Elite Crest Academy looked exactly like the brochures promised: red-brick buildings draped in ivy, manicured lawns that stayed impossibly green even in late September, and a clock tower that chimed every hour like it was reminding everyone how important time—and legacy—was here.
Mira Ellison stepped off the shuttle with one duffel bag slung over her shoulder and a battered sketchbook clutched to her chest. The air smelled like fallen leaves and old money. She tugged her thrift-store denim jacket tighter and tried not to stare at the kids climbing out of Audis and Range Rovers like it was normal.
She'd earned her place here on a full scholarship—top grades, killer essay, teacher recommendations that basically begged the admissions board to take her. But standing in the courtyard now, watching girls in designer coats link arms and laugh too loudly, she felt every inch the outsider.
A bell rang somewhere deep in the main building. Students streamed toward the arched entrance. Mira checked her phone map again—dormitory check-in was across the quad, past the gazebo everyone seemed to be posing in front of for selfies.
She kept her head down and walked.
And that's when she crashed into him.
Her shoulder clipped solid muscle. The sketchbook flew from her arms, pages fluttering open on the wet stone path like wounded birds.
"Shit—sorry," she muttered, dropping to her knees to gather them before the light rain ruined the charcoal lines.
A pair of expensive sneakers stopped beside her. Then a hand—strong, warm—reached down to help.
"I wasn't watching where I was going," a low, smooth voice said.
Mira looked up.
And froze.
Alexander Voss.
Even if she hadn't spent the last week googling the school (purely for research, she told herself), she would have known him. Dark hair that looked effortlessly messy, piercing blue eyes that probably made poetry teachers weep, and a half-smile that said he knew exactly how good-looking he was without trying too hard.
Currently, that half-smile was aimed at her.
"It's fine," she said quickly, snatching the last page from his fingers. She stood, hugging the sketchbook to her chest like armor. "Really. My fault."
His friends—a cluster of lacrosse jackets and perfect teeth—hovered a few steps behind, watching the exchange like it was entertainment.
Alexander ignored them. "You're new."
It wasn't a question.
"Transfer. Junior year," she answered, already stepping around him. "I've got check-in—"
"Mira Ellison, right?" he said, falling into step beside her without invitation. "Scholarship kid from... Oregon?"
She stopped walking. "How did you know that?"
He shrugged, hands in the pockets of his navy blazer. "Word travels. Especially when someone beats out thirty legacy applicants for the last spot."
There it was. The reminder she didn't belong.
Mira forced a tight smile. "Great. Can't wait for the welcome parade."
She started walking again. He kept pace.
"I'm Alexander," he said, like she might not know.
"I know who you are."
He laughed softly. "That bad already?"
She didn't answer. Just kept moving.
At the dormitory steps, she finally turned to face him. "Look, I'm sure you're very... popular. But I'm not here to make friends with the welcoming committee. I've got unpacking to do."
Alexander studied her for a second—really studied her, like he was trying to solve a puzzle. Then he nodded, stepping back with his hands raised in surrender.
"Fair enough. See you around, Mira Ellison."
He walked away, rejoining his friends who immediately started ribbing him. She heard one of them say, "Shot down already, Voss? That's gotta be a first."
Mira rolled her eyes and pushed through the dorm doors.
Inside her small single room—bare walls, narrow bed, one window overlooking the gazebo—she dropped her bag and flopped onto the mattress.
Alexander Voss was exactly what she'd expected: privileged, confident, probably used to getting whatever he wanted with one flash of that stupid smile.
She wasn't here for boys like him.
She was here to get out.
But as she unpacked, pinning a few photos of home above her desk, she couldn't shake the way he'd said her name.
Like he was already deciding she was worth remembering.
And somewhere across campus, in a much larger dorm suite with a view of the lacrosse fields, Alexander Voss stared at the charcoal sketch he'd palmed when she wasn't looking—a quick drawing of a broken lighthouse against a stormy sea.
He slipped it into his desk drawer.
And smiled to himself.
This year was going to be interesting.
End of Chapter 1