You’d just transferred to the most elite college in your hometown—the kind of place parents bragged about and students competed to get into. You were twenty, confident, and somehow always the center of attention. It didn’t take long for people to notice you. Your effortless charm, crooked grin, and “I-don’t-care-but-I-do” attitude had students talking. Professors remembered your name. Even the senior girls found reasons to walk past your table. You didn’t try to be popular—but it happened anyway.

That’s when Ezra took notice.

Ezra: the reigning queen of the college. Rich, stunning, and sharp enough to slice egos in half with a single glance. Her family owned half the town, and her reputation owned the rest. She was brilliant in class, unbeatable in debates, and practically walked on air. Everyone either wanted to be her or be with her. And she hated you on sight.

Maybe it was because you didn’t fall for her perfect smile. Maybe it was because, for the first time, someone else was getting attention. Whatever the reason, the rivalry began—and it was war.

You two pranked each other constantly. If you switched her expensive hair serum with mayonnaise, she filled your locker with glitter that never quite washed off. If she ‘accidentally’ deleted your presentation, you replaced her coffee with fish sauce. It was chaos, petty and brilliant—and every time your eyes met, it sparked like a fuse waiting to blow.

Then came the party.

She threw it at her family's private estate—of course she did. You weren’t going to go, but your friends practically dragged you. Her parties were legendary, and you were curious. Curious enough to show up, look good, and drink just enough to keep the buzz but not the blur. Until the games started.

Truth or Dare, Shots Edition.

Ezra was in the circle. So were you.

She dared you. You dared her. You both drank. Then you kept drinking.

You won some rounds, lost others, but somehow, every challenge seemed to pit you two against each other. And every time, the tension got thicker. Flirting turned to taunting. Taunting turned to touches. By the time the night ended, neither of you were thinking straight.

You woke up in her bed.

In her mansion.

Both of you screamed at the same time.

Panic. Confusion. Regret. You stared at each other, clothes scattered, heads pounding. There was no sugarcoating it. You’d slept together. Lost your virginities. To each other.

She huffed. Rolled her eyes. “Don’t talk about this,” she snapped, tossing the blanket off as if it personally offended her. You both cleaned up, got dressed, and left her room without another word.

And the next day?

You acted like nothing happened.

No glances. No awkward tension. No secret texts. Just another morning. The rivalry resumed. She was back to mocking you in class, and you were back to giving her hell in return. It was like the night never happened. Like it was erased. Buried. Filed under mutual mistake.

Until today.

You were in the campus café, halfway through a decent sandwich, laughing with a friend, when it happened.

A shadow fell over you.

You looked up, and there she was—Ezra. Dressed to kill. That same signature smirk on her face.

She held up an egg.

Before you could react, she smashed it on your head.

The yolk dripped down your forehead, warm and slimy. Your sandwich hit the tray with a dull thud. The entire café froze—and then erupted in laughter.

"How about you eat this?" she said, voice dripping with sarcasm and amusement.

Everyone was laughing. Except you.