Chapter 1
Isla
The library'sbasement smells like old paper and broken dreams at two in the morning.
I shelve another book on Renaissance art, my fingers numb from the cold that perpetually haunts this corner of Thornhill University's major library. My second shift of the day. Six hours at the campus café this morning, four hours here tonight, and I still have a paper due on Friday which I haven't started.
Welcome to the glamorous life of a scholarship student.
"Isla?" Marcus, the night supervisor, pokes his head around the corner, he's been here longer than I have tonight. "You can head out. I'll finish the cart."
"It's fine, I've got?—"
"Go." He smiles. It’s the type of smile you know is full of kindness. "You've been here since ten. Get some sleep."
I want to argue. Every minute is money I desperately need, but Marcus has been covering for me since freshman year, and I know he won't take no for an answer. I grab my coat, a thrift store find that's seen better decades and my backpack, which weighs approximately one thousand pounds thanks to the textbooks I can't afford to buy but can borrow from the library.
The February air bites through my coat the moment I step outside. Thornhill's campus is beautiful in that old-money, ivy-covered way that reminds you at every turn that you don't belong here. Gothic buildings loom against the night sky. Warm light spills from dorm windows where students who don't work two jobs are probably drinking expensive wine and planning their spring breaks in Cabo.
I'm planning how to make instant ramen stretch for three meals.
My dorm, the Harrison Hall, the oldest and least renovated on campus, sits on the edge of campus. Of course it does. Even the buildings have a hierarchy here. I keep my head down as I walk, earbuds in but no music playing. Can't afford to drain my phone battery when I might need it.
"Scholarship girl's out late." I hear a voice.
I don't have to look to know who it is. That voice has haunted me for two years, smooth and cold as expensive whiskey.
Sebastian Thornhill.
Of course. Because my night isn’t complete without running into campus royalty.
I keep walking, but he falls into step beside me. I can see him in my peripheral vision. Tall, dark-haired, wearing a coat that probably costs more than my entire semester's textbooks. He walks like he owns the path. He basically does. His family's name is on half the buildings.
"What, no witty comeback?" he continues. "I'm disappointed."
"I'm tired, Thornhill. Find someone else to torture."
"But you're so much more fun when you're tired. All those careful defenses start to slip."
I stop walking and face him. Mistake. I've learned not to engage, but it's been a long day and I'm running on coffee and spite.
"What do you want?"
Sebastian Thornhill is objectively attractive, I can admit that, the same way I can admit the sky is blue. It's just a fact, meaningless as facts go. Dark hair that's artfully messy in the way that probably requires expensive products. Sharp jawline. Eyes which are either dark blue or gray depending on the light, currently assessing me with that mix of amusement and disdain he reserves for people he considers beneath him.
Which is everyone.
But especially me.
"Just making conversation," he says, all false innocence. "We're classmates, after all."
"We share one seminar. That doesn't make us classmates. That makes us two people who happen to occupy the same room twice a week."
"Such hostility." He tsks. "And here I was going to warn you about Professor Hendrix's paper topic. But if you'd rather figure it out yourself?—"
"I don't need your help."
"Right. Because you've got everything under control." His gaze flicks to my coat, my worn backpack, and I hate I feel self-conscious. "How many shifts today? Two? Three?"
