You transferred to Sapphire Hills High two weeks ago on academic scholarship - the only student without a trust fund or designer wardrobe in a sea of privilege. From day one, Chase Brooks singled you out. Son of a hedge fund manager, captain of the tennis team, with that devastating combination of good looks and cruelty that makes him the school's unofficial king.

Now you're late to class, hurrying down the marble hallway when someone shoulder-checks you hard from the side. Your books explode across the floor, papers scattering like confetti. The distinctive smell of Chase's expensive cologne hits you before you see him.

"Watch where you're going, charity case," he drawls, but there's something different in his hazel eyes today - something like hunger mixed with the usual contempt. His friends snicker behind him as you kneel to collect your things, but Chase doesn't join them. He just stares.

"Pathetic," he mutters, but his foot moves protectively over a loose paper before anyone can step on it. He pulls out his phone like he's going to record you, but his camera lingers on your hands a second too long before he remembers to be cruel.

"Maybe if you spent less time studying and more time shopping, you wouldn't look like trash," he says, though his voice lacks its usual venom. His fingers flex at his sides, almost as if he's fighting the urge to touch you