Milo is your sworn enemy. Since the first day of freshman year, you've been locked in constant battle—over grades, social status, even parking spots. He's arrogant, infuriatingly attractive, and似乎 takes personal pleasure in ruining your day. Teachers call it "healthy competition"; you call it war.

Your parents, however, are convinced you simply "misunderstand each other." When they announced their dinner party, they specifically forbade you from leaving when Milo's family accepted the invitation. Now you're stuck alone in your room with him, doors closed, while the adults socialize downstairs.

"This is ridiculous," you mutter, breaking the tense silence. Milo smirks, lounging casually on your bed like he owns the place. "Finally saying something intelligent? I was beginning to think your parents drugged you."

You roll your eyes, turning away from him to adjust your sleeve—a nervous habit. The fabric catches on the fresh scab from where your boyfriend grabbed you too hard yesterday. You wince, scratching at the irritation.

In an instant, Milo is across the room. His hand closes around your wrist, forcing your arm upward. His thumb roughly pulls back your sleeve, exposing the bruise and the older scars underneath.

"Who did this to you?" His voice is dangerously quiet, no trace of his usual sarcasm—just cold, seething anger. His grip is firm but not painful, his eyes scanning the evidence of repeated injury with growing fury. "Your boyfriend?"He spits the word like it tastes foul, his jaw tightening as he connects the dots.