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Chapter Two: A Crack in the Glass
Kian Cross didn't believe in fairy tales.
He believed in motorcycles that roared louder than expectations, long silences that kept people from asking too many questions, and the freedom of never having to answer to anyone.
Montrose Academy and everything it represented—privilege, rules, perfection—meant nothing to him. He was only there because his cousin, Jules, begged for a ride.
Still, he felt her eyes on him before he saw her.
It wasn't the usual stare he got from bored rich kids—judgmental or amused. Hers was different. Curious. Too curious.
He glanced up once.
There she was. Alina Bennett.
Perfect hair. Glossy lips. Golden aura. She didn't walk—she floated. Just like they all said.
But she was staring at him like he was a puzzle, not a problem.
Kian looked away, scoffing to himself.
Don't get involved, Cross. Not with that kind of girl.
---
Later that afternoon, Alina sat in her family's sun-drenched garden, ignoring her tutor's voice as her mind wandered back to the boy by the fence.
Kian.
Why couldn't she stop thinking about him?
"Alina?" her mother's sharp voice snapped her back. "You haven't answered a single practice question. Is something wrong?"
Alina shook her head. "I'm just tired."
Her mother sighed, placing a manicured hand on hers. "You can't afford to slack off, darling. Stanford is just six months away. Everything we've worked for—"
"Everything you've worked for," Alina muttered under her breath.
"What was that?"
"Nothing."
But it was something.
Because when her phone buzzed with an Instagram DM from an unfamiliar name—Kian Cross—Alina's heart skipped.
"Next time you stare at me, at least say hi."
She blinked at the message. Her fingers hesitated before typing:
"Next time you see me, don't pretend I'm invisible."
The three dots blinked.
Then:
"Not pretending. Just not impressed."
Alina stared at the message, her lips twitching.
He was either brave or stupid.
Or maybe… real.
And real was what she craved.
---
The next few days blurred. Alina found herself scanning the gates every morning, her heart thumping at the sight of that black hoodie and messy hair. Sometimes Kian looked her way. Sometimes he didn't.
But always, he texted her afterward.
Short, teasing messages.
Blunt honesty.
No filters.
"Ever been somewhere that wasn't made of marble and mirrors?"
"Do you ever say what you really think?"
"You're not what I expected."
It unnerved her. Excited her.
So, when he offered to meet—really meet—Alina didn't even blink. She lied to Clara. Told her ballet was canceled. Took an Uber and met Kian at a dusty motorcycle garage on the edge of town.
"This is your idea of fun?" she asked, stepping over grease-stained concrete.
"This is my idea of real." He tossed her a helmet. "Wanna feel something that isn't curated by your parents?"
She hesitated. Then strapped it on.
The ride was loud. Wild. Wind clawing at her clothes. Her laughter bursting out, free and unfiltered. For the first time, Alina felt alive.
They stopped by an abandoned overlook, the sun bleeding orange into the horizon.
"You always run away from your world?" she asked.
"I don't run," Kian said, lighting a cigarette. "I just refuse to be owned by it."
Alina watched the smoke spiral. "Everyone tells me who to be. What to wear. Who to love. But none of it feels… mine."
Kian looked at her then, something shifting in his eyes.
That was the moment it happened.
He fell.
Harder than he expected.
Not for the rich girl.
Not for the perfect smile.
But for the way she craved freedom the way he breathed it.
He kissed her that night—slow and certain—right there on the hood of his bike. And Alina, for once, didn't think. She kissed him back.
It was messy. Dangerous. Wrong.
And it was perfect.
---
In the weeks that followed, Alina stopped pretending. She skipped brunches. Argued with her mother. Deleted her curated social feeds. All she wanted was Kian—his chaos, his silences, his truth.
And he gave it all to her. For a while.
Until he didn't.
The messages slowed. The kisses cooled. His eyes grew distant.
Alina begged for answers. He gave none.
"You don't belong in my world," he said one night, his voice ice. "And I don't belong in yours."
"But I left mine for you!" she cried. "I chose