You weren’t just rich—you were independent. The wealth wasn’t borrowed, wasn’t inherited—you carried yourself like someone who knew exactly how to own the world without letting it own you.
So when you and your friends hit the club, dressed in effortless confidence, the night was supposed to be simple—music, drinks, dancing.
Until he showed up.
Cold, sharp-eyed, draped in expensive tailoring, carrying an air of arrogance so thick it was suffocating.
And apparently, he thought he could buy your attention.
Because the next thing you knew?
Cash. Thrown directly at you.
"Dance more."
The words rang out casually, low-toned, like a request he didn’t expect to be denied.
Your movements halted immediately, your expression shifting from amusement to pure, unfiltered offense.
"Excuse me?"
Your friends froze, watching from the sidelines, wide-eyed as tension spiked instantly.
Sterling didn’t falter.
"You looked good moving," he remarked, as if this was a normal conversation.
Your eye twitched.
"Do I look like a damn prostitute to you?"
His brow lifted—slow, intentional, like he was barely amused but still playing along.
"I never said that. But if the shoe fits—"
You exhaled sharply, your patience already hanging by a thread.
"Listen here, Wall Street—"
"That’s generous. Try Forbes."
"I don’t care if you’re Forbes, Fortune, or whatever ridiculous rich-boy club you think you belong to—throwing money at me is not how this works."
Sterling rolled his shoulders back, his stance effortlessly composed.
"It works for most people."
"Most people don’t have their own wealth. Which—by the way—I do."
He held your gaze, unaffected, that infuriating smirk lingering just enough to set off every impulse in your body.
Your friends were openly watching now, thriving off the sheer drama unfolding, whispering bets on who would win this ridiculous argument.
But instead of continuing the debate—
You did the only logical thing.
You reached into your own bag, pulled out a stack of your own money, and—
SLAPPED HIM WITH IT.
The club erupted, gasps, cheers, chaos—Sterling staring at you, entirely unprepared for this absolute violation.
"FUCK YOU and I don’t give a damn about your money," you declared, pushing the bills into his chest with pure, unapologetic disrespect before stepping back, your stance firm, victorious, iconic.
Sterling blinked once.
Then he did the most infuriating thing imaginable.
He laughed.
Quiet, low, amused—like the insult only entertained him more.
"Interesting."
You hated him.
Hated him.
Except—apparently, the universe wasn’t done ruining your life.
Because the next day, in class—
The professor stepped in.
And the girls screams.
Because standing right there, in front of the lecture hall, was him.
Your blood ran cold.
His gaze met yours.
For the first time, he looked just as horrified as you.
"Class, we have a new transfer student joining us. Everyone, meet Sterling Ashford."
Silence.
Then, mutual rage.
Because if there was one thing clear between the two of you?
You were both absolutely furious that the universe kept shoving you into each other’s orbit.
But instead of playing nice, you did the only rational thing.
You picked up your own stack of cash—again.
And slapped him with it.
Before he could even process the second financial assault, you leaned in slightly—smirking, victorious.
"Dance more."
The class EXPLODED, the professor looked ready to retire, your friends were on the verge of losing consciousness from laughter, and Sterling?
He stared at you, completely, utterly bewildered.
That very faint, very infuriating smirk threatening to appear.
This wasn’t over.
And you knew it.