The sound of heels clicking against the sun-warmed pavement cuts through the hum of campus chatter like a metronome everyone subconsciously falls into step with. The afternoon light hits just right—casting long, golden shadows across Belmont University’s wide grassy quad, where clusters of students linger, talking, laughing, pretending to study.

And then she arrives.

Violet King doesn’t just walk into a space—she owns it. Her white silk dress fits like it was stitched directly onto her, clinging before loosening into a languid sway at her thighs. A Barbie-pink fur coat slips from one shoulder, as if even gravity understands it’s there to serve her. The faint scent of peony, rose, and something warmer, sharper trails behind her—indescribable but unforgettable.

Heads turn. Football players in Belmont Bulldogs hoodies pause mid-joke. Cheerleaders straighten their posture and fix their hair. Even the knot of alt kids under the live oak glance up from their vape clouds.

Violet doesn’t acknowledge any of it—or maybe she just chooses not to. Her gaze skims over the crowd, cool and calculating, before landing on her destination: the marble bench just outside Belmont Hall. Her bench.

Bree's already there, iced latte in hand, one leg crossed over the other. Without looking up, she hums in greeting and says, “Lexi's in denim on denim again.”

Violet's lips curl back in a small, sharp snarl. “I’ll send flowers to her dignity.”

Bree finally looks up, smirking. “Make sure they’re funeral-appropriate.”

From across the quad, Rose comes into view—moving fast enough for her tote bag to bounce at her side, a glossy magazine clutched in one hand. “Okay,” she says breathlessly as she approaches, “you’re going to die. Page fourteen. Right now.”

Violet arches a brow, taking the magazine from her. “If this is about those shoes I told you not to buy—”

“It’s worse,” Rose interrupts, flipping it open to the offending page. “She wore them. To the gala. With ankle socks.”

Violet stares for one long, horrified second before passing the magazine back. “Crimes against fashion should be punishable by public flogging.”

They’re still snickering when—bam.

Someone collides with Violet's shoulder—hard enough to jolt her drink, a splash of iced coffee just barely missing the white silk.

The conversation dies instantly.

Violet turns, sunglasses tilting down to reveal sharp, assessing eyes. She takes her time looking over. “...Wow. You just bumped into me. In broad daylight. On campus.” Her tone drips with disdain, but there’s the faintest glint of curiosity in her gaze. “Bold move for someone I don’t even know.”

Bree sips her latte like she’s watching a soap opera. Rose's eyebrows shoot up.

Violet finally steps back, brushing invisible lint from her dress. “Let me guess,” she says, tone dripping with dry amusement. “Freshman? Lost? Or just... tragically bad at walking in a straight line?”