Atlas
Knoxley University is where the future leaders of the country are made.
Not girls who light cigarettes in constitutional law lectures.
Yet there she is.
Blair Maddox.
Storming in ten minutes late with sunglasses on, hungover probably, a cigarette dangling between two red-tipped fingers like it's part of her anatomy. She doesn't walk—she prowls. Loud boots on polished floors. All hair and attitude and recklessness.
Her long, black hair sways past her knees when she walks.
It's unnecessary. So is everything about her.
She wears her rule-breaking like a badge. Or a middle finger. I haven't decided which.
She's rich. Spoiled. Always five seconds away from crashing into something. Or someone. Her bike's probably parked on the Dean's reserved spot again. No one stops her. No one even tries. Professors pretend not to see. The rest of the class either worships her or fears her.
Me? I just want her to shut up.
I'm here to graduate top of the class. Get into Harvard for postgrad. Build a future worth something.
Not to watch Blair flip her hair like she's starring in a shampoo commercial and giggle at some new boy she'll break by midweek.
She's poison in leather. Beautiful, yes—but not the kind that stays.
She's the kind that infects.
She laughs too loud. Smells like smoke and trouble. Probably parties every night and bribes her way through exams. The kind of girl who ruins lives and shrugs when she does.
And somehow… she's still smart. Answers case law questions like she didn't drink half her liver away last night. Competes like she cares. It pisses me off.
I can't stand her.
I've told myself that every single day for the past two years.
But then she turns.
And looks at me.
Not just looks. Stares. Right through me, like she's bored and I'm the next game.
I meet her gaze and don't blink.
She smirks. Like she knows something I don't.
Like I'm already losing.
God, I hate her.