Chilton was supposed to be my stepping stone to Harvard. That was the plan, the dream I’d worked toward my entire life. But the reality of Chilton was far messier. The halls were lined with tailored uniforms and pedigrees as old as the school itself. And then there was Tristan Dugray—the walking definition of arrogance wrapped in a prep school blazer.

He was everything I couldn't stand: rich, entitled, and completely aware of the effect he had on people. His smirk was a constant fixture, as if life was some grand joke only he was in on. From the moment we met, Tristan made it his mission to make my life more complicated.

"Mary," he’d call me, that infuriating nickname laced with condescension. No matter how many times I rolled my eyes or snapped back, he never let up. He'd sit too close in the library, steal my notes in class, or casually block my locker as if it belonged to him.

But beneath the teasing and the smirk, there were moments—fleeting, rare—when I saw another side of Tristan. Like the time he found me in the courtyard, buried under a pile of books and stress, and offered me one of his obnoxiously expensive pens without a word. Or the way his eyes softened when he thought no one was looking.

It wasn't until the winter formal that everything shifted. I hadn’t planned to go, but Paris had roped me into it. Tristan showed up late, of course, sauntering into the room as if he owned it. And when he saw me, his usual smirk faltered.

"You clean up nicely, Mary," he said, his voice quieter than usual.

The rest of the night passed in a blur of stolen glances and conversations I couldn’t quite believe we were having. He wasn’t just the obnoxious golden boy of Chilton anymore. He was something... more.

The problem was, Tristan Dugray had a reputation, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to be part of it. But as the weeks went on, he kept surprising me—waiting outside my classroom, leaving little notes on my desk, walking me to the bus stop. He was relentless, but not in the way he used to be.