CHAPTER ONE
Alice
The universe, it seems, has a twisted sense of timing.
Today is supposed to be the day. The official launch of Alice Miller 2.0. No longer the quiet, predictable finance student from a non-descript state school, I am finally moving up. I have fought for this transfer, practically building a shrine to the Wall Street-pedigree business school I am finally about to walk into. I have spent hours steaming my crisp white button-down—the psychological armor that declares I am organized, serious, and ready to dominate derivatives.
I am twenty minutes early. I am flying through the cloud nine.I might have even hummed something. I am a cliché of optimistic new beginnings, and I hate myself for it, but the high of the acceptance letter is still in my system. The city air, usually thick with exhaust, smells like opportunity.
Then I hear it. A guttural growl of a powerful engine accelerating entirely too fast for a residential university street.
I barely have time to turn my head before the world goes sideways.
There is a massive pothole in the asphalt, a deep, jagged scar filled with oily, black, days-old rainwater. The sleek, aggressive silhouette of a black European luxury sports car, gleaming as if it were carved from solidified shadow, doesn't even tap the brakes.
Thwack.
It happens in slow motion and then too fast all at once. A massive, fan-like wall of putrid, cold slurry launches from under the tire. I can't move. I am paralyzed by the sheer absurdity of it. The impact doesn't hurt, not physically, but the sensation of cold, muddy water soaking into my armor—my crisp shirt, my light-wash jeans, the very fiber of my dignity—is a profound and sudden violation.
I gasp, a wet, choking sound, as I stand drenched from shoulder to ankle. The mud immediately sets to work seeping into my skin, turning my optimism into a freezing, white-hot rage.
The car slows. Just enough. Just enough for me to see the driver.
Dark hair, impeccably styled, he looks like he's just stepped off a yacht. An intense, handsome silhouette that is currently turned toward the passenger side. Laughter, clear and mocking, echoes from the open window. I see the back of a manicured hand as he brushes something off the shoulder of the girl next to him, laughing. He doesn't even check the mirror. He doesn't see the person he's just erased from the 'happy and chirpy' category. He is encased in his glass and metal bubble, untouchable.
Then, he accelerates again, disappearing around the corner, leaving me with nothing but the taste of street-grime in my mouth and a burning need to put that specific vehicle into a car compactor.
The chirpiness is dead. Long live the cold, calculating fury.
I look down at my phone. It is safe, protected in my purse, but my day is derailed. The registrar's office is not going to welcome a swamp-monster to complete her enrollment papers. I know there is a 24-hour convenience store three blocks up. They'll have overpriced t-shirts, towels, and, most importantly, bathroom access where I can try to scrub this insult out of my soul.
I walk the three blocks with my jaw clenched so tightly I think my molars might shatter. I don't care about the pitying or disgusted looks I get. My focus is purely tactical: locate convenience store, obtain alternate clothing, apply soap.
I push open the glass door of ' Campus Quick-Stop ',the bell jingling with annoying cheer. The air smells of stale coffee and microwave burritos. I ignore the clerk's wide-eyed stare and march past the rows of brightly colored snacks. In the far aisle, hanging under a sign that says 'CAMPUS APPAREL - CLEARANCE,' I find a display of scratchy, grey university hoodies. It isn't my tailored armor, but it is dry. I grab a large, feeling the grit on my fingers transfer to the fabric. I'll need a bag, too, to bury this murdered shirt.
I am heading toward the counter to grab a coffee and a water bottle, intending to pivot directly to the restroom, when a familiar silhouette at the register makes me freeze.
It is him.
The dark hair, the confident slouch. Up close, without the window and the glare, he is… offensively attractive. Like a visual designed by a committee to generate maximum female interest. Strong jaw, a mouth that looks like it spends a lot of time smirking, and eyes that are… interesting. Not brown, not quite. A warm, golden hue, like old amber or rich bourbon.
He is holding a stack of cash and looking annoyed that the clerk is fumbling his change for a premium breakfast sandwich.
He is clean. Spotless, actually. The only stain near him is the residue of the coffee he is casually drinking while waiting. He is the embodiment of unfair privilege. He can ruin a stranger's day, splash them with street filth, and walk into a store looking like he's just won an award.
The absolute audacity.
I don't think. I don't strategize. I walk right into his peripheral vision and stop. The cold sludge on my chest is already starting to crust, but the rage is fresh.
He finishes his transaction, grabbing his sandwich and coffee with one hand, his phone in the other. He doesn't even look up as he starts to turn away from the counter, almost colliding with me.
His gaze snaps to mine. The annoyance is instant, a ripple in that perfect bourbon pool of an eye. He looks down at me, and his nose actually wrinkles, a subtle twitch. I am objectively disgusting. But I don't care.
"Watch where you're going," he says, his voice a low, smooth baritone that grates on my ears like coarse sandpaper.
I look him dead in the face. My eyes feel like they could freeze the very air between us.
"You."
He stops, mid-step. He doesn't know me. He doesn't remember. The sheer lack of impact I've made on his consciousness is worse than the mud.
"Do I know you?"
He looks me over, his gaze sweeping from my muddy boots to the mess on my chest, with a level of dismissive distaste that makes my blood boil.
"I'm pretty sure I'd remember… this."
I take a half-step forward, ignoring the smell emanating from my own person.
"You just ruined my clothes. My entire day. And apparently, you can't even operate a motor vehicle with the spatial awareness of a toddler."
He blinks. A flicker of realization finally crosses his face, followed immediately by that slow, practiced smirk I saw from the car window. It is a smirk that knows it is safe. It is a smirk that understands the world is set up to favor people like him.
"Ah," he says, the baritone smoothing out into lazy amusement. "The puddle. You were… standing there."
"I was walking. On the sidewalk. Where pedestrians are supposed to be. While drivers are supposed to, you know, not hit deep holes at fifty miles an hour."
He shrugs, the fabric of his navy sweater shifting smoothly over what I can tell is a broad, powerful back. he is using the height to look down on me, both physically and metaphorically. "Potholes happen. It's an urban environment. Get used to it."
I can't believe it. No apology. No offer. Just condescension.
"You're going to pay for these," I state, gesturing to my ruined shirt, which I am currently pressing against my body, feeling the wetness.
"I am?" His smirk broadens. He leans casually against the counter, clearly enjoying this. "And why would I do that?"
"Because you did it! You passed me, you splashed me, your face was visible in the window."
He tilts his head, the bourbon eyes glittering with cold amusement. He is an ivory statue of arrogance, and I want to chip him down.
"And?" he prods, his tone dangerously light.
"What's the proof I did that?"
The question hangs in the air, ridiculous and damning. Proof. As if this is a deposition. He is challenging me to litigate the incident in a convenience store.
"The proof," I begin, my voice trembling with the effort to not shout, "is that I am standing here, drenched in the specific black sludge from the specific hole you hit not ten minutes ago, which is matched to the specific car you were driving."
"Anecdotal," he counters, holding up a finger. "Circumstantial at best. Lots of people hit that puddle. My car is very common."
I know he is lying. That black, aggressive sports car is not common. It is a statement. And his entire demeanor—the dismissive air, the defensive smirk—screams that he knows what he has done and he is enjoying the process of being untouchable.
I stare at him, my silence probably louder than any scream I could have managed. I am memorizing his face. The structured lines, the arrogant tilt, the specific golden hue of his eyes that are currently watching me with an insulting amount of calculation. I am filing him under 'target' and 'priority.' This will not be forgotten.
I am about to say something that will probably get me banned from this store—something sharp, personal, and absolutely un-strategic—when the jingle of the door-bell is replaced by a high-pitched, near-shriek of a voice.
"Zade! Zade! Oh my god, Zade!"
The transformation is instantaneous.
The smirk shatters. The bourbon eyes widen, and for the first time since I've seen him, the untouchable ivory tower shows a massive, gaping flaw. He blanches. A genuine, unmistakable shade of pale. His hand, still holding the breakfast sandwich, tightens so hard I hear the wrapper crinkle.
He looks around wildly, like a trapped animal, and his gaze lands on the only cover available in this open-concept aisle.
The counter.
I look towards the door and see a girl burst in, all blonde curls and a neon-pink puffer jacket that could have served as a distress beacon. She is shouting his name again, scanning the store with predatory intensity.
I look back at 'Zade' (I have a name now, file it away). He is already crouching down, sliding behind the edge of the counter where the cigarette cartons are stacked.he's a giant so this is less 'hiding' and more 'folding himself into a painful geometric shape.'
He makes eye contact with me from his new, lower vantage point. The amber eyes are wide with fear—genuine, humiliating fear. He raises a finger to his lips, making an exaggerated shushing motion. Then, he actually mouths the words, emphasizing them, his face a desperate plea.
'I'm sorry. Don't tell her I'm here.'
He is apologizing. Finally.
But it isn't for ruining my day, or my clothes, or my confidence in humanity. It is an apology for this. It is a tactical, self-serving apology, designed to buy my silence. He is using his momentary weakness to try and manipulate me.
The irony is so thick it is choking me. This arrogant, dismissive, untouchable creature, currently shivering behind a counter, is terrified of a neon-pink puffer jacket.
I am done with chirpy. I am done with mercy.
I look down at him, my expression a mirror image of the hard defiance I've seen in my own reflection earlier. I don't smile, but a slow, cold smirk begins to spread across my face. It is the smirk of someone who has just been handed the leverage and knows exactly how to use it.
I mouth the words back to him, simple and clear.
'Sorry.'
And then, before I can talk myself out of it, before I can consider the potential long-term fallout (which, to be fair, is currently outweighed by the immediate gratification of justice), I turn.
I don't yell, but I project my voice with all the authority of a referee calling a foul.
"He's here!" I shout, looking directly at the girl in the pink jacket. I point a muddy finger directly towards the end of the counter. "He's right behind here."
The silence that follows is absolute, except for the jingle of the door-bell as other, less interesting customers enter.
The girl in the pink jacket freezes, then her face breaks into a predatory grin. She marches towards the counter.
I don't stick around to see the fallout. I pivot, grab my overpriced grey hoodie and my coffee, and walk towards the bathroom. I am still wet. I still smell like sludge. My white shirt is still dead. But as I push open the bathroom door, I know the day isn't a total wash.
Revenge, I have just discovered, is an excellent detergent. It doesn't make me clean, but it definitely makes me feel better.