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Chapter 1
I’m standing on stage at Ashford Academy, which is what happens when you let your guard down for five seconds around Professor Whitmore.
One minute I’m in her office showing her my winter landscape sketches, and the next she’s volunteering me to rally the entire student body for a Christmas party, my dream project that she apparently finds too tempting not to exploit in the name of “improving campus life.
My hands are sweating so badly I’m surprised the index cards aren’t dissolving.
“So, um—” My voice cracks into the microphone, and I wince at the feedback. Three hundred faces stare back at me from the tiered seating. Most of them look bored. A few are openly scrolling their phones. “As some of you know, Riverside Arts College burned down last year—”
“We know!” someone shouts from the middle rows.
Heat crawls up my neck. I grip the podium harder.
Right.Of course they know. The merger happened six months ago, and people like me—students from the tiny, now-defunct arts college next door—are still walking reminders that Ashford had to lower its standards. We’re the nerds who don’t belong in their marble hallways, the artists who sketch in corners while they discuss lacrosse tournaments and family ski trips to Aspen.
“The main building is being rebuilt,” I continue, forcing my voice steadier. “But there’s one room that survived—the old common room. And we thought it would be amazing to host a Christmas celebration there. Nothing fancy. Just some decorations, hot chocolate, music, and—” I pause, trying to inject enthusiasm into my tone. “A small outdoor ice rink.”
Silence.
Mortifyingsilence.
Then, from the very back of the auditorium, I hear whooping. My four friends—Karolina, Josh, Cameron, and Stella—are on their feet, applauding like I just announced free tuition for life. Karolina wolf-whistles. Cameron pumps his fist.
I want to die.
A few scattered students join in with polite, half-hearted claps. The sound echoes in the cavernous space and then fades quickly. I clear my throat and try to push forward.
“It’ll be open to everyone. Free admission. We just need to—”
Another sound cuts through the awkward quiet.
Slow clapping.
Clap.
Clap.
Clap.
My stomach drops.
I know exactly who’s making it before I even look.
Raiden Blackwell sits dead center in the third row, surrounded by half the Ashford Beasts hockey team. His long legs are spread wide, taking up way more space than necessary, and he’s leaning back in his seat like he owns the place. Which, socially speaking, he kind of does.
Dark hair. Piercing blue eyes. Six-foot-three of pure muscle.
And a reputation that matches.
Everyone remembers the incident—how a player from a rival team went after him after a game, trying to provoke him in front of the cameras. Raiden didn’t retaliate. He just stared the guy down, cold and unreadable, and walked away.
But in the next game, he made sure everyone understood the difference between restraint and mercy. He dismantled that player, clean and brutal, until the guy was taken off the ice and into the ER. National TV replayed it for days.
It’s why people still whisper his name. Why half the campus treats him like a dangerous myth.
He’s still clapping—loud and mocking.
