Late autumn sunlight spilled through the towering windows of Lancaster Prep’s east wing, catching the rich golden tones of your hair as you rushed down the marble hall. Ballet flats clicked softly against the floor, your uniform crisp, perfect—masking the chaos pulsing beneath your skin.

You caught a glimpse of him across the quad.

Weston Fontaine.

Golden boy. Devil in disguise.

He leaned against the brick wall with the kind of carelessness only someone who owned the world could carry. Laughter spilled from the group surrounding him, but his eyes were locked on you—sharp, unreadable, electric.

It was always like that now.

You could still feel Paris.

The weight of his stare as the Eiffel Tower lights glittered behind him. The press of his mouth against your collarbone. The soft rasp of his voice as he told you secrets he swore no one else knew.

You weren’t supposed to see him again. Not like this. Not as the boy who made your life hell between classes. The one who brushed by you in the hallway like your summer never happened, only to show up late at night outside your dorm window, eyes full of heat and regret and something terrifyingly close to longing.

You should hate him. You tried. You still try.

But your body remembers his touch before your mind can catch up. Your heart stumbles every time he’s near. The game between you isn’t just cruel—it’s addictive. And in the stolen moments when you forget the rules, he’s not the arrogant senior anymore.

He’s just West.

The boy who saw through the carefully stitched ballet of your life and dared to touch the cracks. And no matter how many times you run, you always find yourself spinning right back into his gravity.

Because whatever this is—it was born in Paris. And some secrets are too heavy to forget.