He hung up.

That arrogant, cold-blooded, feral excuse for a human being actually fucking hung up on me.

I stared at my phone, my vision blurring with a white-hot rage so intense I wanted to put my fist through the nearest wall. The nerve of him—to dismantle a human being like he was taking apart an engine, and then offer that cryptic, infuriating scrap of an explanation:

He made you smile.

As if that justified the carnage. As if that gave him some twisted, primordial right to dictate who lived or bled in my orbit. If Antonio Persico were standing in front of me right now, I wouldn't just beat him—I’d ruin him.

But I couldn't stay in the bleach-scented purgatory of the hospital. I had snuck out of the house for the race, and Nora—my sister, my only tether to sanity in this cursed bloodline—was bleeding her own nerves dry covering for me. Telling our parents I was "sick" was a precarious lie, and in the Sinclair household, the truth didn't just hurt—it destroyed.

I muttered a hollow goodbye to Brianna and Caleb’s mother. The air in the ICU felt like it was thickening with every second I stayed.

I threw a leg over my bike and tore toward the Sinclair mansion—an architectural monstrosity of glass and marble so cold it didn't feel like a home; it felt like a maximum-security prison for the elite. Wealth is a funny thing: it builds cages, then lines them with 24-karat gold so you don't notice the bars until you’re choking on them.

The heavy iron gates hissed open the moment I approached. My parents had spent decades cultivating a staff that believed I was the Virgin Mary in designer heels—incapable of an unapproved thought.

Nate, my little brother and the only genius I actually respected, had already scrubbed the security footage. He was a phantom in the digital world, erasing my sins while I covered for his midnight coding marathons. Teamwork, Sinclair style: we survived by hiding the bodies together.

I slipped through the front doors, moving like a ghost through the silent, vaulted halls. A maid turned the corner, her mouth dropping open.

"Not a fucking word," I hissed.

She flinched as if I’d struck her and scurried away. I moved upstairs, my heart hammering against my ribs, praying I wouldn't stumble into a lecture.

"What the hell, Scar?" Nora’s voice was a frantic whisper the second I crossed the threshold of the landing. "You said two hours! It’s nearly midnight. Where were you?"

I leaned against the wall, the adrenaline finally crashing into exhaustion. "The track. I won. And then the world went to hell because Antonio Persico decided to play God with Caleb’s face. I was at the hospital."

Nora’s face went bloodless. "Antonio? The Reaper? The one you’ve been at war with since freshman year?"

"As if there’s another monster with that name," I spat. "And he had the audacity to tell me he did it because Caleb made me smile. I want to rip his throat out, Nora. I swear to God."

"Watch your mouth," Nora warned, glancing toward our parents' wing. "If Mom heard you talk like a mechanic, she’d have a stroke. Are they home?"

"They got in an hour ago," she whispered, her eyes dark with stress. "I told them you were asleep and 'fragile.' Don't make a liar out of me."

I pulled her into a brief, tight hug. "You’re an angel. Truly."

She let out a hollow laugh. "Don't get me dragged into your version of hell, Scar. I can't keep saving your ass if you keep setting yourself on fire."

"No promises," I murmured.

But then, the mask she wore—the one that made her look like a perfect porcelain bride—cracked. Her eyes grew glassy, a silent scream trapped behind her teeth.

"Tanner’s family is coming for dinner tomorrow," she said, her voice barely audible.

The air left my lungs.

Tanner Pierson. The heir to a shipping empire. The man my parents had sold her to like a piece of prime real estate. Nora was twenty-five, beautiful, and brilliant—and she was being handed a life sentence in a tuxedo. Another Sinclair daughter traded for an alliance.

I gripped her hand, my knuckles still trembling from the race. "Are you okay? About tomorrow?"

She swallowed hard, the muscles in her throat working. "No. But choice is a luxury we don't own, Scar. We both know that."

A knot of pure, unadulterated hatred formed in my stomach. My parents' obsession with 'image' was a slow-acting poison—one daughter sold into a loveless marriage, the other expected to be a flawless, mute princess.

"Go to bed," Nora whispered, forcing her composure back into place. "Before the patrol starts."

After she left, I stood under the scalding water of the shower, trying to scrub the scent of gasoline and the memory of Antonio's voice off my skin.

He made you smile.

What was he playing at? Why did a girl he claimed to despise occupy so much space in his twisted head?

Our rivalry had been a slow-burn war since the first day of university. He was the shadow—the dark, lethal heir of a family that LA whispered about in terrified tones. I was the light—the golden daughter of the establishment. He spent three years poking at my triggers, cornering me in hallways, making sure I knew I wasn't as 'perfect' as the world thought.

I couldn't report him. The Persicos didn't just have money; they had fear. They were untouchable.

I pulled up Instagram, my thumb hovering over the screen. The underground was screaming. Videos of my win were everywhere—low-res, gritty clips of me outmaneuvering the Reaper. But the one that stopped my heart was a still photo.

Antonio. Looking at me.

His helmet was off, and his eyes were dark voids of hunger and promised violence. He looked like he wanted to burn the world down just to see me dance in the ashes.

The post had thousands of likes, but I knew it would be gone by morning. The Persicos didn't do 'public.' His own feed was a black hole—millions of followers, zero posts. A ghost with an army.

Two worlds. Mine was loud, sparkling, and fake. His was silent, lethal, and devastatingly real.

And somehow, our orbits were decaying, pulling us into a head-on collision.

The next morning, the sun felt like a personal insult. I dressed in record time, brushing out my dark hair—the sharp contrast to Nora’s blonde, 'classic' beauty. I was the spit and image of my mother; she was the carbon copy of my father. A British-American cocktail of repressed emotions and expensive tailoring.

08:01.

Fuck.

Breakfast was at 8:00 sharp. Anything less was a declaration of war.

I hurried downstairs to find the four of them already seated, a tableau of suburban perfection.

"You're late," my father said, his voice as flat and cold as a tombstone.

"Scarlett," Mom added, not even looking up from her grapefruit. "First day of your third year. Try not to tarnish the name today."

"Yes, Mother," I muttered, sliding into my seat.

"Nate," Dad snapped. "Phone away. Now."

Nate didn't flinch. He just slid the device out of sight, giving me a microscopic nod. The footage was gone. We were safe. For now.

"Be home by six," Mom continued, her tone sharpening. "The Piersons are our guests. This dinner is vital for Nora's transition. No excuses, Scarlett. I want you polished."

My stomach churned. Nora's transition. As if she were a piece of software being upgraded, not a woman being handed over to a stranger.

"I’ll be here," I said, the words tasting like ash.

After the silent, suffocating meal, I was ushered into the 'Sinclair White' limo—another piece of the brand. I checked my phone as we pulled away. Kylie had texted: Hurry. The pit is crawling with rumors. Everyone saw what happened to Caleb.

Blackridge University loomed ahead—gates of ivy and iron, manicured lawns, and students who smelled like five-hundred-dollar cologne and entitlement.

I stepped onto the pavement, adjusting my bag, trying to find the mask I was supposed to wear.

Then, I heard it.

The visceral, throat-tearing roar of a motorcycle engine that sounded like a predator's growl. The air around me seemed to drop ten degrees. I didn't need to look. I could feel him.

Antonio Persico.

As his bike cut through the morning mist, the rage I’d been nursing all night snapped into a razor-sharp focus. My blood didn't just boil; it turned to gasoline.

I wasn't done with him. If he wanted to break things that were mine, he was going to find out just how expensive the Sinclair name could be.

The second my tires crossed the threshold of the university gates, the atmosphere curdled. The air grew thin, heavy with the kind of electric dread that usually precedes a firing squad.

And there she was.

Scarlett Sinclair. She was standing at the top of the marble stairs like a storm wrapped in a silk uniform, her arms crossed over her chest, her eyes tracking me with a lethal, unblinking glare. She wasn't just looking at me; she was sighting me in like a target.

I killed the engine, the silence that followed ringing in my ears. I pulled off my helmet slowly, letting the morning mist hit my face, and allowed a jagged smirk to cut across my lips. I fucking loved this. I loved her like this—teeth bared, fire licking behind those 'perfect' green eyes, the sheer, unadulterated fury radiating off her skin like a scent.

I started toward her, my boots echoing like a heartbeat on the pavement. I didn't hide the smirk. I wanted her to see how much her rage fed me.

"What’s wrong, tesoro?" I drawled, my voice a low vibration. "Why are you looking at me with so much love in your eyes this morning?"

She didn't waste words. She reached out and grabbed my arm—a small, delicate hand that possessed a grip like tempered steel—and began dragging me away from the gathering crowd.

I let her. I would have followed her into a burning building if she held me like that. I could feel the eyes of the student body boring into my back, the whispers starting like a brushfire, but I didn't give a damn. I walked like I owned the concrete beneath my feet—because I did. I liked the way her body leaned into mine as she pulled, the way her hair whipped against my chest. My own private hurricane.

She didn't stop until we were behind the sports hall, shielded by the shadows and the scent of damp earth. She shoved my arm away, whirling around to face me, her chest heaving.

"Why?" she demanded, her voice a jagged, shaking rasp of anger.

I tilted my head, feigning a boredom I didn't feel. "Why what, Sinclair?"

"Don't you dare play fucking dumb with me, Antonio. You know exactly what."

"I gave you the reason over the phone," I said with a shrug, stepping into her space. "Want me to carve it into your skin so you remember it better?"

"No." She stepped closer, her nose almost touching mine, her defiance a physical heat. "I want the real reason. The truth."

I leaned back against the brick wall, shoving my hands into my pockets to keep from reaching for her. "Believe me, tesoro, last night was a mercy. You should be fucking grateful I didn't send that pathetic excuse for a man six feet under."

Her eyes widened, a flicker of genuine shock crossing her face. "You think you're a god? You think you can just dismantle people because they aren't part of your twisted little world?"

That was the snap.

In one fluid motion, I grabbed her waist and slammed her back against the wall. The sound of her breath hitching—the sharp, panicked gasp of a bird in a cage—was worth more than any race I’d ever won. I pinned her there, my body a solid weight against hers, and lowered my head until my lips were brushing her ear.

"The reason," I hissed, my voice dropping to a predatory crawl, "is simple. He made you smile. And I don’t like other men touching what’s mine."

She froze. For a fraction of a second, the mask of the Sinclair Princess shattered, leaving only the girl who loved the roar of an engine. I saw the tremor in her pulse.

"Feel bad for your little schoolboy crush?" I taunted, my hand tightening on her hip.

"He's not my crush," she spat, her eyes burning into mine.

My jaw tightened, the jealousy I’d been suppressing turning into something sharp and ugly in my gut. "Don't fucking lie to me, Scarlett. I see the way you look at him. Safe. Easy."

"What the fuck does it matter to you?" she snapped, shoving against my chest.

"It matters," I growled, pressing my weight into her until she was molded to the stone. "Because if I see him make you smile like that again, I won't be responsible for the carnage I leave behind. Do you understand me?"

"What is your problem?" she breathed, her voice cracking.

"You," I whispered, my gaze dropping to her mouth. "You are my fucking problem. Got it?"

Her breath hitched again, but she didn't look away. She never did. That was the addiction—the way she stared back at the monster without blinking.

The bell rang, the shrill sound cutting through the tension like a blade. She used the distraction to shove me back, and this time, I let her go. She stormed away, her heels clicking a furious rhythm on the pavement, her hair swinging like a silken curtain.

It pissed me off how much she cared about that piece of shit.

On my way to class, Daniel caught up to me, his eyes taking in my split knuckles and the dark cloud on my face. "Yo, you look like you’re ready to commit a felony. What happened?"

"Nothing."

He raised an eyebrow. "Bullshit. You have that 'I want to kill someone' look. Who is it? One of the girls from the club? Still blowing up your phone?"

"Are you an idiot?" I snapped, my voice serrated. "Why would I waste a single thought on a one-night stand? I don't even remember their faces."

"So it's her then."

"Scarlett."

Daniel snorted. "The girl you fight with like you’re trying to tear each other’s clothes off?"

"It’s not that," I muttered, though my skin was still humming from where I’d touched her.

"What did you do to Caleb last night?" Daniel asked, his tone shifting to something more serious.

"He deserved to be broken."

"Specific reason?" Daniel pressed. "Or did you just need a blood sacrifice?"

"He pissed me off," I growled. "She... she likes the bastard."

Daniel let out a sharp laugh. "Her taste is garbage then. The guy's a walking infection. He was hooking up with Rebecca in the back of a Range Rover last week, and I saw him at the 'Underground' sex club on Tuesday."

I stopped dead, my eyes narrowing. "What the hell were you doing at a sex club?"

"The usual," Daniel grinned, unbothered.

"Your dick needs to be in a cage, Daniel."

"What can I say? I’m a man of the people."

We reached the English lecture hall. I walked in ten minutes late, the floorboards creaking under my boots. The professor opened her mouth, her face reddening as she prepared to lecture me on 'punctuality.'

I didn't give her the chance. I reached into my pocket, pulled out a thick roll of hundred-dollar bills, and tossed them onto her desk without a word. "Shut up."

She looked at the money, then at me, and her mouth snapped shut. Money doesn't just talk in this city; it commands silence.

I slid into my seat and pulled out my phone. My feed was a disaster. The race from last night was everywhere, but one video was viral—the moment I’d taken my helmet off and stared at Scarlett. I looked like a man possessed, a man who had finally found the one thing he couldn't live without.

I felt the rage spark again as I saw Caleb in the background of the shot, leaning toward her.

This year was going to be a bloodbath. I’d make sure of it. Because Scarlett Sinclair was going to learn that once a Persico stakes a claim, there is no escape.

She was mine. She just hadn't felt the collar tighten yet.

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