Chapter 5: Collision Course

On the first day of school, my parents were supposed to see me off.

They even arranged a helicopter.

My adoptive mom had prepped twenty sets of designer preppy outfits for me overnight.

She laid them out across three beds, color-coded by day of the week.

But before dawn, my adoptive dad’s phone exploded.

"Mr. Quinn, Henry Young intercepted our shipment in Miami!"

He paced the kitchen, muttering into his phone, protein shake forgotten on the counter.

My adoptive dad smashed his protein shake on the spot. "Damn, that jerk!"

The cup hit the wall and splattered kale everywhere. The cleaning lady sighed.

My adoptive mom wasn’t having a good day either.

She was picking out shoes for my first day at the mall, when Lisa Song strolled by with a group of socialites and said coolly, "I want this pair—wrap them up."

The air turned frosty. You could smell the drama.

She turned to my adoptive mom and smiled: "Sorry, if you like them, I’ll give them to you."

Her voice was sugar-coated venom. My mom just smiled, ice-cold.

My adoptive mom was so angry her nails dug into her palm. She sent me a voice message: "Do I need her to give me anything? That brainless woman doesn’t realize the socialites around her are about to move into her house, and she’s still acting all generous."

She sent three angry emojis and a picture of the ruined manicure.

"Baby, go register yourself. Mommy’s going to rip that woman’s mouth apart."

I sighed and replied, "Just don’t break your nails."

Otherwise, there’ll be another flood of drama at home.

The group chat would explode. I’d get a dozen updates before noon.

At registration, I politely declined the upperclassman’s offer to help with my luggage and carried my suitcase to the dorm myself.

My suitcase had stickers from every city we’d ever lived in. People stared, but I ignored them.

Just as I turned onto the oak-lined path, I bumped into a tall, slender boy.

He smelled faintly of clean soap and new textbooks. My hands tingled.

White shirt, black pants, sharp side profile.

His features were elegant, almost like a painting.

He had that effortless prep-school look—like he belonged in a Ralph Lauren ad.

I squinted.

Ben Young.

He seemed to sense something, looked up at me.

Our eyes met. His expression flickered, then went calm. He nodded at me, then turned to leave.

He had that walk—cool, collected, like nothing touched him. For a second, I almost envied it.

On his first day, Ben Young took over the campus confession page.

Under the ‘Freshman Heartthrob’ tag, candid shots of him filled the feed:

His profile by the library window, reading with his head down, white shirt sleeves rolled up, exposing a cold, fair wrist;

You could almost hear the indie music playing in the background. Girls swooned.

His back as he leapt for a layup on the basketball court, shirt fluttering, waistline sharp as a blade.

The comments section was in meltdown:

"Three minutes! I want every detail about this guy!"

"Upperclassmen, step aside! Freshmen, I’m going first!"

I sneered, scrolling on my phone, and casually clicked on the student union’s basketball game announcement.

Not impressed. Been there, done that.

The next day, at team practice, the sidelines were packed with girls.

Ben Young, as a freshman starter, hit two three-pointers right after coming on. The screams nearly blew the roof off the gym.

A girl next to me nearly fainted. Someone handed her a bottle of Gatorade.

I strolled over, carrying a bottle of ice water.

It had a Post-it with his name on it. I smiled like I was handing him a trophy.

In front of everyone, I walked straight up to him.

"Want some water?" I smiled sweetly.

Actually, that bottle was spiked with double the usual dose of laxatives.

I wiggled it, just to make sure he noticed.

Ben Young lifted his shirt to wipe sweat, his abs flashing in the light.

You could practically hear the collective sigh from the bleachers.

He looked down at me, gaze landing on the bottle, and suddenly smiled.

"Thanks."

He took it like it was an award.

Then, he took the bottle, unscrewed the cap—

—and dumped it over his own head.

A slow-motion waterfall. The whole gym held its breath.

Ice water rolled down his jaw, slid past his Adam’s apple, and soaked the front of his shirt.

The effect was immediate: his shirt clung, the air crackled. Girls shrieked.

A collective gasp from the crowd.

Even the janitor paused, mop in midair.

The girls on the sidelines went wild.

"That troublemaker actually gave the heartthrob water! Why didn’t I dare? Damn these legs, MOVE!"

"She’s pretty, but she’s just trying to get attention. So shameless."

"Looks like a troublemaker—you can tell she’s bad news."

I turned to them, suddenly flashing a syrupy-sweet smile: "Yep, I’m trouble. Are you all lining up to hand out water for charity?"

They stared, then fell silent. I heard a cough, maybe a nervous giggle.

The crowd went silent.

I grabbed a sports drink from a girl’s hand and poured it into the trash.

"We’re all old foxes here, so why pretend to be innocent little bunnies?"

The corners of Ben’s mouth twitched. I caught his eye and winked.

Then I winked at Ben Young, and, catching the flicker in his eyes, poured the second bottle of laxative water I’d prepped right onto his limited-edition sneakers.

The splash was perfectly timed. He froze, staring at his shoes, then at me.

Ben Young froze, looking down at his now-soaked shoes.

He shook his head, almost laughing, but said nothing.

I tilted my head, smiling innocently: "Oops, slipped."

I batted my lashes for effect. The crowd sucked in a breath—half horror, half awe. Somebody muttered, “She’s savage.”

Then I turned and walked away.

My boots clicked on the gym floor, echoing louder than the gossip.

I could feel their stares burning holes in my back. I kept my chin up, strutting to the exit.