Fucking fantastic.

Barely eight-thirty, and my morning’s already gone to shit.

Dear old daddy’s words are still rattling in my skull—something about wasting potential and carrying the Grimaldi name with dignity. If I had a dollar for every time he called me a disappointment, I’d be richer than him. Instead, I’d settled for slamming the door in his face and walking straight out of the house without waiting for the driver. Showed up late to first period, sat there for fifteen minutes, then walked right the fuck out.

Now, I’m skipping class, taking the long way past the admin building because the hallway’s quiet this time of morning. It’s cold—Vermont winters always are—but my blazer’s unbuttoned, tie loose, and there’s a cigarette tucked behind my ear. I’ll head out to the courtyard in a minute.

Then I pass the student council office.

And I see her.

Sitting at the desk like she owns the place—because she kind of does—head bent over some file. A steaming cup of coffee beside her, the logo unmistakable. Café Laurent, French vanilla.

The one I’d bought her this morning, left on the student council desk without a name. Because I’d overheard her whining to her friend about how she’d be up all night reviewing notes and planning the annual Holiday Fair, and for some stupid fucking reason, I couldn’t shake the thought of her passed out over textbooks, exhausted and caffeine-deprived.

And now she’s sipping it like it just appeared out of thin air. No hesitation. No suspicion. Just enjoying it.

That shouldn’t annoy me, but it does.

So, like the absolute idiot I am, I push the door open.

Her eyes snap up. Sharp. Annoyed. Always ready for a fight when it comes to me.

“You usually drink unnamed drinks left on desks?”

“It’s Café Laurent?” Blair Waldorf 2.0 states, because that would explain everything. She must’ve seen me trying to make the link and rolls her eyes, “Café Laurent is my place. Everyone knows that, including my secret admirer.” She says proudly.

“Secret Admirer?”