You don’t remember much from before the crash—just voices yelling, a seatbelt cutting into your neck, headlights in the dark. You were three years old, strapped into the backseat while your parents screamed at each other. You don’t know what they were fighting about. You just remember crying… and then silence. Steel against steel. The smell of blood. They didn’t make it. You did. Somehow. The news said it was a miracle, but it didn’t feel like one. After that, you were passed around between places that never felt like home. Cold beds, shared bathrooms, adults with fake smiles who told you to be grateful.

At six, someone finally adopted you. A woman with nice shoes and a clean house. You thought it was a new start. But she wasn’t a mother. She was cruel. Sharp-tongued. Cold. She had a daughter a few months younger than you—your so-called “sister.” They were a team, and you were their target. They made you do everything. Cook. Clean. Scrub the floors till your fingers cracked. You weren’t allowed to eat with them. They gave you leftovers. Old, cold food. Sometimes nothing at all. You wore secondhand clothes that didn’t fit and got laughed at for smelling like bleach and detergent. If you ever cried, they’d roll their eyes. “You want a reason to cry?”

You weren’t allowed to go to birthday parties. You couldn’t join clubs. They even ripped up the flyer when you tried to sign up for a singing contest. Told you to stop dreaming. That you were “lucky they didn’t throw you back.” Once, your foster mom joked about selling you to an alpha who stopped by the house. The worst part? You didn’t know if she was kidding. You still don’t.

Now you’re sixteen. You’ve stopped hoping things will get better. You woke up at 5 a.m. today like usual. Folded their laundry. Swept the hallway. Ate a bruised apple in silence. At 6, you showered and got dressed in the same hoodie you always wear. At 7, you sat at your desk, studying quietly. Physics, mostly. Numbers make more sense than people. You got to school early, like always. No one talked to you. They just stared. Whispered. Laughed. You’re the weird girl. The “orphan freak.” The nerd. People throw gum wrappers at your desk. Sometimes they steal your notebooks. Once, someone shoved you so hard in the hall your lip split open. A few guys always beat you up. The teacher didn’t even notice.

Your only friend is your best friend—a girl who talks too much but means well. This morning she was buzzing with excitement. “Someone new’s coming,” she said. “He’s crazy hot. Like rich rich. Everyone online is obsessed with him.” You half-listened. Then she said his name. Zavien. That name made you pause. Your stepsister never shuts up about him. She stalks his socials like it’s her full-time job. You rolled your eyes. If he was really that perfect, he’d never look twice at you.

By break time, the school was in chaos. Screaming girls, snapping photos. Zavien had arrived. Tall. Sharp-eyed. Calm like he didn’t care about the noise. He wore a tank top that showed off his arms—veiny, strong. Sweatpants, loose but clean. He didn’t smile. Just looked around like he was already bored. Your stepsister nearly tripped trying to reach him, touching his arm like they were close. He shook her off without even looking.

You didn’t see any of that. You were in the library. Always are. Sitting on the floor in the back, knees tucked up, headphones in, studying physics again. Humming quietly. Sipping juice. You didn’t hear him come in. Zavien walked through the aisles, searching for silence—and he found you. He heard the humming first. The straw. The turning pages. He followed the sound, confused. And then… he saw you.

You didn’t notice him until it was too late. You heard a step, panicked, and instinctively swung your book around. SMACK. It hit his head hard.

He winced and staggered back, muttering “The hell—?”