1 When the clumsy barista managed to get my order wrong for the third time in twenty minutes, I didn’t raise my voice. I simply gave a slight nod to the bodyguard standing quietly behind my chair. “Check, please. We’re leaving.” Before my guard could even step forward, the girl behind the counter snapped. “Why do you have to make everything so difficult for me?” Her voice quivered with a carefully calibrated blend of indignation and wounded pride. The tray in her hands shook visibly as she stared at me with wide, glistening eyes. “Don’t you think it’s basic human decency to show a little respect?” The quiet chatter in the upscale café died down instantly. Heads turned. Customers at neighboring tables began casting sympathetic glances in her direction, and that subtle wave of pity seemed to supply her with a sudden burst of righteous courage. “I stood there and made this drink with my own two hands—” I stood up slowly, cutting her off without a word, and looked down at her. Under my direct gaze, she shrank back by half an inch, but she held her ground, lifting her chin with theatrical resilience. “I might just be a server working an hourly wage, but that doesn’t make us any less equal. What gives you the right to treat people like they’re beneath you?” I raised a single hand to keep my bodyguard from stepping in, arching an eyebrow with razor-thin amusement. “What would you prefer? Should I drop to my knees and offer a prayer of thanksgiving because you’ve failed at basic reading comprehension three times in a row?” A muffled chuckle rippled through the back corner of the room. Her pale cheeks flushed a furious crimson. Tears sprang into her wide, doe-like eyes, pooling on her lower lashes. “I—I didn’t do it on purpose…” Her voice cracked. “I’m so—” Before the word sorry could leave her lips, another girl with long hair charged over like a miniature firecracker, throwing herself between us and glaring at me with raw hostility. “Bella already apologized!” she demanded, breathing heavily. “What more do you want from her?” The two of them stared at me as if I were the cartoonishly evil villain in a prime-time soap opera. I tilted my head, letting out a soft, humorless laugh. The escalating drama finally summoned the shift supervisor from the back office. The woman’s forehead was creased into deep, exhausted lines as she hurried over. “Bella, what happened this time?” My bodyguard stepped smoothly into the supervisor’s line of sight, setting the cup down on the marble counter. A layer of crushed peanuts floated innocently atop the foam. His voice was flat and clinical: “Miss Lennox has a severe peanut allergy.” The supervisor’s face drained of color in an instant. “I am so sorry. That is entirely our failure. Miss Lennox, please let us comp your party, or if there’s any other way we can make this right—” “I don’t need compensation,” I said mildly, smoothing down the cuff of my coat. “I only suggest you invest in proper staff training before you end up sending your next customer to the ICU.” The supervisor shot a furious, venomous look at the two girls. “Understood. We take repeat negligence extremely seriously, and this will be handled immediately.” Bella and her friend stood frozen, their faces stark white, glaring at me with unvarnished resentment. I assumed that would be the end of an irritating, inconsequential afternoon. Yet while I was standing outside under the awning waiting for my driver, I ran into the little barista again. She had changed out of her apron and into a faded, slightly oversized school uniform, her eyelids puffy and rimmed in red. Her feisty friend was pacing beside her on the sidewalk, throwing angry punches into the empty air. “Bella, that manager is completely out of line! How could she fire you over some entitled snob throwing a tantrum? You need to call Tristan Holloway right now and let him handle this. We’ll see how smug those elitist jerks are once the Holloways get involved!” Tristan? The familiar name struck a sudden, curious chord in my chest. Bella’s cheeks bloomed with a soft, embarrassed pink. “Tristan and I… you know that was just Mr. Holloway making a joke. It doesn’t mean anything.” Her dark eyelashes fluttered down in a delicate display of modesty. “Besides, I heard he already has a childhood friend…” Her friend groaned, rolling her eyes in utter exasperation. “As if Tristan Holloway could ever actually fall for some spoiled, high-maintenance socialite! Haven’t you ever read a romance novel?” She nudged Bella’s shoulder, her tone dropping into starry-eyed reverie. “The brilliant, brooding billionaire always breaks away from his stuffy family for the pure-hearted, genuine girl. The childhood sweetheart fiancée is literally just the toxic obstacle he has to overcome! You saved his grandfather’s life, Bella. Proximity is everything!” She gripped Bella by the shoulders, her voice ringing with passionate conviction: “You’re the one who actually deserves him. Old Mr. Holloway basically hand-picked you to be his future granddaughter-in-law!” Bella seemed buoyed by the speech. She sniffled softly, taking a deep breath, and nodded with quiet resolve. “Yeah.” I crossed my arms over my chest, watching them with utter disbelief. If she was Tristan’s fiancée, then who the hell was I? 2 Tristan Holloway and I had grown up together from the cradle. Our engagement wasn’t just an old family agreement; it was an unspoken constant woven into the fabric of our lives. I had caught an early flight back from my European exchange program specifically to surprise him. I hadn’t anticipated walking right into a live-action high school melodrama. A short, cold laugh slipped past my lips. The sound broke their bubble. Both girls turned abruptly, finally realizing I was standing just a few feet away. Bella’s face went chalk-white. “I already lost my job because of you,” she stammered, stepping back. “Why can’t you just leave me alone? Is humiliating poor people a hobby of yours?” She swallowed hard, her chest heaving as tears spilled over her cheeks. “Fine! It was all my fault, okay? I’m sorry!” She bent at the waist, giving me an exaggerated, trembling bow on the crowded sidewalk. Tears dripped onto the pavement between her worn sneakers. “I’m sorry I couldn’t cater to every whim of an heiress like you. I’m truly, deeply sorry.” Several passersby slowed their pace, throwing disapproving, judgmental glares in my direction. Her friend balled her fists, looking ready to tackle me to the ground. I kept my arms crossed, my voice dripping ice. “You’re remarkably gifted at playing the martyr, aren’t you? And 'because of me'?” I looked straight into her tear-streaked face. “Do you understand that severe anaphylaxis kills people? What, are you upset that I didn’t let your negligence put me in an ambulance?” “I… I didn’t know…” Her bottom lip trembled pathetically, her fingers knotting into the hem of her faded cardigan. Before she could produce another sob, a white Bentley pulled smoothly up to the curb beside us. The chauffeur hurried around to open the rear door with crisp deference. A tall, sharp-featured young man stepped out into the crisp afternoon air. His coat hung impeccably on his broad shoulders, and the icy reserve carved into his handsome brow gave him an aura of untouchable detachment. “Bella, look!” her friend whispered excitedly, shoving her forward. “It’s Tristan! He came to back you up!” A shy, radiant blush swept across Bella’s face, and she cast a coy, demure glance at her friend before turning toward the car. Hearing the commotion, Tristan’s dark eyelashes lifted. His gaze swept over the sidewalk with razor-sharp indifference. He bypassed Bella entirely. His eyes landed squarely on me. Bella stepped forward, her eyes swimming with fragile gratitude. “Tristan, you really didn’t have to come. Honestly, it was just a misunderstanding. This lady wasn’t bullying—” Her voice died in her throat. Tristan had already walked straight past her, closing the distance between us, and pulled me into his arms. He lowered his head against my shoulder, burying his face in the crook of my neck like an affectionate, overgrown dog, his soft dark hair tickling my skin. “Norrie,” he murmured, his voice muffled against my collarbone. “You’re home.” 3 “Tristan… you… you two know each other?” Bella’s frail frame swayed as if she’d been struck. The color vanished from her face, leaving behind a hollow, disbelieving stare. Her friend lunged forward, bursting with indignation. “Tristan, what is this? Bella was just humiliated by her, and you’re taking a stranger’s side?!” My bodyguard shifted silently, his broad frame cutting off their line of sight like a brick wall. Tristan didn’t flinch. He kept his arms locked around my waist, entirely deaf to the world around him. He had always been like this—singularly focused, indifferent to anyone outside his immediate orbit. People called him cold, arrogant, untouchable. Only I knew how suffocatingly clingy he could be behind closed doors. A faint heat crept up the back of my neck at the memory. I reached behind me, gripping the fabric of his coat. “Didn’t you just fly out to London to see me last weekend?” I muttered under my breath. “You’re ruining my sunscreen.” Passersby were starting to stare, drawn by the bodyguard and the Bentley. My cheeks warmed. “Tris,” I ordered in a sharp whisper, “let go. People are watching.” Tristan only tightened his grip, dropping two stubborn words into my ear: “Don’t care.” I glared at him—since when had he gotten this defiant? Perhaps sensing that my patience was thinning, he reluctantly loosened his hold just enough to look down at me, his dark eyes brimming with quiet intensity. My irritation dissolved instantly under that gaze. Just as I was about to speak, that grating, high-pitched voice piped up again from behind the bodyguard: “Tristan! Can’t you see Bella is crying?” I frowned, glancing past his shoulder. Bella’s friend was struggling in vain to push past the guard, who stood like an unmoving statue. Bella’s tearful voice drifted over, thick with choked restraint: “It’s fine, really… I don’t mind.” She twisted her fingers together, looking utterly broken. “I’m just worried that… if Tristan’s fiancée back in Europe finds out, she might be upset…” I clicked my tongue, tapping Tristan’s chest with a manicured fingernail, mimicking her breathless cadence: “Oh, Tristan, what if your fiancée gets upset?” Tristan caught my teasing hand in his, finally turning his head to cast a flat, freezing glance over his shoulder. Bella straightened her spine instinctively, a glimmer of hopeful expectation lighting up her wet eyes. Tristan’s voice was as sharp as broken glass. “None of your business. Get lost.” Bella let out a small, strangled gasp, covered her face with both hands, and fled down the street. Her friend shot me a murderous glare before sprinting after her. They weren't moving very fast. As our car pulled out from the curb and glided past them, I could faintly hear the friend’s loud, earnest pep talk through the cracked window: “Bella, don’t you get it? Tristan is just acting cold because you received that love letter the other day! He’s trying to make you jealous!” Bella paused, sniffling loudly. “You really think so? I did upset him last time, and I wanted to explain… but every time I visit the Holloway estate, he isn't there…” “You dummy,” her friend chided affectionately, tapping Bella’s forehead. “You still have the ultimate trump card, don’t you?” … I blinked, genuinely amused. Before I could dwell on it, a warm palm covered my eyes, blocking the view. Tristan’s voice carried a subtle, possessive pout: “Norrie. Stop looking at other people.” A heavy warmth settled against my collarbone as he rested his forehead against my neck. “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming back today?” “I wanted to surprise you,” I said, gently pulling his hand down and glancing toward the window. The two girls had long since disappeared from view. “Instead, I get treated to a daytime drama.” Tristan’s tone turned matter-of-fact. “A few weeks ago, my grandfather wandered off during an episode. She happened to escort him to the precinct.” Grandpa Holloway had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s a few years ago. While the family kept round-the-clock private care, lapses still happened on rare occasions. Concern edged into my voice. “Is he alright?” “He’s fine. The staff found him almost immediately.” Reassured, I crossed my arms and let a drop of vinegar seep into my tone. “And just like that, you acquired a brand-new fiancée.” “I don’t want one,” Tristan said firmly, his lips pressing into a flat line. He leaned in close, his gaze locking onto mine with fierce clarity. “I only want Norrie.” I raised my chin, offering a faint, haughty hum. “Well, obviously. At least you know what’s good for you.” The car slowed to a halt in front of my family’s residence. Looking at the familiar wrought-iron gates, I reached for the door handle, my thoughts already drifting. “I have a mountain of mess waiting for me at the conservatory. Logan, that annoying assistant concertmaster, has been trying to take over my section rehearsals, and—” Before I could finish, Tristan grabbed my wrist, tugged me back toward him, and leaned down. His lips brushed mine—light, fleeting, and warm. The heat hit my face a second too late. “Tristan!” I pressed a hand to my lips, glaring at him in flustered outrage. The darkness of his eyes reflected only my silhouette, the barest hint of a curve softening his mouth. “See you at school, fiancée.” 4 That insufferable boy… “Nora! Rehearsal is over. What are you spacing out for?” A sharp elbow nudged my ribs. Brooke, our principal cellist, leaned over with a look of pure gossip on her face. “Why is your face so red?” I pressed my lips together, clearing my throat as I pulled myself back to reality. “It’s nothing.” Life after returning from my exchange had quickly settled into a relentless rhythm. With the fall gala performance only a month away, my schedule had been swallowed whole by grueling orchestra rehearsals. I packed my violin into its velvet-lined carbon fiber case and clicked the latches shut. A bright, charming smile instantly blocked my path. “Hey there, concertmaster. Care to grace me with your presence for dinner?” I didn't even look up. “Busy.” Brooke snorted from behind her cello stand. “Give it a rest, Logan. Save the peacocking for the freshmen; Nora doesn’t buy your routine.” Logan shrugged with practiced ease, letting out an exaggerated sigh. “Come on, Nora. Must you always be so cold?” I ignored him entirely, shifting my eyes toward the double doors at the back of the hall. “Tris. Let’s go.” Tristan was there, as he was every single day. He preferred standing in the dim corridor light, blending into the shadows like a quiet sentinel. But no matter where he stood, I always spotted him first. He took the violin case from my hand, slinging the strap over his broad shoulder, and naturally reached down to lace his fingers through mine. His palm was warm, solid, and utterly grounding. Behind us, Logan let out a low, mocking whistle. “Childhood sweethearts, huh? How boring. Are you sure you can tell the difference between love and mere habit, Nora?” Tristan’s footsteps hitched for a fraction of a second, but his fingers only tightened around mine. I glanced up at his profile, catching the faint tension in his jaw. As we walked down the hallway, the fluorescent lights flickered softly overhead. Around the corner, the lighthearted chatter of several underclassmen drifted our way. “Wait, so Nora Lennox is actually Tristan Holloway’s childhood sweetheart?” “I can’t even imagine dating an iceberg like him.” “Right? He looks so unapproachable. Does he ask for permission in writing before he kisses her?” Their giggles faded down the stairwell. What they didn't know was that just three steps around the corner, that very same iceberg had pinned me flush against the wall. The violin case lay discarded by our feet. His mouth moved against mine with breathless, possessive hunger, sweeping away all my composure until the room spun. They didn’t know him at all. Out of sheer breathlessness, I bit down lightly on his lower lip and whispered, “Tris, you’re an idiot. Why do you let someone like Logan get in your head? He’s not taller than you, he’s not better looking than you… Since we were kids, you’re the one who sat through every violin practice with me, you’re the one who threw punches for me, you’re the one who took the blame whenever I broke a window…” The more I spoke, the more indignant I became. Meeting his darkened, intensely focused gaze, the truth slipped out before I could stop it: “I’m not stupid like you. How could I ever confuse habit with loving someone?” The immediate consequence of that accidental confession was… The following afternoon, when rehearsal wrapped, Brooke leaned over and gave me a wicked wink. “Nora, I’ve been meaning to ask all day—why are your lips so swollen?” I froze, hastily setting my bow down, keeping my face as rigid as stone. “Tristan forgot something in his locker. I’m going to return it.” Brooke gasped in delight. “That intense, huh?” I shot her a lethal glare. “Shut up.” I practically bolted from the hall. When I reached Tristan’s classroom on the third floor, I walked right into the middle of an announcement. The dean of students himself was standing at the podium, beaming with forced benevolence as he clapped his hands together. “Class, we have a transfer student joining us today. Please give her a warm welcome.” Standing at the front of the room was a girl in a worn, slightly ill-fitting uniform, her hands trembling as she clutched her bag. “H-hello everyone… My name is Bella Whitmore.” 5 After a beat of dead silence, the classroom erupted into quiet, incredulous murmurs. “Whitmore? Is that an old-money family?” “Look at her sneakers—the soles are literally peeling.” “Since when does St. Jude’s admit scholarship kids mid-semester?” The dean cleared his throat twice to no avail, muttered a few hurried instructions, and slipped out the door, leaving Bella standing alone under the harsh classroom lights. Her knuckles were white as she clutched her battered canvas backpack against her chest. After a fleeting moment of surprise, I glanced at Tristan’s empty desk in the back row and turned to leave. I had zero interest in her presence. Just as I took a step, a soft, timid voice floated from behind me. “Excuse me… where does Tristan Holloway sit?” I stopped in my tracks and turned back around. “New girl, what’s your deal with Tristan?” someone asked loudly from the front row. “Mr. Holloway may have mentioned… a connection,” Bella murmured, a delicate, self-conscious flush creeping up her cheeks. “B-but… Tristan and I are just friends.” The scattered whispers died instantly. A bizarre, heavy silence descended over the room. Several classmates glanced back and forth between Bella and me, lingering by the door. Bella seemed entirely oblivious to the tension. Receiving no direct answer, she scanned the room until her eyes landed on the only single desk in the back corner—unoccupied, immaculate, and set apart from the rest. Her hand reached out, fingers extending toward the custom music manuscript resting on the desktop. “Transfer,” I spoke up, my voice smooth and measured as I stepped into the room. “Did no one ever teach you that touching other people’s property without permission is bad manners? You couldn't afford to replace that score if you ruined it.” Bella froze. Her head snapped up, and her face flushed with deep humiliation. “You again…” Unfortunately for her, the students here weren’t the sympathetic coffee shop crowd. Nobody stepped in to defend her. Stung by the lack of support, she gathered her courage and asked in a small, shaky voice, “Isn't this Tristan’s desk? Why are your personal things on it?” I offered her a cool, enigmatic smile, deliberately offering no explanation. The standoff hung in the air until a familiar, warm hand slid around my waist from behind. “Norrie?” “Tristan!” Bella gasped, her eyes lighting up as if her personal savior had arrived. Tristan didn’t spare her a single glance. He looked down at me, his focus undivided. “Did you bring me something?” I knew I couldn’t hide it from him. With a faint pout, I opened my palm, revealing the dark horn button I had accidentally torn from his blazer the night before. “There it is,” he murmured, the corners of his eyes softening with quiet fondness. “Isn’t it… a little inappropriate to leave your personal belongings on Tristan’s desk?” Bella’s voice piped up, desperate to break back into the conversation. She seemed blind to the baffled expressions around her. “Did you even ask him how he felt about it?” Tristan’s brow darkened with instant irritation. I squeezed his hand lightly to keep him from speaking, turning toward her with genuine amusement. “And what would you suggest?” Bella blinked her large, wet eyes, her voice dripping with gentle concern: “Even if you’re his sister, don’t you think… you lack boundaries? Tristan will have a girlfriend eventually. What if his future girlfriend minds?” A burst of laughter erupted from several desks nearby. “Transfer, are you out of your mind? Who told you she was his sister?” Bella bit her lip stubbornly. “B-but they…” I took half a step forward, raising my linked hand so our intertwined fingers were on full display for the entire room. Bella’s gaze caught on our hands, and the color drained from her face. I leaned casually against Tristan’s shoulder, my lips curving into a cold, deliberate smirk. “Let’s try this again. My name is Nora Lennox.” I paused, letting the silence stretch. “I heard a rumor that you’re Tristan’s fiancée? What a coincidence. So am I.”
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