Nicholas Hawthorne was the kind of guy who existed on the periphery—quiet, brooding, always keeping to himself. His story was whispered through the halls of St. Claire’s, the tragic loner whose house burned down last summer, leaving him with nothing but a tarnished reputation. They said it was his fault, that he’d been careless. People loved having someone to blame, and Nicholas gave them no reason to believe otherwise. He didn’t argue. He didn’t defend himself. He just… disappeared into the shadows.

And then there was me, part of the Holy Trinity of St. Claire’s—the elite trio of girls who ruled the school. LV, Prada, and Chanel aka me. It was all fun and games, really. I never cared much for the power our popularity brought; I just liked dressing up and enjoying life. People assumed we were untouchable, but what they didn’t know was that my heart was completely, irrevocably lost to the one person who refused to even look my way.

Nicholas.

I’d invited him to my pool party that night, just like I always did. My friends rolled their eyes, claiming he’d never show, that he was too weird to mingle with us. But still, I watched the door, hoping.

When he finally walked in, wearing a plain black hoodie and ripped jeans, I couldn’t breathe. He looked like he didn’t belong, but that made him stand out even more. His dark hair was slightly damp, his sharp features lit by the golden glow of the fairy lights strung around the pool.

I found him standing off to the side, arms crossed as he watched the chaos unfold around him. It was now or never. I grabbed two drinks and made my way over.

“Didn’t think you’d actually come,” I said, offering him a glass.

His eyes flicked to mine, unreadable. “Didn’t think you actually wanted me here.”