I swallow hard and tear my gaze away from him. My fingers are trembling against the cards.
Lately, Raiden Blackwell has turned dismantling my peace into his favorite routine. Nothing dramatic—just a steady stream of comments in the hallways, “accidental” shoulder checks, pointed looks across the cafeteria.
He’ll knock my sketchbook off a table and then apologize in a voice dripping with false sincerity. He’ll stand too close in the library and make some remark about how “cute” it is that I’m still trying to fit in.
I don’t know what I did to earn his attention, but I wish to God I could give it back.
“The party will include live music,” I say quickly, trying to regain momentum. “Food trucks, a gift exchange, and like I said… an ice rink. It’s not huge, but it’ll be fun. We’llneed volunteers to help clean up the common room and get everything ready. If you’re interested, you can sign up through—”
“Did you calculate how long it takes to freeze a rink that size?”
Blackwell’s voice cuts across the auditorium. It’s deep, smooth, almost lazy. The kind of voice that makes people stop and listen whether they want to or not.
My mouth goes dry.
He’s not even looking at me now. He’s examining his knuckles like the question was purely academic. But I can feel the eyes of everyone else swinging between us like they’re watching a tennis match.
“I—yes,” I manage. “I calculated everything in advance.”
Silence.
He lets it stretch out, lets the tension build. Just when I’m about to keep talking, just when I open my mouth to move on—
“So how long exactly, if everything’s been calculated?”
Snickers ripple through the hockey team. One of them—a blond guy with a crooked nose—elbows Raiden and grins.
My jaw tightens.
Fine.He wants numbers?
“Seventy-two hours to freeze,” I say, forcing a smile that probably looks manic. “But there’s prep work before that. Leveling the ground, setting up the frame, getting the water supply sorted. It’s all been planned.”
I deliberately don’t look at him. I focus on a spot just above his head, where the Ashford crest hangs on the wall in all its gold-leaf glory.
But I can see him in my peripheral vision.
He leans forward slowly, resting his elbows on his knees. His gaze is locked on me, sharp and unblinking, and suddenly the stage feels about ten degrees hotter.
I keep talking. Something about decorations and volunteer shifts and—
“So how longexactlydoes it take to prepeverythingfor Christmas?”
His voice is quieter this time, almost conversational. But it carries. It always carries.
And the implication is clear:You didn’t think this through, did you?
Something inside me snaps.
Maybe it’s because I’ve been on edge for weeks. I spent three hours last night running numbers and logistics while Professor Whitmore kept adding “fun ideas” that required Herculean effort to execute. Maybe it’s because Raiden Blackwell has been needling me for half a year and I’mtired.
“Perhapsyoushould be put in charge of building the ice rink,” I say sharply. My voice rings out across the auditorium. “Since you clearly have so much expertise in the area.”
The room goes silent.
Shocked silence.
I finally—finally—look directly at Raiden Blackwell.
