CHAPTER FIVE
Zade
The Porsche smells like expensive leather and the lingering scent of a girl I should have blocked months ago. My head is pounding. Between the screeching of my ex-girlfriend and the literal red-head disaster that threw off my morning rhythm, I'm already done with today.
I downshift, the engine let out a low, guttural growl that echoes off the stone arches of Oakhaven. It's a sound that usually makes people move. And they do. Like a sea of red-blazed extras in a movie I didn't ask to star in, the students part ways as I glide toward the fountain.
I pull into my spot—the one marked with a small, discreet 'H'—and kill the engine. Silence. Finally.
I sit there for a beat, tapping my fingers against the steering wheel. I have a finance seminar in five minutes. I haven't even cracked the spine of the textbook, but then again, I don't have to. When your father's name is etched into the marble of the library, the professors tend to find your 'unique perspective' fascinating even when you're dead wrong. It's a boring game, but I've been playing it since I was in diapers.
I don't give two flying fucks about the degree. I'm just here because the Hamilton legacy requires a playground, and Oakhaven is the most expensive one money can buy.
I swing the door open and step out. The sun hits my face, and the humidity is already trying to ruin my shirt. I lock the car with a sharp chirp and turn toward the main hall, ready to endure another hour of being worshiped by people I'll never remember the names of.
But then, I see it.
The crowd doesn't just part this time—it seems to shrink back. In the middle of the sea of oxblood red and polished perfection, there's a grey smudge. A defiance.
It's her. The girl from the pothole.
She's marching toward me like she's carrying a grudge the size of a skyscraper. She isn't wearing the uniform; she's in this oversized, hideous grey hoodie that looks like it was stolen from a dumpster, but somehow, she doesn't look small. She looks like a riot waiting to happen.
The sun catches her hair, and for a second, I actually stop moving. It's not just red—it's a goddamn wildfire. The strands are pulling the sunlight in, glowing like a burning flame against the drab stone of the campus. And then there are the glasses. Thick, dark frames that sit on her nose like a shield, making her look like a mix between a librarian and a high-stakes gambler.
She's beautiful. In a "I'm going to ruin your life" kind of way.
I narrow my eyes, my own temper flaring up to match hers. I start walking. My loafers click against the pavement, a steady, rhythmic warning. I'm going to make her pay for the look she gave me this morning. No one looks at a Hamilton like they're something stuck to the bottom of their shoe.
We're closing the gap. Ten feet. Seven. Five.
I can see the fury behind her lenses. I can see the way her jaw is set, hard and stubborn. She's looking for a fight, and I am more than happy to give her one. I'm already rehearsing the first words out of my mouth—something sharp, something that will remind her exactly where she stands on the food chain.
But then, a hand catches her sleeve.
A tiny girl—one of the prep academy kids, I think—yanks her back. She's whispering something in the redhead's ear, her eyes wide with genuine terror as she glances at me.
The disaster stops. She freezes, her chest heaving as she listens to whatever frantic warning her friend is hissing. I'm halfway there, my hand already reaching out to stop her, to force her to look at me properly.
She doesn't wait for me to get there.
She turns. She actually turns her back on me.
My hand drops to my side, my fingers curling into a fist. No one walks away from me mid-stride. But she doesn't just walk away—she stops after five paces, looks back over her shoulder, and hits me with a glare so cold I can almost feel the frostbite.
It isn't a look of fear. It's a promise.
She turns again and disappears into the crowd of students, her fiery hair the last thing I see before the oxblood blazers swallow her up.
I stand there, alone by the fountain, feeling the heat of the sun and the strange, sharp sting of being ignored. My heart is thumping a little faster than it was a minute ago, and it's not from the walk.
"That one is the new one,the girl"
I look over. Marcus Hunter is standing a few yards away, watching me with a smirk that makes me want to break his teeth. He saw the whole thing.
"Shut the fuck up, motherfucker," I mutter, walking past him toward Building C.