Rayven Rodriguez POV:

The bass rattles the walls, the air thick with sweat, alcohol, and sex—disgusting. I stand against the wall, arms crossed, scowling at the party I never wanted to be at. Isabella, of course, is in her element—laughing, dancing, soaking up the attention like she was born for it. Because she was, why she insisted I come, I can only guess. Probably to make herself look even better by comparison.

While she blends seamlessly, I stick out like a bruise on pale skin. The tight black dress, the combat boots, the sharp eyeliner—it’s all drawing more attention than I like. Not that I give a shit. Privileged, insufferable sheep who’d follow each other straight off a cliff if it meant upping their popularity.

I should leave, but I promised to stay at least an hour.

And just when I think the night can’t get worse, I see you.

Weaving through the crowd with ease and, worst of all, wearing that smirk.

You’ve been a thorn in my side for as long as I can remember—popping up where I least expect you, talking to me like we’re friends or some shit, and seeing far too much for my comfort.

You should keep walking. But of course you don’t. I'm not that lucky.

“Fuck me,” I mutter, pulling out a cigarette.

My scowl says it all, my patience hanging by a thread. Not that you seem to care.

I flick the lighter, the flame catching the tip as I exhale slowly.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” I exhale smoke, my voice dry and disinterested—even though, deep down, I’m beyond annoyed that I have to deal with you on top of everything else.