The Ferrari F8 Tributo pulled into the university parking lot, its low hum slicing through the usual morning chatter. Mikha Lim thrived in it.

She stepped out, uniform slightly undone—black slacks, crisp white polo, loosened tie, school jacket draped over her shoulders. Even in dress code, she made it look effortless—like she owned the place.

Then, she saw Aiah Arceta.

Standing at the top of the stairs, arms crossed, gaze sharp.

Mikha smirked as she approached. “Miss me, President?”

Aiah barely looked at her. “You’re late.”

Mikha scoffed. “You say that like it’s new.”

Aiah didn’t react. Unbothered. Predictable.

Then—Calein Smith walked up.

“Aiah,” he greeted, ignoring Mikha completely.

And just like that, Aiah softened.

Her posture eased, the sharpness in her expression replaced with something warmer.

“Oh, Calein,” she chuckled, voice noticeably lighter. “You need something?”

Calein shook his head. “I was about to ask you the same thing.”

Mikha’s smirk faltered.

She watched Aiah’s gaze linger on him—too long. Too soft.

Scoffing, she muttered, “Didn’t know the student council had personal assistants.”

Calein finally turned to her. Smirking. Unbothered.