The final bell rang and I all but bolted from my seat, stuffing my books into my backpack with the grace of a sleep-deprived raccoon. School drained me enough without the added headache of navigating the social landmines that came with Beatrice and her ever-watchful gaze.
She'd been acting strange lately. Not her usual cold and calculated self—but tense. Uneasy. Almost as if something was unraveling, and I couldn't help but notice that Liam was always somewhere in the background of that fray. He'd been… different. Looking at me longer. Smirking more often. And earlier that day in the hallway, when he caught me by the waist after I nearly slipped on a spilled coffee, it felt like the whole world paused for a second too long.
I hated that. I hated him.
The air outside was crisp, sunlight spilling across the parking lot as I made my way toward the sidewalk. My headphones were in, volume turned up to ignore the usual crowd of students piling into cars and buses.
And then I saw him.
Liam.
Leaning against a sleek black Audi like it was part of his uniform—white T-shirt tight enough to suggest he cared how he looked, sunglasses too obnoxious for a boy still in high school. He looked like trouble.
And unfortunately, he was looking at me.
I slowed, one foot instinctively shifting back like I could disappear into thin air.
"Hey, new girl," he called out. His voice was casual, but there was something smug in it. The kind of smug that made you want to punch him just to wipe the grin off his face.
I tugged one earbud out. "What?"
"We've got that science project to finish, remember?" he said, already pushing off the car and walking toward me like he owned the sidewalk. "You're coming with me."
I blinked, confused. "Excuse me?"
"We're doing it at my place. Thought I'd save us both the pain of sending emails back and forth."
I crossed my arms. "That was the plan, Liam. That was the agreement."
He shrugged like it didn't matter. "Yeah, well, plans change. Come on."
He walked over to the passenger side and opened the door, like he was holding it for some princess in a rom-com. Only I wasn't that girl, and this wasn't a love story.
I didn't move. "I'm not going anywhere with you."
Liam tilted his head. "Why not? Scared of me?"
"No," I snapped. "I just don't like you. I don't trust you. And I think you're an arrogant jerk who's only nice when it benefits him."
"Ouch." He clutched his chest in mock pain. "You wound me."
"Good."
He sighed then, the smirk briefly falling away. "Look, Zara. I'm not trying to hit on you. I just want to get this project over with. It's due in two days, and I'm not about to fail because you're being stubborn."
His tone was different. Less flirty, more… tired. I eyed him carefully. Was this genuine?
Still, I stayed planted. "And why your house? Why not the library?"
"Because my house has snacks and peace and quiet, and I won't have to listen to Matteo practice his pick-up lines across the table. You want to work or not?"
I hesitated. I hated him. But I hated failing even more.
With a groan, I stomped toward the car and tossed my bag into the footwell of the passenger seat. "Fine. But if you try anything, I swear to God—"
"I know, I know," he cut in, sliding into the driver's seat with a grin. "Pepper spray. You've said that before. You really carry it?"
I gave him a pointed look and reached into my backpack, pulling out a small pink bottle.
Liam laughed as he started the engine. "Feisty."
"Focused," I corrected, buckling my seatbelt. "And very aware of who I'm sitting next to."
⸻
The ride to his house was quieter than I expected.
Liam didn't turn on the radio. He didn't talk. He just drove, one hand on the wheel, the other resting lazily by the gearshift. I kept stealing glances at him, trying to figure him out. What was this? A trap? A joke? Another Beatrice-orchestrated plan to humiliate me?
Whatever it was, I was tense the entire drive.
Until we pulled up to his house.
And my jaw dropped.
It wasn't a house—it was a statement. A modern architectural masterpiece made of black steel, glass, and clean white stone. Floor-to-ceiling windows revealed flashes of pristine interiors: a sweeping staircase with a glass railing, designer furniture in bold monochrome, and what looked like a massive indoor koi pond beneath the walkway. The lawn was perfectly trimmed, framed by white roses and symmetrical hedges. Even the pavement looked like it had been freshly waxed.
He lived here?
"You own a museum?" I blurted as he pulled into the circular driveway, parking next to a matte-gray Range Rover and what I swore was a vintage Aston Martin.
Liam looked over at me, amused. "Nah. Just home."
I stared at him, then at the house, then back at him. "This isn't a home, Liam. This is where tech billionaires hide from the government."
He laughed, casually grabbing his bag. "You coming, or are you just going to gawk from the passenger seat all day?"
Still stunned, I followed him up the sleek concrete steps to the front door. It slid open before he even touched it—smart house, of course—and we were greeted by the soft hum of ambient music and the subtle scent of vanilla and something expensive I couldn't identify.
The inside was even more ridiculous. Marble floors that looked too polished to walk on, chrome finishes, a grand piano placed strategically beside a glass wall overlooking the infinity pool. A sunken living room boasted a massive sectional couch that could fit the entire student body, and mounted on the far wall was a TV bigger than my bedroom.
"Try not to break anything," he said, kicking off his sneakers without a care as he tossed his keys onto a sculptural console table. "Most of it costs more than your tuition."
"Wow," I muttered, taking it all in. "You really are the cliché."
"Rich, charming, devastatingly handsome?" he asked, leading me toward a secondary lounge off to the side—because apparently one wasn't enough.
"Entitled, spoiled, and deeply punchable," I replied.
He snorted. "Fair enough."
We settled into what he called the study lounge, though it looked more like a minimalist art gallery with its black leather chairs, wall-mounted bookshelves, and floor-length curtains pulled back to reveal a water feature in the backyard. He dropped his bag lazily onto the sleek black coffee table and flopped into a low-slung chair like he did this every day. Which, apparently, he did.
I sat across from him stiffly, clutching my laptop like it was a lifeline.
"Okay," I said, trying to refocus. "We still need to write the introduction and conclusion. And maybe add a few more sources."
Liam leaned forward, grabbing his notebook. "Cool. I'll do the conclusion. You handle the intro. We'll meet in the middle like a beautiful academic sandwich."
I groaned. "You're insufferable."
"But talented," he replied, winking.
I rolled my eyes so hard I saw stars.
For the next hour, we actually worked. And annoyingly, Liam was smart. He offered insights I hadn't considered, challenged my wording in a way that was somehow more helpful than obnoxious. We barely spoke unless it was about the project, and a small part of me—one I refused to acknowledge—was impressed.
But just as I was finally settling into a rhythm, Liam stood and stretched, walking over to the shelf beside the fireplace—because of course there was a fireplace in the study lounge.
"You know," he said, trailing a finger across a glass sculpture that probably cost more than my car, "I never really thought you hated me."
I froze, fingers hovering over my keyboard. "Well, surprise."
He turned, eyes scanning my face. "You don't hate me. You're just scared I'm not who you think I am."
"And who are you, Liam?" I asked bitterly. "Some poor misunderstood prince who just wants to be seen?"
He grinned. "Something like that."
I scoffed, closing my laptop. "Spare me."
But as I stood to grab my bag, I noticed his expression shift—just for a second. Like he wanted to say something else. Something real.
Instead, he just smiled and said, "Relax, Zara. It's just a project. I'm not here to win you over."
And for some reason, that only made my heart beat faster.