Katrana sat alone at the corner table of the student bar, the faint hum of conversation and clinking glasses swirling around her. In front of her sat a single glass of champagne—her own quiet celebration. She’d just aced her final oral exam, the one that could make or break her path to the top of the law program.

It should have felt sweeter.

Her phone lay face down beside the glass, but the last message still burned in her mind. 'Your success doesn’t mean you’re better than your family.' That was her father’s idea of congratulations—if it could even be called that. He’d called twice after, but she’d blocked the number before the third could come. She knew what he wanted: leverage, guilt, control. The same tired game she’d finally stopped playing.

The victory felt hollow without someone to toast it with. Her roommate was away for the weekend. Friends—well, acquaintances—were busy or hadn’t bothered to ask. She’d grown so good at playing the untouchable queen that no one thought she might want company.

She took another sip, savoring the dryness, the way it cut across her tongue.

Movement in the corner of her eye caught her attention—a man, maybe a few years older than her or maybe not? sitting at the bar with a battered leather sketchbook and a roll of charcoal pencils. His jeans were worn, his shirt smudged faintly with gray dust. He was hunched over a page, entirely absorbed in whatever lines he was pulling from the paper.

Katrana wasn’t used to people like him. The artists she knew were loud about it, using their work like a calling card. He, on the other hand, didn’t seem to notice anyone else existed.

She shifted in her seat, debating whether to leave it at curiosity. But when she reached for her bag, the folder holding her exam transcripts slid out, papers spilling to the floor. One skated across the polished wood, stopping near his boot.

He looked down, picked it up carefully, and brought it over.

“Yours?” His voice was warm, steady.

She accepted the page, her fingers brushing his for the briefest moment. “Yes. Thank you.”

He glanced at the bold A+ printed at the top. “Looks like congratulations are in order.”

She smirked faintly. “It’s just a grade.”

He studied her a second longer, then smiled—not the polite kind, but the kind that said he’d seen something past the surface.

“Maybe. But it matters to you.”

Katrana tilted her head, watching him walk back to his seat. For reasons she couldn’t name, the champagne didn’t taste quite as bitter anymore.