. And hey—” She paused, her expression turning serious. “I know everyone here is going to have opinions about you, about why you’re here. Don’t let it get to you. You’re allowed to start over.”

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. She squeezed my arm once before heading back down the hallway, leaving me alone in front of my new room.

I unlocked the door and stepped inside.

The room was smaller than I’d expected but nicer than I’d feared. Two twin beds, two desks, two dressers. One side was clearly already claimed—the bed made with a colorful quilt, photos tacked to a corkboard above the desk, textbooks stacked neatly on the shelf. The other side was empty, waiting for me.

I dropped my backpack on the bare mattress and walked to the window. It overlooked the quad, where students were milling around, greeting friends they hadn’t seen all summer, laughing and hugging and looking like they actually wanted to be here.

My phone buzzed. A text from my mom.

Hope you arrived safely, darling. Remember, this is a fresh start. Make the most of it. Love you. xo

I didn’t respond.

Instead, I opened Instagram, scrolling through my feed even though I knew I shouldn’t. My last post—a photo from two weeks ago, me at the beach with the caption “last days of freedom”—had over two million likes and fifteen thousand comments. Most of them were supportive. Some of them weren’t.

Spoiled brat

Must be nice to fuck up and get sent to a fancy boarding school

Your parents should’ve raised you better

I locked my phone and tossed it onto the bed.

Fresh start. Right.

CAMERON

The drive from DC to Connecticut took exactly four hours and twenty-three minutes, which I knew because my father had timed it. He’d timed everything about this trip, actually—when we’d leave, when we’d arrive, how long we’d spend getting me settled before he had to head back for a dinner with the Senate Majority Leader.

“Remember what we discussed,” he said as we pulled through the gates of Ashford Academy. His voice was calm, measured, the same tone he used during press conferences. “This year is crucial. Your grades, your extracurriculars, your social connections—all of it matters.”

“I know, Dad.”

“I’m serious, Cameron. You’re not just representing yourself anymore. Every choice you make reflects on this family, on my career. Do you understand?”

I stared out the window at the familiar buildings, the manicured lawns, the students who were just starting to arrive. “I understand.”

“Good.” He pulled up in front of Caldwell Hall, putting the car in park but not turning off the engine. “There’s one more thing.”

Of course there was.

“Vivienne and Marcus Monroe’s daughter is starting at Ashford this year. Scarlett Monroe.”

I turned to look at him. “The pop star’s kid? The one from that video?”

“Yes. She’s had some... troubles recently. Her parents thought a change of scenery would be good for her.” He adjusted his tie, not meeting my eyes. “I want you to befriend her.”

“Befriend her.”

“Yes. Get close to her. Be seen with her. The Monroes have significant influence in the entertainment industry, and they’re increasingly vocal about political issues. Having a connection to their family could be valuable.”

I felt something cold settle in my stomach. “You want me to use her.”

“I want you to be strategic.” Finally, he looked at me, his expression hard. “This is how the world works, Cameron. Relationships are currency. The sooner you learn that, the better.”

“And if she doesn’t want to be friends with me?”

“Then make her want to. You’re charming when you try to be. Use that.” He glanced at his watch. “I have to go. Your mother sends her love. She’ll call you tonight.”

No she wouldn’t. My mother was in Geneva for some UN conference and wouldn’t be back for another two weeks. But I didn’t argue.

“Thanks for the ride, Dad.”

He nodded, and I got out of the car, grabbing my bags from the trunk. I watched him drive away, the black sedan disappearing through the gates, and felt the familiar weight settle back onto my shoulders.

This was my life. Had been for as long as I could remember. Every friendship calculated, every relationship transactional, every moment a performance for an audience I couldn’t see but always felt watching.

“Cameron! Dude!”

I turned to see Marcus Chen jogging toward me, his face split in a wide grin. Marcus had been my roommate sophomore year and was probably the closest thing I had to a real friend at Ashford.

“Hey, man.” I clasped his hand, pulling him into a brief hug. “Good summer?”

“Incredible. Spent six weeks in Tokyo with my grandparents. You?”

“DC. Internship at my dad’s office.”

“Sounds thrilling.”

“It was exactly as thrilling as you’d imagine.” I started walking toward Caldwell, and Marcus fell into step beside me. “We’re rooming together again, right?”

“Yep. Room 412. I already claimed the bed by the window, hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all.”

We entered the dorm, nodding at a few other guys we knew as we made our way upstairs. Caldwell Hall was less Gothic than the main building, more modern and functional. The rooms were decent-sized, each with a small common area, two bedrooms, and a shared bathroom.

Marcus had already started unpacking, his side of the room a chaotic mess of clothes, textbooks, and electronics. I set my bags down on my bed, which was made with the plain navy sheets the school provided.

“So,” Marcus said, flopping down on his bed. “Did you hear about the new girl?”

“New girl?”

“Scarlett Monroe. As in, daughter of Vivienne and Marcus Monroe. Apparently she got into some trouble in LA and her parents shipped her here to lay low.”

I kept my expression neutral. “Yeah, I heard something about that.”

“Dude, she’s hot. Like, insanely hot. I saw her Instagram before she went private. If even half the guys here aren’t trying to hook up with her by the end of the week, I’ll be shocked.”

“Probably not the best way to lay low, then.”

Marcus shrugged. “Not our problem. But it should make for an interesting year. Oh, and speaking of interesting—Tyler’s already talking about asking her out.”

“Tyler?”

“Tyler Brooks. Lacrosse captain? You know, tall, charming, thinks he’s God’s gift to women?”

I did know Tyler. We’d been teammates for two years before I’d quit lacrosse to focus on student government. He was good-looking, popular, and had a different girl on his arm every few weeks.

“Of course he is,” I said, feeling an unexpected flicker of irritation.

“Yeah, well, you know Tyler. He sees a pretty girl, he makes his move. And from what I hear, Scarlett Monroe is more than just pretty.”

I started unpacking, hanging my blazers in the closet, organizing my textbooks on the shelf. Marcus kept talking, filling me in on everything I’d missed over the summer—who’d hooked up with whom, which teachers had left, the rumors about the new headmaster being even stricter than the last one.

I listened with half an ear, my mind still on my father’s words.

Get close to her. Be seen with her.

I’d done this before, of course. Befriended the children of people my father wanted to impress, dated girls whose families had the right connections, joined clubs and teams not because I enjoyed them but because they looked good on a resume.

But something about this felt different. More calculated. More cruel.

Or maybe I was just tired of pretending.

SCARLETT

The assembly was exactly as boring as I’d expected.

The new headmaster—a stern-looking man named Dr. Whitmore—droned on about Ashford’s values, its commitment to excellence, the responsibilities that came with being part of such a prestigious institution. Around me, students shifted in their seats, some paying attention, most scrolling through their phones or whispering to friends.

I sat between Zara and my roommate Priya, who’d turned out to be exactly as Zara had described—quiet, smart, and thankfully not interested in grilling me about my famous parents or why I was really here.

“And now,” Dr. Whitmore said, his voice taking on a slightly warmer tone, “I’d like to introduce our student body president, who will say a few words about the year ahead. Cameron Hartley.”

I glanced up as a guy stood from the front row and walked onto the stage.

He was tall, probably six-two or six-three, with dark hair that was just slightly too long to be considered neat, falling across his forehead in a way that looked effortlessly styled. He wore the Ashford uniform like he’d been born in it—the blazer fitted perfectly across his broad shoulders, the tie knotted with precision. As he took the microphone, he smiled, and I felt something in my chest tighten.

He was beautiful. Annoyingly, frustratingly beautiful.

“Thank you, Dr. Whitmore,” he said, his voice smooth and confident. “For those of you who don’t know me, I’m Cameron Hartley, senior class president and your student body president for this year. I’m excited to welcome you all back, and to welcome our new students as well.”

His eyes scanned the auditorium, and for just a second, I could’ve sworn they landed on me.

“Ashford has a long tradition of excellence,” he continued, “but it’s not just about grades or test scores. It’s about community. About supporting each other, challenging each other, and growing together. This year, I want us to focus on that—on being more than just classmates, but a real community.”

I rolled my eyes. The speech was so polished, so rehearsed, so perfectly calculated to make everyone feel warm and fuzzy about being stuck at this pretentious institution. It was exactly the kind of thing I’d expect from the son of a politician—all style, no substance.

“Who is that?” I whispered to Zara.

“Cameron Hartley. His dad is Senator Hartley—you know, the one who’s always on CNN talking about education reform or whatever. Cameron’s basically Ashford royalty. Smart, popular, probably going to Harvard or Yale next year.”

“He seems like a tool.”

Zara snorted. “He’s actually not that bad. A little intense, maybe, but he’s not one of the assholes. Why, you interested?”

“God, no. He’s exactly the type of guy I can’t stand. All fake smiles and political bullshit.”

“Harsh.”

“Honest.”

But even as I said it, I found myself watching him as he finished his speech and returned to his seat. There was something about the way he moved, the way he commanded attention without seeming to try, that made it hard to look away.

After the assembly, we filed out of the auditorium and headed to the dining hall for dinner. The dining hall was impressive—high ceilings, long wooden tables, floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the campus. It reminded me of something out of Harry Potter, which I would’ve found charming if I wasn’t so determined to hate everything about this place.

I hated that I noticed.

Zara led me to a table where a group of girls were already sitting. She introduced me quickly—Priya I already knew, then there was Jade, a petite Asian girl with purple streaks in her hair; Ava, a tall blonde who looked like she’d stepped out of a Ralph Lauren ad; and Kennedy, a redhead with sharp green eyes and an even sharper smile.

“So,” Kennedy said as soon as I sat down, “what’s it like having Vivienne Monroe as a mom? Is she as fabulous in person as she is on stage?”

“She’s great,” I said, the automatic response falling from my lips.

“I heard you got kicked out of your last school,” Jade said, her tone curious rather than judgmental. “Is that true?”

“I didn’t get kicked out. I left.”

“Because of the video?”

I felt my jaw tighten. Of course they’d seen the video. Everyone had seen the video. Me, drunk at a club in West Hollywood, screaming at my ex-boyfriend while photographers captured every second. It had gone viral within hours, spawned a thousand memes, and effectively ended any chance I had of living a normal life in LA.

“Something like that,” I said.

“Well, you’re in good company here,” Ava said, her voice kind. “Half the people at Ashford are here because their parents wanted them out of the spotlight for one reason or another. You’ll fit right in.”

I wasn’t sure if that was comforting or depressing.

Dinner was served family-style—platters of roasted chicken, vegetables, potatoes, salad. It was actually good, better than I’d expected from a school cafeteria. As we ate, the conversation flowed around me—gossip about summer hookups, complaints about class schedules, speculation about which teachers would be the hardest.

I was starting to relax, starting to think that maybe this wouldn’t be completely unbearable, when someone approached our table.

“Hey, ladies,” a male voice said, warm and friendly.

I looked up to see a tall guy with sandy blond hair and an easy smile standing at the end of our table. He was wearing the Ashford uniform, but he’d loosened his tie and rolled up his sleeves, giving him a more relaxed appearance than most of the other guys I’d seen.

“Tyler!” Zara said, grinning. “How was your summer?”

“Amazing. Spent most of it at my family’s place in the Hamptons.” His eyes landed on me, and his smile widened. “But I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Tyler Brooks.”

“Scarlett Monroe,” I said, shaking his offered hand.

“I know who you are. Pretty much everyone does.” He pulled out the empty chair next to me and sat down without asking. “Mind if I join you?”

“Looks like you already have,” I said, but I couldn’t help smiling a little. There was something disarming about his confidence, the way he seemed genuinely interested rather than calculating.

“So, Scarlett Monroe,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “What brings you to our humble institution?”

“My parents thought I needed a change of scenery.”

“Ah. The diplomatic answer. I respect that.” He grabbed a roll from the basket in the center of the table. “Well, for what it’s worth, I’m glad you’re here. This place could use someone who’s actually interesting.”

“You don’t even know if I’m interesting.”

“I have a feeling.” His eyes held mine, and I felt a flutter of something in my stomach. “Tell you what—there’s a party this weekend. Off campus, in the woods. You should come. I’ll show you around, introduce you to people who aren’t complete assholes.”

“I might already have plans.”

“Do you?”

“No,” I admitted.

He laughed. “Then it’s settled. I’ll find you on Saturday.”

“Presumptuous much?”

“Confident. There’s a difference.” He stood up, flashing that easy smile again. “See you around, Scarlett Monroe.”

As he walked away, I caught Zara grinning at me.

“What?” I asked.

“Tyler Brooks just asked you to the party. Do you know how many girls would kill for that?”

“He didn’t ask me. He told me I should come.”

“Same thing. And for the record, Tyler’s actually a good guy. Lacrosse captain, smart, funny, and he doesn’t play games. If he’s interested in you, he’s genuinely interested.”

I glanced across the dining hall and found myself looking directly at Cameron Hartley again. He was sitting at a table with his friends, but he wasn’t paying attention to their conversation. He was staring at our table—at me—with an expression I couldn’t quite read.

When our eyes met, something cold flashed across his face before he deliberately turned away.

“What’s his problem?” I muttered.

“Whose?” Priya asked.

“Cameron Hartley. He keeps staring at me.”

“Maybe he’s interested,” Kennedy suggested.

“Or maybe he’s judging me. He seems like the type who’d look down on someone like me.”

“Someone like you?”

“You know. The pop star’s daughter who made a scene and got sent away. I’m sure someone as perfect as Cameron Hartley has opinions about that.”

Zara shook her head. “You’re reading too much into it. Cameron’s not like that.”

But I wasn’t so sure. There was something about the way he’d looked at me—something assessing, calculating—that set my teeth on edge.

After dinner, Zara walked me back to Whitmore Hall. The sun was setting, casting long shadows across the quad, and the air had gotten even cooler. Students were scattered around in groups, some heading back to their dorms, others settling on the lawn to talk and laugh.

“First day survival: complete,” Zara said with a grin. “See? Not so bad.”

“Not so bad,” I agreed.

“And you’ve already got Tyler Brooks interested. That’s got to count for something.”

“He’s just being friendly.”

“Scarlett. I’ve known Tyler for three years. He doesn’t just sit down at random tables to chat. He’s interested.”

I felt a small smile tug at my lips. “He does seem nice.”

“He is. And he’s hot. Don’t forget hot.”

“I noticed.”

We reached my dorm, and Zara hugged me goodbye before heading off to her own room. I climbed the stairs to the third floor, exhausted in a way that had nothing to do with physical tiredness.

When I opened the door to my room, Priya was already there, sitting at her desk with a textbook open in front of her.

“Hey,” she said, glancing up. “How are you holding up?”

“I’m okay. Tired.”

“First days are always exhausting.” She closed her textbook. “Listen, I know everyone’s going to be weird about who your parents are, but I just want you to know that I don’t care about any of that. I’m happy to have you as a roommate, and if you ever need anything—someone to vent to, help with homework, whatever—I’m here.”

I felt something loosen in my chest. “Thanks, Priya. That actually means a lot.”

She smiled, and I realized that maybe, just maybe, I’d gotten lucky with my roommate assignment.

I changed into pajamas and climbed into bed, pulling out my phone. There were texts from my friends back home, asking how it was going, if I’d met anyone cool, if the school was as pretentious as we’d imagined. I responded with vague reassurances, not ready to get into the reality of it all.

Then I opened Instagram again, scrolling mindlessly through my feed. I shouldn’t have been surprised when I came across Cameron Hartley’s profile—Ashford was a small school, and the algorithm was probably already connecting us.

His account was public, and I told myself I was just curious as I clicked on it.

The photos were exactly what I’d expected—carefully curated shots of him at various events, on the Ashford campus, with friends who all looked like they’d stepped out of a J.Crew catalog. There were pictures of him in a suit at what looked like a political fundraiser, in athletic gear on what looked like a lacrosse field from a previous year, in casual clothes on a sailboat.

Every photo was perfect. Too perfect. Too calculated.

I was about to close the app when a new notification popped up.

@cameronhartley started following you.

I stared at the screen, my heart inexplicably racing.

For a moment, I considered not following him back. Considered making it clear that I wasn’t interested in whatever game he was playing.

But curiosity won out. I followed him back, then immediately regretted it.

CAMERON

I followed Scarlett Monroe on Instagram at exactly 10:47 PM, which I knew because I’d been staring at her profile for the past twenty minutes, debating whether to do it.

It was strategic, I told myself. My father wanted me to get close to her, and this was the first step. A simple follow, a digital olive branch, a way to get on her radar.

But when she followed me back three minutes later, I felt something that had nothing to do with strategy.

I was lying in bed, Marcus already asleep in the next room, when my phone lit up with the notification. I clicked on her profile again, studying the photos I’d already looked at a dozen times.

She was beautiful—that much was obvious. Long dark hair, striking features, a body that would’ve made any guy look twice. But it was more than that. There was something in her eyes, in the way she held herself in photos, that suggested a depth most people probably missed.

Or maybe I was reading too much into it.

I scrolled through her feed, looking at pictures of her life in LA. Beach days with friends, concerts, parties, candid shots that somehow still looked professionally taken. Her last post was from two weeks ago—her at the beach, the caption reading “last days of freedom.”

The comments were a mix of supportive and cruel, which seemed to be the norm for anyone with a public profile. I wondered what it was like, having millions of people feel entitled to comment on your life, your choices, your mistakes.

Then again, I knew a version of that. Different scale, maybe, but the same basic principle.

I locked my phone and set it on my nightstand, staring up at the ceiling.

Get close to her. Be seen with her.

I’d been at Ashford for three years. Had dated two girls in that time, both relationships ending amicably when they’d run their course. Had hooked up with a few others at parties, nothing serious, nothing that would complicate my carefully maintained image.

But this was different. This wasn’t about genuine connection or even physical attraction. This was about using someone for political gain.

And the worst part? I was going to do it anyway.

Because that’s what I always did. What I’d been trained to do since I was old enough to understand that my life wasn’t really mine, that every choice I made was in service of my father’s career, my family’s legacy.

I closed my eyes, willing sleep to come, but my mind kept drifting back to the dining hall. To the moment Tyler Brooks had sat down next to her, all easy charm and genuine interest.

I’d felt something twist in my gut watching them. Watching the way she’d smiled at him, the way she’d relaxed in his presence in a way she clearly hadn’t during the assembly when she’d been watching me with obvious disdain.

Tyler was going to make this complicated. He always did. The guy had a way with women that came naturally, effortlessly. He didn’t have to calculate every move, didn’t have to think about optics or strategy. He just... was.

And Scarlett had responded to it.

I told myself the irritation I felt was purely practical. Tyler getting involved would make my father’s assignment more difficult. That was all.

But deep down, I knew it was more than that.

SCARLETT

My first week at Ashford passed in a blur of classes, homework, and trying to navigate the complex social hierarchy of a school where everyone had known each other for years.

The classes were harder than I’d expected—AP Literature, AP Calculus, Advanced Chemistry, European History. The teachers didn’t care that I was Scarlett Monroe or that I’d spent the last three years at a performing arts school in LA where the academics had been secondary to the arts. Here, I was just another student, expected to keep up or fall behind.

I chose to keep up.

Priya helped, patiently explaining calculus concepts I’d never fully grasped, quizzing me on chemistry formulas, reading my English essays and offering thoughtful feedback. Zara introduced me to more people, expanding my social circle beyond the girls at our dinner table. And slowly, grudgingly, I started to feel less like an outsider.

But I couldn’t shake the awareness of Cameron Hartley.

Tyler made it easier. He’d started sitting with us at lunch, always making me laugh with stories about lacrosse practice or impressions of various teachers. He was easy to be around, uncomplicated in a way that felt refreshing after years of navigating the minefield of LA social politics.

He was everywhere—in my AP Lit class, where he sat two rows ahead of me and always had insightful comments about whatever we were reading; in the dining hall, where I’d catch him looking at me when he thought I wasn’t paying attention; in the hallways between classes, where we’d pass each other without speaking but with a tension I couldn’t quite name.

We hadn’t spoken since that first day. Hadn’t even been formally introduced. But there was something between us, some invisible thread that pulled taut every time we were in the same room.

It was annoying.

It was distracting.

And it was, if I was being honest with myself, starting to piss me off.

On Friday afternoon, I was in the library working on a history essay when someone slid into the chair across from me.

I looked up, expecting Priya or Zara.

It was Cameron.

“Hey,” he said, his voice low enough not to disturb the other students scattered around the library. “Scarlett, right?”

“Right.” I set down my pen, studying him with undisguised irritation. Up close, he was even more attractive than I’d realized—sharp jawline, dark eyes that seemed to see too much, a mouth that was currently curved in what I assumed he thought was a charming smile. “Cameron.”

“You know who I am.”

“You’re kind of hard to miss. What with the self-important speeches and the constant staring.”

His smile faltered slightly. “I wasn’t staring.”

“Sure you weren’t.” I picked up my pen again, making it clear I wanted him to leave. “Was there something you needed, or did you just come over here to waste my time?”

“I wanted to introduce myself properly. Welcome you to Ashford.”

“How thoughtful. I’ve only been here a week.”

“Better late than never.” He leaned back in his chair, and I noticed the way his blazer fit perfectly across his shoulders, the way his tie was knotted with precision. Everything about him screamed calculated perfection. “How are you settling in?”

“Fine.”

“Just fine?”

“What do you want me to say? That I’m thrilled to be here? That this is exactly where I wanted to spend my senior year?” I met his eyes, letting him see my annoyance. “Or maybe you want me to gush about how amazing Ashford is, how grateful I am to be surrounded by people like you?”

“People like me?”

“You know. Privileged, pretentious, fake. The kind of people who give speeches about community while looking down on anyone who doesn’t fit their perfect mold.”

Something flashed in his eyes—anger, maybe, or hurt. Good. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know enough. Senator’s son, student body president, probably has your whole life planned out down to the minute. Let me guess—Harvard or Yale, then law school, then following in Daddy’s footsteps into politics?”

“That’s quite an assumption.”

“Am I wrong?”

He didn’t answer, which was answer enough.

“Look,” I said, softening my tone slightly because I wasn’t a complete bitch, “I’m sure you’re very nice and very accomplished and everyone here thinks you’re great. But I’m not interested in being your charity case or your diversity friend or whatever this is. So you can go back to your perfect life and leave me alone.”

“That’s not what this is.”

“Then what is it? Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like the golden boy decided to slum it with the pop star’s daughter who fucked up and got sent away. Maybe you think it’ll look good on your resume. ‘Befriended troubled new student.’ Very magnanimous of you.”

“You’re wrong,” he said, his voice tight.

“Am I?” I challenged. “Then why are you really here, Cameron? What do you want from me?”

For a moment, he looked like he was going to tell me something real, something honest. But then his expression shuttered, and he stood up.

“You’re right,” he said coldly. “This was a mistake. Enjoy your essay.”

He walked away, and I told myself the twist in my stomach was satisfaction, not regret.

“Damn,” Priya said, appearing at my side with an armful of books. “What was that about?”

“Cameron Hartley being an asshole.”

“Really? Because from here it looked like you were being kind of harsh.”

“He deserved it.”

“Did he?” Priya sat down, studying me with those too-perceptive eyes. “Or are you just taking out your frustration about being here on the first person who tried to be nice to you?”

“He wasn’t being nice. He was being condescending.”

“If you say so.”

But her words nagged at me for the rest of the afternoon. Had I been too harsh? Had I misjudged him?

No. I’d seen guys like Cameron Hartley my whole life. Guys who wanted something from me, who saw me as a means to an end. I’d learned to spot them a mile away.

Even if something about the hurt in his eyes had seemed genuine.

CAMERON

I was still fuming when I got back to my room.

Marcus took one look at my face and whistled. “What happened to you?”

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit. You look like someone just told you you’re not getting into Harvard.”

I threw my bag on my bed harder than necessary. “I tried to talk to Scarlett Monroe.”

“And?”

“And she basically told me to fuck off.”

Marcus tried to hide his grin and failed. “What did you say to her?”

“Nothing! I just tried to introduce myself, welcome her to Ashford, and she acted like I was some kind of pretentious asshole who was only talking to her to make myself look good.”

“I mean... weren’t you?”

I glared at him. “That’s not the point.”

“Actually, that’s exactly the point.” Marcus sat up, his expression turning serious. “Dude, I know your dad wants you to get close to her, but maybe she’s not interested in being someone’s political pawn. Can you blame her?”

“I wasn’t treating her like a pawn.”

“Then what were you doing?”

I didn’t have a good answer for that.

“Look,” Marcus said, “maybe just leave her alone. She’s clearly not interested, and honestly, she seems happy hanging out with Tyler and that group. Why force it?”

The mention of Tyler made my jaw clench. “Tyler’s just trying to get in her pants.”

“And you’re not?”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“It just is.”

Marcus shook his head. “You’re being weird about this. If you actually like her, that’s one thing. But if you’re just doing this because your dad told you to, maybe it’s time to tell him no.”

“You don’t understand.”

“Then explain it to me.”

But I couldn’t. Couldn’t explain the pressure, the expectations, the way my father’s disappointment felt like a physical weight. Couldn’t explain that saying no had never been an option in my family.

And I definitely couldn’t explain the irrational surge of anger I’d felt watching Tyler make her laugh at lunch every day this week, the way my hands had clenched into fists when I’d seen him lean in close to whisper something in her ear.

“Forget it,” I said. “You’re right. I’ll just leave her alone.”

But even as I said it, I knew I wouldn’t.

SCARLETT

The party was in full swing by the time Zara and I arrived.

It was being held at the usual spot—a clearing in the woods about a mile from campus, far enough that the school couldn’t hear the music but close enough that we could make it back before curfew if we needed to. Someone had strung up lights in the trees, and a bonfire crackled in the center of the clearing, casting flickering shadows across the faces of the fifty or so students who’d shown up.

I’d changed out of the Ashford uniform into jeans and a black top that showed off my curves, my long hair loose around my shoulders. I’d told myself I wasn’t dressing up for anyone in particular, but when Tyler spotted me and his face lit up, I felt a flutter of satisfaction.

“Scarlett!” He jogged over, two red cups in his hands. “You made it. Here, I got you a drink.”

“Thanks.” I took the cup, sniffing it cautiously. “What is it?”

“Vodka and cranberry. But if you don’t like it, I can get you something else.”

“No, this is perfect.”

He grinned, and I noticed the way his eyes crinkled at the corners. “Come on, I want to introduce you to some people.”

He led me around the party, his hand resting lightly on the small of my back. He introduced me to his lacrosse teammates, to some girls from the junior class, to a group of guys who were arguing about some video game I’d never heard of. Everyone was friendly, welcoming, and I started to relax.

This was good. This was normal. This was what I’d been missing.

“Having fun?” Tyler asked after we’d made the rounds.

“Actually, yeah. Thanks for inviting me.”

“Thanks for coming.” He moved a little closer, and I could smell his cologne—something woodsy and clean. “I was worried you might not show.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“I don’t know. You seem like you’re still figuring out if you want to be here. At Ashford, I mean.”

“I’m definitely still figuring that out.”

“Well, for what it’s worth, I’m glad you’re here.” His eyes held mine, and I felt that flutter again. “You’re different from most of the people at this school. In a good way.”

“Different how?”

“Real. Most people here are so busy trying to be perfect, trying to fit some mold, that they forget to actually be themselves. But you... you don’t seem to care what anyone thinks.”

I laughed. “Trust me, I care. I just got tired of pretending I don’t.”

“See? That’s what I mean. You’re honest.”

We stood there for a moment, the party swirling around us, and I thought maybe this was the start of something good. Something uncomplicated.

Then I saw Cameron.

He was standing on the other side of the bonfire, talking to Marcus and a few other guys. But he wasn’t paying attention to their conversation. He was staring at me—at Tyler’s hand on my back, at the way we were standing close together—with an expression that could only be described as hostile.

When our eyes met, he didn’t look away. Just held my gaze with something cold and challenging in his eyes.

“What’s his problem?” I muttered.

Tyler followed my gaze and sighed. “Cameron? Don’t worry about him. He’s been in a mood all week.”

“Does he have a problem with you?”

“We used to be friends. Teammates, actually, before he quit lacrosse. But things have been weird between us lately.” Tyler shrugged. “Honestly, I think he’s just stressed about college applications and student government stuff. He’ll get over it.”

But I wasn’t so sure. The way Cameron was looking at me—at us—didn’t seem like stress. It seemed personal.

“Want to walk?” Tyler asked. “It’s getting kind of loud here.”

“Sure.”

We walked away from the bonfire, following a narrow path that led deeper into the woods. The sounds of the party faded behind us, replaced by the rustle of leaves and the distant hoot of an owl.

“So,” Tyler said after a minute, “tell me about LA. What’s it like growing up with famous parents?”

“Complicated,” I said, echoing the word Cameron had used when I’d asked about his father. “Everyone thinks they know you before they even meet you. And if you do anything that doesn’t fit their image of you, it becomes a scandal.”

“Is that what happened? The video?”

I tensed. “You saw it.”

“Everyone saw it. But for what it’s worth, I don’t think you did anything wrong. Your ex sounds like a dick, and you had every right to be angry.”

“My parents disagree.”

“Your parents are wrong.” He stopped walking, turning to face me. “Look, I know we just met, but I like you, Scarlett. And not because of who your parents are or because you’re famous or whatever. I like you because you’re smart and funny and you don’t take shit from anyone.”

My heart was racing. “Tyler—”

“I’m not trying to pressure you or anything,” he said quickly. “I just wanted you to know. And if you’re not interested, that’s totally cool. We can just be friends.”

But I was interested. Standing there in the moonlight, with this sweet, genuine guy looking at me like I was someone worth knowing, I was definitely interested.

“I’m interested,” I said softly.

His face broke into a wide smile. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He stepped closer, and I thought he was going to kiss me. But instead, he just tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, his touch gentle.

“Good,” he said. “Because I have a feeling this year just got a lot more interesting.”

We walked back to the party together, and I felt lighter than I had in months. Maybe Ashford wouldn’t be so bad after all. Maybe I could actually be happy here.

But when we emerged from the woods, I immediately spotted Cameron. He was standing near the bonfire, and the look on his face when he saw us—saw Tyler’s arm around my shoulders, saw the smile on my face—was pure fury.

Our eyes met across the clearing, and I felt a jolt of something I couldn’t name. Something electric and dangerous and completely unwelcome.

Then he turned and walked away, disappearing into the darkness.

“You okay?” Tyler asked.

“Yeah,” I said, forcing myself to look away. “I’m fine.”

But I wasn’t fine. Because despite everything—despite Cameron’s obvious disdain for me, despite my determination to dislike him, despite the fact that I was standing here with a guy who actually seemed to care about me—I couldn’t stop thinking about the look in Cameron’s eyes.

And I couldn’t shake the feeling that this was only the beginning.

CAMERON

I left the party early, claiming I had work to do, which wasn’t entirely a lie. I did have work to do. I always had work to do.

But the real reason I left was because I couldn’t stand watching Tyler Brooks put his hands on Scarlett Monroe for one more second.

I walked back to campus alone, my hands shoved in my pockets, my mind racing. This was ridiculous. I barely knew her. Had spoken to her exactly once, and that conversation had ended with her basically telling me she thought I was a pretentious asshole.

So why did it bother me so much to see her with Tyler?

Because my father wanted me to get close to her, and Tyler was getting in the way. That was all. This was about the assignment, about doing what was expected of me.

It had nothing to do with the way she’d looked in the firelight, or the sound of her laugh, or the fact that she’d smiled at Tyler in a way she’d never smiled at me.

Nothing at all.

I was so lost in thought that I didn’t notice Marcus had followed me until he called my name.

“Cam! Wait up!”

I stopped, turning to face him. “What are you doing? The party’s still going.”

“Yeah, and you just left without saying anything. What’s going on?”

“Nothing. I just needed to get back.”

“Bullshit.” Marcus caught up to me, studying my face in the moonlight. “This is about Scarlett and Tyler, isn’t it?”

“No.”

“Dude. I’ve known you for three years. I can tell when you’re lying.”

I started walking again, faster this time. “It’s not about them.”

“Then what is it about?”

“It’s about my father expecting me to do something that’s clearly not going to work. It’s about wasting my time on someone who’s made it very clear she wants nothing to do with me. It’s about—” I stopped, running a hand through my hair. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It clearly does matter. You’ve been obsessing about her all week.”

“I haven’t been obsessing.”

“You’ve been checking your phone every five minutes to see if she’s posted on Instagram. You’ve been watching her at lunch. You left a party early because you couldn’t handle seeing her with another guy. That’s obsessing, my friend.”

I didn’t have a response to that.

“Look,” Marcus said, his voice gentler now, “I get that your dad wants you to befriend her. But maybe it’s time to admit that this isn’t just about your dad anymore. Maybe you actually like her.”

“I don’t like her. She’s rude and judgmental and—”

“And you can’t stop thinking about her.”

I closed my eyes, feeling the weight of the truth settle over me. “It doesn’t matter. She’s clearly into Tyler.”

“Maybe. Or maybe she’s just responding to the fact that he’s actually being genuine with her, while you’re playing some kind of political game.”

“I’m not—” I stopped. Because he was right. That’s exactly what I’d been doing. “Fuck.”

“Yeah.” Marcus clapped me on the shoulder. “So here’s my advice: either tell your dad you’re not doing this and leave Scarlett alone, or figure out how to actually be real with her. Because this halfway thing you’re doing? It’s not working for anyone.”

We walked back to the dorm in silence, and I thought about his words. About what it would mean to be real with Scarlett. About whether I even knew how to do that anymore.

I’d spent so long being what everyone else wanted me to be—the perfect son, the perfect student, the perfect future politician—that I wasn’t sure I knew who I actually was underneath all of that.

But one thing I did know: I couldn’t stand the thought of Tyler Brooks having something I wanted.

And I wanted Scarlett Monroe.

The realization should have scared me. Should have made me back off, tell my father this wasn’t going to work, focus on the things that actually mattered.

Instead, it just made me more determined.

Tyler thought he could just waltz in and win her over with his easy charm and genuine interest? Fine. Let him try.

But I wasn’t giving up. Not yet.

This was going to be a long year.