Adrian Shaw, heir to a staggering fortune, spent years chasing me, humbling himself in ways a man of his stature never should. I never said yes. Then, in the seventh year, a new girl appeared by his side. I heard she was beautiful, kind, from a family as prominent as his, and that she only had eyes for Adrian. Adrian’s friends would smirk at me, their voices dripping with schadenfreude. "Careful, Mara," they’d say. "You keep playing games with him, you might just find he's been snatched away for good." 01 Adrian Shaw was in love with me. He had been since we were children. Adrian was born with a silver spoon, carrying an air of quiet nobility from his earliest days. He was used to being the sun everyone else orbited, the one people fell over themselves to please. But he was in love with me. The way the world fawned over him was the same way he followed me, catering to my every whim, orbiting my silent world. And I was always cold, always distant. Some said I didn't know what was good for me. And maybe they were right. My grandmother was the Shaws' live-in housekeeper. She’d started working for them long before Adrian was born and had become a personal attendant and confidante to his mother. So, while her title was housekeeper, the Shaws treated her with respect and affection, like family. But no matter how much they treated us like family, Adrian and I were from different universes. His love for me was a ladder I was terrified to climb. I never understood what he saw in me. My personality was a locked room, my temper a slow-burning fuse. I didn't understand the subtleties of people, the art of connection, and I’d certainly never shown him a moment of warmth. And the girls who adored him were a legion. Ever since kindergarten, little girls in pigtails would trail after him, their voices sweet as candy, "Adrian, Adrian, can we play together?" But he would stubbornly trail after me instead, his little face set with solemn purpose as he rejected the others. "No. I only play with Mara." This pattern held from kindergarten through elementary and middle school, and then into the years when I finally realized his persistence wasn't just friendship. I once asked him, my voice devoid of the coyness he probably expected, "Adrian, what is it that you even like about me?" The mouthful of Coke he’d been sipping erupted in a spray. He whipped his head around to stare at me, his eyes wide with disbelief, as if he couldn't comprehend a girl asking such a question so bluntly. He choked for a moment, his ears turning a furious, fascinating shade of red. He looked away, unable to meet my gaze, and his hand tightened around the soda can, crushing the aluminum in his nervousness. He fiddled with the mangled can, his voice a low mumble, trying desperately for an air of nonchalance. "Liking someone is just… liking them. There doesn't have to be a reason." His head was bowed, his hands resting on the railing of the balcony. The wind gently ruffled his hair. The tall, proud boy seemed to deflate, his shoulders slumping. "Besides," he said, his voice barely a whisper, "even if I told you, you wouldn't understand." I watched him, a slight frown touching my lips. He was right. I didn't understand. In fact, I recoiled from anything related to love. I didn't believe in its existence. My parents had been childhood sweethearts. They got together at sixteen, and everyone said their love story was something out of a fairy tale. But when I was five, my father—the gentle, scholarly man I adored—fell hopelessly in love with his eighteen-year-old student. To be with her, he used every cruel trick in the book to force my mother into a divorce. They fought for a year. The year I turned six, my mother killed my father with a kitchen knife. Then she used the same blade to sever the artery in her own neck. When my teacher dropped me off from daycare that afternoon, a sticky, crimson tide had already crept from the living room all the way to the front door. The teacher behind me let out a piercing scream and fainted. But I just stood there. I looked down at the blood that had pooled around my little shoes. My hand clutched the strap of my backpack, where I’d carefully pinned a gold star sticker the teacher had given me. I had planned to give it to my mother. She and my father had been fighting for so long. I wanted to tell her that even if Dad didn't bring her flowers anymore, I would. I would always bring her flowers. But she would never hear it. After that, my grandmother came and took me away to live with her at the Shaw estate. And that’s where I met Adrian. 02 Adrian said I wouldn't understand. When our English class studied Romeo and Juliet, he was completely wrecked by the ending. He read the lines about the star-crossed lovers taking their lives and slumped over his desk, his voice filled with a tragic sigh. "Mara," he asked, "what do you think love really is?" I paused, then answered with clinical patience. "Dopamine. Endorphins. Phenylethylamine. Norepinephrine. Oxytocin. Our entire lives are dictated by these hormones." Adrian stared at me, his expression a complex mix of confusion and disappointment. I thought for a moment and added, "These chemicals usually peak in the human body for about six to eighteen months. After that, they fade, day by day. Only a new partner can reignite the surge." For some reason, that made him angry. He sat up straight, his jaw tight. "I'm not like that," he snapped. I turned away, saying nothing. Everyone thinks they’re the exception. Everyone, when faced with the one who makes their heart race, swears they'll never change. Just like my father. And just like I felt the first time I heard the name Isabelle from one of Adrian’s friends. His friends never really liked me. Maybe it was because I was a poor orphan whose only relative was a housekeeper, yet I remained unmoved by years of devotion from their golden boy, Adrian Shaw. They were convinced I was playing some kind of manipulative game, a master of hard-to-get, and they all felt a fierce, protective indignation on his behalf. So, when a girl so perfectly suited for him finally appeared on the scene, my so-called mutual friends couldn't wait to drop her name into conversation, their teasing words edged with malice. They told me Isabelle was different from all the other girls who orbited Adrian. She was a truly special person—gentle, kind, and, of course, from the same privileged world as him. They told me he’d pulled her from the bottom of the pool during swim class when her leg cramped up, and that she’d fallen for him instantly, a classic damsel in distress saved by her knight. They told me how much she adored him, showing up every day just to see him. And even though Adrian was his usual polite but distant self with her, she never missed a day, rain or shine. They’d say to me, their smiles not quite reaching their eyes: "Mara, Adrian has loved you for so many years. You've tested his devotion long enough, don't you think?" "Yeah, Mara. So many girls would kill to be in your position. If you keep stringing him along, you might just find he's been snatched away for good. And by then, it’ll be too late for regrets." I ignored them. Back at the hotel for the academic competition, I pulled out my phone. As expected, it was flooded with messages from Adrian. He told me our physics teacher had worn his shirt inside out today. A moment later, another message: the school groundskeeper had removed the bird's nest from the window of the science lab on the third floor. Two sparrows had returned to find their home gone and were just circling and circling, looking lost and pitiful. He sent me a picture of them, two blurry specks fluttering against the glass, probably wondering how their entire world could vanish in an afternoon. A little while later, another message popped up. "Mara, when are you coming back?" Then another. "Leo’s already back." I paused. I was here representing our school at a national competition. Leo had been eliminated in the second round; of course, he was back early. Adrian’s academics were a disaster. In high school, he could never wrap his head around vector calculus or the geometry of conic sections. I remember one summer in middle school when, in a fit of ambition, I spent an hour trying to teach him the basics of sine, cosine, and tangent. I finally slammed the textbook shut in frustration. "You're hopeless," I told him coldly. "It's a terminal case of stupidity." He’d just looked at me with wounded eyes. "It's not my fault! You're just too smart. Isn't this stuff for, like, juniors?" The truth was, Adrian was brilliant, just not in the same way I was. His intelligence was for a different world. He could read the hidden meanings in the conversations of adults, grasp complex business strategies in an instant, and dissect a convoluted corporate structure with ease. His math was terrible, but he had an intuitive feel for numbers on a financial statement, spotting patterns and discrepancies no one else could. And his emotional intelligence was off the charts. He had a natural charisma that charmed everyone, a public persona of steady, understated confidence. He was born to be the heir to the Shaw empire. It was its own kind of genius. My genius, however, was confined to academics. A trait I likely inherited from the father my mother had hacked to pieces. I snapped back to the present, my thumb hovering over the keyboard. I decided not to reply and instead scrolled up through our chat history. It was almost entirely a monologue from him. Since the day I’d left for the competition, his messages had been a constant stream of consciousness—from the first buds on the peach trees by the road to the updated menu in the school cafeteria. He reported every trivial, mundane detail of his life to me. I rarely responded. When he sent me a picture of a math test he’d scored a 65 on—barely passing—I’d replied with a single word: Moron. He hadn't been offended. He’d replied, beaming with pride, that it was a passing grade on a notoriously difficult test. Only eighteen kids in the whole class had passed. I scrolled all the way back to the day I left. I confirmed it again. The name Isabelle was nowhere in our chat history. He had mentioned going for a swim that first day. He'd sent a picture of some greasy, high-calorie junk food he was eating afterward, complaining about how exhausted he was. I paused. Adrian, the boy who would tell me about sparrows losing their home, had never once mentioned pulling a girl from the bottom of a pool. 03 The first time I saw Isabelle was the day I returned to school after the competition. Our classroom was on the ground floor. As I stepped onto the covered walkway outside, the sky, which had been a clear, brilliant blue just a moment before, cracked open. A sudden, violent downpour began, fat drops of rain splattering against the concrete before blurring into a relentless, deafening curtain of water that swallowed the world in a gray haze. Instead of going straight to class, I stopped by the headmaster’s office to discuss my early admission application—winning the national competition had all but guaranteed my spot. When I came out, the bell for the end of class was ringing. It was on the walk back to my classroom that I saw her. Isabelle. She was holding an umbrella, her back to me, standing across from Adrian. I rarely saw Adrian look so distracted. He leaned against the wall, a lazy, indifferent posture, his brow furrowed with a hint of impatience. When Isabelle offered him the umbrella, he waved her hand away dismissively. And then he looked up and saw me, standing at the other end of the long corridor. His eyes lit up. A slow smile spread across his face, and in the same instant, he pushed away from the wall, leaving Isabelle behind without a second glance. He strode toward me, his steps long and eager, his voice buoyant with a happiness that was impossible to miss. "Mara, you're back! How'd the competition go?" I nodded. "It was fine. I won." His smile widened, his handsome features crinkling with a pride so fierce you would've thought he’d won himself. "I knew it," he said, his voice full of certainty. "We have to celebrate. Let's go." "It's raining," I said flatly, declining. "And I have to pick up some forms from the dean's office." Adrian was unfazed. "In this downpour? Mr. Davies' office is two buildings over. I'll walk with you." He paused, as if just remembering something. He turned and called back to Isabelle, who had since turned around and was watching us with a quiet, unreadable expression. "Hey, you. Can I borrow your umbrella?" I followed his gaze and finally saw her face. The Isabelle that Adrian's friends had praised so highly. She was beautiful. Even now, after all these years and all the faces I’ve seen, I have to admit that Isabelle possessed a kind of heart-stopping beauty. She had a delicate, small face with exquisite features and skin so pale it made her dark eyes seem like pools of ink. Her long, thick lashes fluttered, hiding the disappointment in her gaze. She seemed to be staring at me, lost in thought. Only when Adrian spoke did she snap out of it. Her eyes darted back to him, and she managed a small, strained smile. She nodded, handing the umbrella over. Then her gaze flickered between me and Adrian. "I should get going," she said softly. "Mm-hmm," Adrian replied distractedly, already taking the umbrella and moving to my side. He opened it, tilting the majority of it over my head. "Come on, let's go." I stepped out into the rain with him. After we’d gone a little way, I glanced back over my shoulder. For some reason, Isabelle was still standing there, a lone figure watching us through the thick, gray sheet of rain. The mist blurred her features, but I could still make out her solitary, forlorn silhouette. I turned back around. "Did she need something from you?" I asked. Adrian shrugged, completely unconcerned. "We're in the same SAT prep class. She was just asking if I was going today." I hesitated. "Since when are you in a prep class?" He suddenly seemed shy, almost embarrassed. But just as quickly, the embarrassment morphed into a flash of indignation. He shot me a resentful look. "Well, it's your fault for being so smart! Besides, college applications are next year. If I don't start cramming now, you'll leave me in the dust." I stared into the white, hazy curtain of rain and said, deadpan, "That's because you're a moron." Adrian sputtered indignantly behind me, but the umbrella over my head never wavered. I lowered my gaze, a quiet sigh escaping my lips. 04 The news of my early admission to Aurelia University came faster than I expected. Adrian only found out when the celebratory banner was hung in the school’s main hall. He was angry when he came to find me. I was reading a book on functional analysis at the time. The Shaws had given my grandmother and me a small, separate guesthouse on the property, and from my second-floor window, I could see Adrian storming across the lawn, his face a thundercloud of fury. He was clearly mad that I had never mentioned the early admission to him. I watched from the window as he marched toward the guesthouse, looking like he was on his way to avenge a mortal enemy. But then, strangely, he stopped at the bottom of the stairs. He stood there for a long time. Then he suddenly reached out and started ripping leaves off a nearby decorative shrub, a flurry of violent motion until the ground was littered with green shreds. He took a deep breath, composed himself, and started up the stairs. I returned to my desk with my book. Two minutes later, I heard a knock on the door. When I opened it, the Adrian standing before me looked perfectly calm, all traces of his earlier rage erased. He even offered a small smile. "I saw the banner at school," he said. "Early admission to Aurelia. How come you never told me? But… congratulations, Mara." He paused, then asked with studied casualness, "So, when do you leave? You won't be finishing senior year here, will you?" For years afterward, I would remember the way he stood there, congratulating me. His voice was tight with a sorrow he was desperately trying to hide behind a mask of indifference. I suppose Adrian saved all his patience and gentleness for me. Just as everyone said, he catered to my every whim, bent to my will. The celebrated heir of the Shaw family was, in my presence, willing to lower himself, as the poet once wrote, "into the dust." I didn't call him out on his act. I just answered calmly, "I'll report to Aurelia at the start of the next semester." "Oh," he said quietly. Then, again, "Well, congratulations, Mara." I looked at him and simply said, "Thank you." After securing my admission, I no longer had to attend school every day. But that year happened to be our school's 100th anniversary, and I returned for the celebration gala—seated in the front row with the school board as this year's "outstanding student representative." It was at the gala that I saw Isabelle again. I've always been oblivious to things that don't directly concern me, so I had never paid any mind to the fact that Isabelle was our school's reigning "campus belle." She was in the International Baccalaureate program, a track designed for students planning to study abroad. Grades were secondary to a curriculum filled with international courses and specialized language prep for exams like the TOEFL or IELTS. Adrian was supposed to have been in that program. But I had no interest in studying abroad—my grandmother was getting older, and despite my emotional detachment, I couldn't bring myself to abandon her for a life overseas. So Adrian stayed. But as I sat in the front row, watching Adrian on the piano and Isabelle performing a contemporary dance, their synergy was breathtaking. A thought struck me: if Adrian had never met me, if he had joined the IB program and met Isabelle there… they would have had a very different story. They were a perfect match. Their performance was the grand finale. Adrian, in a sharp, tailored black suit that made him look even more impossibly handsome, his long fingers flying across the black and white keys. And Isabelle, spinning and leaping under the stage lights, her slender form ethereal, as if she might take flight at any moment. I don't understand music or dance, but I could see that their performance was flawless. When it ended, the auditorium erupted in thunderous applause and whistles. They took their bows together, side by side at the center of the stage, as a shower of confetti rained down on them. They looked like something out of a movie. In that moment of roaring adulation, Isabelle turned to Adrian, her face glowing with happiness. But Adrian's gaze wasn't on her. It was locked directly on me, in the front row. His eyes were so focused, so intense, it was as if the entire world had faded away and I was the only person left. A cocky, triumphant grin spread across his face. He looked every bit the polished performer, but I, and only I, could read the silent words he mouthed at me from the stage. How'd I do? I tore my eyes away from him and looked at Isabelle, standing beside him. Her gaze had followed his to me. Under the bright lights and falling confetti, I saw her head dip, the brilliant joy in her eyes dimming, flicker by flicker, into shadow. She was in love with Adrian. Desperately so. That night, for the first time in a long time, I had a nightmare. I dreamed of Adrian at sixteen, the first time he tried to confess his feelings for me. I saw him looking at me with that same lost expression from the balcony, saying, "You wouldn't understand." In the dream, he started backing away, and at first, I just watched him go, cold and unmoving. But just as he was about to disappear, I lunged forward to grab him. My hand passed right through him, and instead, I pushed open a door. It was the door to my house, the summer I was six. Behind it was a world painted in blood. My mother, who had slit her own throat, and my father, whom she had butchered into pieces. The trail of blood that snaked from the kitchen to the front door would stain the rest of my life. I woke up with a gasp, sleep impossible. I threw on a robe and went downstairs. I found a beer in the fridge and was sitting out on the terrace when I heard a voice. "Mara?" I turned. Adrian was standing there, a complicated look on his face. His eyes went from the can in my hand to my face. "You upset?" he asked softly. I didn't answer. I popped the tab on the can, the fizz a brief hiss in the quiet night. Adrian came and sat next to me. His voice was low and gentle. "What's wrong? Need a shoulder?" I managed a small, humorless laugh and looked up at the moon. The night was clear, the stars sparse, and a cool breeze drifted by. I took a sip of beer. "Adrian," I said, my voice light, "Isabelle is in love with you." He froze, his body going rigid. It took a long moment for him to relax. He reached over and took the beer from my hand. He didn't deny it. He just took a long swallow and said, "Yeah. But I'm not in love with her."
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