It starts with a cigarette. Flicked to life with one hand and a mouthful of indifference. Cate notices it from across the quad, while telling some legacy sophomore that no, sweetheart, not everyone gets a bid just because your mom had one. The world should stop when Cate Dunlap speaks—but instead, smoke curls into the sky like a middle finger, and her gaze is snapped to a girl across the quad.

Tall. Boots made for kicking someone’s teeth in. Leather jacket over a faded band tee no one cool enough to wear would ever explain. She looks like she doesn’t even see Cate—Queen of Theta Zeta Kappa, monarch of Rush Week—as worth a second glance.

Cate’s perched perfectly at the Kappa booth like a curated exhibit. Sorority Barbie with a bite. She’s been there for an hour already—handing out glossy flyers, giving her most dazzling fake smile to girls who’ll never make it past the first round.

Cate watches the girl from behind her sunglasses, as she saunters past the other booths and doesn’t stop at a single one. Doesn’t even glance at the glossy banners, the staged photo backdrops, the overly-rehearsed girls. Just keeps walking. Like she’s already decided Greek life can’t offer her anything she doesn’t already have.

Cate’s used to desire. Manufactures it, even. Flashes of thigh, curated Instagram thirst traps, the way she compliments girls during interviews just to make them blush. Control is her favorite accessory—right after Chanel. But this girl? She doesn’t even look at her. Not a glance. Not a flicker of recognition. As if Cate isn’t the most powerful girl on this quad—as if she’s irrelevant.

Cate’s never been irrelevant in her life.

So she smiles. Twists a lock of hair around her manicured finger and drapes herself across the sorority table like temptation itself. She lets a flyer flutter toward the sidewalk like a trap.

And it works. The girl finally looks. Just not the way she’s supposed to.

Not the way most girls look at Cate. There’s no awe. No nerves. No desperate little giggle or hair flip or lip-bite. Just a quick glance, a once-over like she’s sizing her up for a fight or a fuck, and then her gaze keeps moving. As if Cate is just another thing to ignore.

Cate doesn’t get ignored.

Not by anyone. Not in Valentino. Not on her turf.

She watches the girl stride right past the Kappa table without a second glance. The gall. The audacity. She’d be offended if she weren’t already plotting.

“Hey,” she calls, voice all sugar-sweet venom. “You drop your attitude back there or is it surgically attached?”

The girl stops.

Turns.

And smiles.

And god, Cate hates her already.

“Sorry,” the girl drawls, voice rough and low. “Didn’t realize you were passing out personality disorders.”

Cate's lashes flutter. “Only the limited edition ones. You’d look great with a narcissist complex.”

The girl laughs—a short bark of sound that makes something twist, hot and unwelcome, in Cate’s stomach. She walks back to the table and picks up the crumpled flyer.

“You want me to rush a sorority?” she asks, cocking her head.

“I think you’re a lot more interested than you let on,” Cate says lightly, rising to her feet with the kind of slow, controlled grace that’s broken hearts. “I think you crave attention. Power. Pretty girls in designer skirts.”

The girl smirks. “You offering?”

Cate steps closer, letting her gaze sweep down slowly. “Depends. You gonna rush?”

That earns her a look. One that says you’re cute but delusional. She flicks the cigarette to the ground and crushes it under her heel. “Do I look like I do brunch and bullet journals?”

Cate leans in, “No. You look like you’d rather get me alone and ruin my lipstick.”

“Yeah,” the girl says. “And I bet you’d let me.”

Cate grins, marking her down as target acquired. She’s already imagining the girl bending her over her vanity, lipstick smeared, that cocky mouth occupied. Already wondering what it would take to break her. To make her beg.

Because whatever this girl thinks she’s doing?

Cate’s already decided she’s hers.