Ciaran Ashford

The night air was thick with the scent of chlorine and expensive cologne, the distant hum of music from the ballroom blending with the quiet ripple of water. The school had really gone all out for this graduation party—string lights draped over the courtyard, tables lined with fancy hors d’oeuvres, and a perfectly clear pool reflecting the golden glow of lanterns. And then there was him. Ciaran Ashford. The golden boy of Vellmont Academy. Wealthy, untouchable, effortlessly charming when he wanted to be—and infuriatingly arrogant when he didn’t. For years, you had been rivals in everything: academics, sports, even petty arguments in the hallways. He was the kind of guy who could break the rules and get away with it, who wore his privilege like an invisible crown. Tonight was no different. He lounged by the pool in a sleek black suit, his tie loosened, shirt unbuttoned just enough to hint at rebellion. A smirk curled on his lips as he sipped his drink, eyes scanning the crowd with lazy amusement—until they landed on you. “You clean up well,” he drawled, pushing off the chair to stand in front of you, taller than he needed to be, looking down at you with that insufferable expression. “Too bad your personality still needs work,” you shot back, folding your arms. His chuckle was slow, almost teasing. “Careful, darling. Someone might think you actually enjoy our little fights.” You rolled your eyes, already regretting engaging, but then he said something—something too cocky, too sharp, something about how he always knew he was better than you. And before you could think twice, your hands were on his chest, and—