The VIP lounge was a stark contrast to the chaotic energy of the main club. It was dimly lit, soundproofed, and smelled faintly of expensive leather cleaner.

Dawn lay curled on her side on a massive, plush leather sofa. She looked like a broken doll, her knees pulled tightly to her chest in a fetal position. Her eyes were squeezed shut, her teeth grinding together as she rode out the violent waves of pain radiating from her stomach. Every muscle in her body was locked in a state of rigid tension.

The heavy oak door of the lounge clicked open. Allyson hurried in, her heels sinking into the thick carpet. She was carefully balancing a delicate porcelain teacup on a saucer. Steam rose from the cup in curling wisps.

Allyson knelt beside the sofa. She gently placed a hand on Dawn's trembling shoulder. "Hey. Sit up just a little bit. I got the bartender to brew this. Real peppermint leaves."

Dawn forced her eyes open. Her vision was slightly blurry from the unshed tears of physical pain. She uncurled her body with agonizing slowness, propping herself up on one elbow.

Allyson guided the rim of the teacup to Dawn's pale lips. Dawn took a small, hesitant sip.

The liquid was scalding hot, but the sharp, clean taste of peppermint immediately flooded her mouth. The heat traveled down her throat, settling into her violently cramping stomach. The medicinal properties of the mint began to work almost instantly, slightly loosening the tight, agonizing knot in her muscles.

Dawn let her head fall back against the soft leather cushion. She exhaled a long, shaky breath. The intense physical pain began to recede, leaving behind a profound, hollow exhaustion.

As she lay there, the sharp scent of the peppermint vapor drifted into her nose. It was a distinct, piercing smell.

Proustian memory. The scientific term for when a specific scent bypasses the logical brain and directly triggers a visceral, buried memory.

The smell of peppermint didn't remind Dawn of a high-end club. It reminded her of cheap chewing gum. It reminded her of a boy who constantly chewed it to mask the smell of cigarettes he wasn't supposed to be smoking.

The low, muffled bass of the club music outside the door began to distort. The sound warped, stretching and fading until it was replaced by the shrill, chaotic noise of teenagers. The dim lighting of the lounge dissolved, replaced by the blinding, harsh sunlight of an early autumn morning.

The memory hit her with the force of a physical blow, dragging her five years into the past.

She was seventeen again.

She was sitting in a classroom at St. Jude's Preparatory Academy, an elite private school in Manhattan where the tuition cost more than her father made in a decade. She was there on a full academic scholarship, a charity case dropped into a sea of unimaginable wealth.

The sunlight poured through the massive, floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating the rich mahogany desks. Dawn sat in her usual seat, a desk in the middle of the classroom, pushed right up against the massive windows. She wore a pristine, perfectly ironed uniform. Her skirt was the regulation length. Her tie was knotted perfectly. She was a ghost, trying desperately not to be noticed by the kids wearing limited-edition sneakers and carrying backpacks that cost thousands of dollars.

Suddenly, a massive commotion erupted in the hallway outside. It was a mix of loud, obnoxious laughter and the high-pitched giggles of girls.

Bang.

The heavy wooden door of the classroom was kicked open with such force that it slammed against the wall, the sound echoing like a gunshot.

Arlo Hammond strode into the room.

He was eighteen, tall, and already built like a man who spent hours in a private gym. He had a designer backpack slung carelessly over one shoulder. His school uniform was a disaster. The top two buttons of his crisp white shirt were undone, exposing a sliver of his tanned chest. His tie hung loosely around his neck, completely useless.

He reeked of the absolute, arrogant entitlement of a trust-fund baby who knew the rules didn't apply to him because his father funded the school's new science wing.

The moment he entered, the dynamic of the room shifted. The girls stopped talking, their eyes tracking his every movement with undisguised hunger. The boys puffed out their chests, desperate for his attention.

He strode toward the back of the room, his path taking him right past Dawn's desk. His gaze fixed straight ahead, jaw tight, deliberately ignoring the figure in his peripheral vision. He dropped his heavy bag onto his self-appointed throne in the center of the back row.

Dawn stared down at the complex calculus equation in her textbook. Her fingers tightened around her mechanical pencil. The plastic dug into her skin, leaving a deep red indentation.

She forced her eyes to focus on the numbers. She pressed the graphite tip onto her scratch paper, writing out formulas at a frantic pace. The scratching sound of the pencil was her attempt to drown out the sudden, erratic thumping of her own heart.

From just a few seats away, she could hear Arlo's voice. He was talking to his friends about a weekend yacht party his family was hosting in the Hamptons. His voice was a lazy, gravelly drawl. Every syllable he spoke felt like a physical tug on Dawn's nerve endings.

She hunched her shoulders, trying to make herself physically smaller. She buried her face closer to the textbook.

We are different species, she repeated the mantra in her head like a desperate prayer. He is a Hammond. I live in a neighborhood where the streetlights are broken. We cannot intersect. Do not look at him.

The shrill, piercing scream of the school bell suddenly rang out, signaling the end of the period. It was a harsh sound that shattered the delicate, oppressive ecosystem of the classroom.

Dawn didn't hesitate. Before the teacher had even finished speaking, she slammed her heavy calculus textbook shut. She shoved it into her worn canvas tote bag, her movements jerky and panicked. She needed to get out of this room. She needed to escape the suffocating gravity of his presence before she did something stupid, like turn around and look at him.

Dawn clutched her heavy canvas tote bag tightly against her chest, using it as a physical shield as she practically sprinted out of the classroom.

The hallway of St. Jude's was a chaotic river of privileged teenagers. Students were rushing to their next periods, loudly discussing weekend plans in Aspen or complaining about their personal tutors. Dawn kept her head down, her chin tucked into the collar of her uniform blouse. She hugged the cold, tiled wall, trying to blend into the plaster, moving as quickly as her legs could carry her toward the library.

As she approached the intersection of the main corridor, where the long rows of metal lockers created a blind corner, she suddenly froze.

Her worn sneakers squeaked slightly against the linoleum floor as she abruptly halted her momentum.

Coming from the other side of the locker bay, completely hidden from her view, was a burst of loud, raucous male laughter. It was a sound she recognized instantly. It was the booming, obnoxious laugh of Freddie Dotson, Arlo's shadow and best friend.

Panic flared in Dawn's chest. If Freddie was there, Arlo was there.

Instinct took over. Dawn took a quick step backward, pressing her back flat against the cold metal of the last locker in the row. She held her breath, making herself as thin and invisible as possible. The metal lockers acted as a perfect visual barrier, but the acoustics of the hallway amplified every word spoken on the other side.

She stood there, trapped, forced to listen to the conversation happening just a few feet away.

"So, Arlo," Jonie Good, another guy from their wealthy clique, asked. His voice dripped with the kind of sleazy curiosity teenage boys used when discussing girls. "I've noticed you looking toward the front of the class a lot lately in Calc. Are you finally noticing the quiet little charity case? What's her name? Dawn?"

Jonie chuckled, a nasty sound. "I mean, she's always sitting by the window, doing those extra credit problems like her life depends on it. Kinda weird, but I guess she has a certain... tragic appeal."

Dawn's heart leaped into her throat. It felt like a physical object blocking her airway. Her eyes widened in terror. She hugged her books tighter, her fingernails digging so hard into the hardback cover of her calculus book that they threatened to snap.

The air in the hallway seemed to turn to lead. The silence that followed Jonie's question stretched out for what felt like an eternity. The only sound Dawn could hear was the low, mechanical hum of the air conditioning vent above her head.

Then, Arlo spoke.

It started with a laugh. A low, dismissive, incredibly arrogant chuckle that vibrated through the metal lockers and went straight into Dawn's bones.

"Are you out of your mind, Jonie?" Arlo's voice was lazy, dripping with absolute incredulity. It was the tone of a king being asked if he wanted to dine with a peasant.

"You guys seriously think I'd be interested in a boring little nerd like that?" Arlo continued, his words casual and utterly devastating.

He paused for a second. Dawn could almost picture him leaning against the lockers, running a hand through his expensive haircut, searching for the perfect insult to entertain his friends.

"She's like an underdeveloped little sister," Arlo finally added, his voice laced with pure mockery. "Completely, utterly uninteresting."

The words hit Dawn with the kinetic force of a freight train.

Underdeveloped little sister. Boring little nerd. Uninteresting.

It felt as though someone had taken a sledgehammer and smashed it directly into her chest, shattering her ribs and crushing her heart into a million irreparable pieces.

All the blood drained from Dawn's face in a single heartbeat. Her skin turned the color of old ash. A sharp, agonizing pain flared in her chest, so intense that she physically gasped, her mouth opening silently as she struggled to pull air into her paralyzed lungs.

A violent, high-pitched ringing erupted in her ears, drowning out the ambient hum of the hallway. A wave of sickening dizziness washed over her. She pressed her hands flat against the cold metal of the locker behind her, her fingernails scraping desperately against the steel as she fought the sudden urge to collapse. The physical vertigo was nothing compared to the absolute devastation tearing through her soul.

Tears, hot and humiliating, instantly flooded her eyes, blurring her vision. But she refused to let them fall. She tilted her head back, staring at the fluorescent lights on the ceiling, forcing the tears back down.

On the other side of the lockers, the boys erupted into a chorus of loud, mocking laughter. They quickly moved on to discussing the physical attributes of a senior cheerleader.

Dawn couldn't listen to another second of it. She couldn't breathe the same air as him.

She spun around. Her movements were clumsy and frantic. She practically ran down the opposite hallway, fleeing the scene like a criminal. As she reached the stairwell, her blurred vision caused her to misjudge the distance. Her foot caught the edge of the step. She stumbled violently, her books slipping from her grasp and crashing onto the concrete stairs.

She didn't stop to pick them up. She caught her balance against the handrail and kept running, pushing through the heavy wooden door of the girls' restroom.

The restroom was empty. Dawn rushed to the nearest sink. She gripped the porcelain edges with white-knuckled hands, staring at her reflection in the mirror.

She looked pathetic. Her uniform was slightly rumpled, her eyes were red-rimmed, and a tiny drop of blood smeared her lower lip. She looked exactly like what he said she was: a boring, tragic little charity case.

She violently twisted the cold water faucet. The water gushed out. She cupped her hands, catching the freezing water, and splashed it harshly against her face. The shock of the cold was a brutal wake-up call.

She scrubbed her face until her skin was red and raw. She stared into her own wet, bloodshot eyes in the mirror.

Never again, she vowed silently, her internal voice trembling with a newly forged, desperate rage. I will completely, utterly kill this pathetic feeling. I will never let him see me bleed.

Dawn stood in front of the restroom mirror for five full minutes. She used rough brown paper towels to aggressively scrub the cold water from her face, wiping away any trace of the pathetic, heartbroken girl who had run in here.

When she finally looked at her reflection again, the mask was firmly in place. Her face was pale, her expression completely neutral, and her eyes were deadened, devoid of any warmth or vulnerability. She looked like a perfect, unfeeling porcelain doll.

She pushed open the restroom door and stepped back out into the hallway. The adrenaline crash had left her mouth feeling like it was stuffed with dry cotton. Her throat was tight and parched from holding back sobs.

She turned and walked toward the far end of the corridor, where an old, stainless-steel water fountain sat in a quiet alcove.

She reached the fountain, pulled a small paper cup from the dispenser, and bent over. She pressed the metal button. The water trickled out in a weak stream.

Just as the cup was halfway full, the ambient light in the alcove suddenly vanished.

A massive, solid shadow fell over her, completely blocking out the overhead fluorescent lights. The air in the small space instantly shifted, becoming thick and suffocating.

Dawn didn't need to turn around to know who it was. The sharp, clean scent of spearmint gum mixed with the faint, expensive smell of cedarwood cologne hit her senses.

Arlo had appeared behind her like a ghost. He stepped into the alcove, closing the distance between them until he was standing less than two feet away. He lifted his right arm and planted his large hand flat against the tiled wall right next to her head.

He had effectively trapped her. His tall, broad body formed a physical cage, blocking her only exit.

Dawn's body went completely rigid. Every muscle locked up. The sudden, extreme proximity of the boy who had just verbally destroyed her sent a jolt of pure panic through her nervous system. She instinctively hunched her shoulders, trying to shrink away from the heat radiating off his chest.

Arlo leaned down. The height difference was massive; he had to angle his head to look at her. His dark eyes were heavy with a predatory, calculating intensity as they locked onto her face.

The corner of his mouth ticked up into a smirk that was equal parts cruel and amused.

"Silly girl," Arlo murmured.

He dragged out the syllables, making the childhood nickname sound incredibly intimate and dangerously mocking at the same time. His voice was a low rumble that vibrated in the narrow space.

"Why did you disappear so fast after class?" he asked, his tone casual, as if he were asking about the weather.

Hearing that nickname-a name he used to call her when they were kids playing in the dirt, long before the money and the status separated them-sent a violent tremor through Dawn's deadened heart. For a microsecond, a desperate, pathetic hope flared inside her.

But then, the memory of his voice echoing off the lockers slammed back into her brain. Underdeveloped little sister.

The hope died instantly, replaced by a cold, hard fury. The walls she had built around her heart solidified into steel.

She refused to look up at his face. She kept her gaze fixed firmly on the second button of his unkempt uniform shirt.

"I didn't run away from you," Dawn said. Her voice was a flat, robotic monotone. It held absolutely zero inflection. "You're imagining things. I didn't even see you."

Arlo's smirk vanished. His jaw clenched. He clearly hated her robotic, lifeless response. He was used to girls blushing, stammering, or throwing themselves at him. He was not used to being treated like a piece of blank wallpaper.

The muscles in his arm flexed as he leaned heavier against the wall. He shifted his weight, stepping half an inch closer. The physical intimidation was deliberate. The distance between them was now dangerously inappropriate.

He lowered his head until his lips were hovering just near her ear.

"You know," Arlo whispered, his voice dropping an octave, laced with a dark, absolute certainty. "You always bite the inside of your lip when you're lying to my face."

Dawn gasped. It was a tiny, involuntary sound.

She instantly released the death grip her teeth had on her lower lip. The sudden realization that he had been watching her closely enough to know her physical tells-that he knew her nervous habits-sent a flush of hot, angry color rushing into her pale cheeks.

He was playing with her. He was a cat batting around a half-dead mouse, enjoying the power trip of making her squirm after he had already decided she was worthless.

The anger finally overrode her fear. She took a sharp breath, her chest expanding, and snapped her head up.

She looked him dead in the eyes. She didn't flinch. She didn't cower. She poured every ounce of her hatred and hurt into her glare.

"Move," Dawn commanded. Her voice was sharp and brittle, like breaking glass. "Mr. Finch is waiting for me in his office. I don't have time for this."

She used the name of the school's strictest academic advisor as a shield. It was the perfect excuse for a scholarship student.

Arlo's eyes darkened to pitch black. He stared down at her defiant, angry face for two agonizingly long seconds. The air between them crackled with a volatile, hostile energy.

Finally, he let out a short, harsh breath through his nose. He slowly lowered his arm, stepping back just enough to let her pass.

Dawn didn't hesitate. She clutched her crushed paper cup and pushed past him, her shoulder brushing against his chest. She walked fast, her sneakers squeaking on the tiles.

When she reached the end of the corridor, she couldn't stop herself from glancing back over her shoulder.

Arlo was no longer alone in the alcove. Three girls, their skirts rolled up high and their makeup flawless, had already swarmed him. One of them was laughing, resting her hand intimately on his bicep. Arlo didn't push her away. He was looking down at the girl, that same lazy, arrogant smirk back on his face.

Dawn turned her head forward. She crushed the paper cup in her fist until it was a mangled ball of trash, dropping it into the nearest bin as she walked away.