- Yara -

I wanted to claw at my own skin, to tear my hair out strand by strand and watch it scatter across the floor like remnants of my failing sanity.

After that one painting, everything else was static. Stagnant. Dead.

It had been a week—seven goddamn days of creative purgatory. Every time my pencil touched the paper, the same image bled through. Him. His silhouette, his eyes, his damn presence haunting the lines of my sketches like a ghost I couldn't exorcise.

"What kind of sorcery is this?" I muttered, staring at yet another sketch of him. His sharp jaw, the slight furrow of his brows, the mouth that looked like it had never spoken a soft word in its life. It wasn't even intentional. My hands betrayed me. My mind conjured him like a fevered prayer.

Where did all my inspiration go? I used to pride myself on capturing so many different stories in my art.

Would I be less obsessed if I had him in front of me? Breathing. Watching. Letting me study every inch of him under the unforgiving eye of my canvas?

The thought twisted something darker inside me.

And of course, it had to be Zayne Lanston. Not some forgettable stranger, but him. A man built like a secret, threaded with power and control, the kind who had the world in his hands and could crush it on a whim. How the hell was I supposed to approach him?

Hey, remember me? The girl who ruined your suit in a crowded room of elites? Yeah, so... your gaze is like something out of a gothic tragedy, and I need to immortalize it. Lemme paint you.

I cringed, resisting the urge to slam my forehead against the desk. If someone ever said that to me, I'd call security.

"Miss Levine."

The sharp voice snapped the air around me, dragging me out of my spiraling thoughts.

I blinked up at the old man. Professor Crowley was giving me that look—stern, disappointed like I'd just insulted his grandma.

The room was quiet—too quiet. My classmates had already packed up, a few lingering only to smirk at my misfortune.

"Class is over," he said, voice clipped. "You can stop daydreaming now."

"Uh, yes?" My voice came out in a squeak.

He shook his head. "My office, Miss Levine," he said, emphasizing each word as I might forget them. He didn't wait for my response before turning and striding out.

Of course. Because my day wasn't already a masterpiece of disasters.

When I reached his office, the conversation was exactly what I expected. A lecture about my lack of focus, my missed deadlines, the professors' concern—as if concern had ever fixed anything.

"You have potential, Yara," Crowley said, his tone strict, but not unkind. "I imagine you're in a slump, but you need to pull yourself together."

He meant well. He really did. But he didn't understand.

This wasn't just a slump. It wasn't just exhaustion.

I knew it already. If I kept spiraling like this, my grades would nosedive. People always said, snap out of it, as if it were as easy as flipping a switch. But no one ever told me how.

After that party, I thought I'd finally claw my way out of this rut, but it's like running into a brick wall over and over, the impact rattling my bones yet leaving me no closer to breaking through.

Professor Crowley exhaled sharply, scrutinizing me over his glasses. "I heard you took on a gaming project with the CS department as their lead designer?" He arched an unimpressed brow. "This is your final year, Miss Levine. You should be focusing on competitions, refining your portfolio, and preparing for your final project. I don't understand why you're wasting time on child's play. If you actually manage to make a name for yourself, you won't have to go chasing after easy money."

Easy money? I bit the inside of my cheek, forcing my irritation into silence. Digital art is just as demanding as traditional—if not more so nowadays. And if this game took off, it wouldn't just be some throwaway gig. It would be a game-changer.

But there was no point arguing. He wouldn't understand.

I kept my tone level. "I understand, Professor. I'll ensure all my coursework is completed on time."

His scrutiny lingered for a moment longer before he finally waved me off.

By the time I stepped out of his office, my patience was thinner than a blade's edge. And then—Helen. Four missed calls.

Scowling, I picked up, despite every nerve in my body recoiling at the thought of dealing with her right now.

"I called you so many times. What the hell took you so long?" Helen's sharp voice filtered through the speaker, laced with irritation.

"I'm at college, Helen." My exhaustion scraped against my voice. "In case you forgot, it's a weekday, and I have classes."

There was a slight pause. Then, her voice turned razor-sharp. "Don't get smart with me. Watch your tone."

I clenched my jaw, pressing my back against the cold wall. Of course, I couldn't snap at her. I wasn't allowed that luxury. Closing my eyes, I took a slow breath, dragging my temper back under control.

"My bad," I murmured, tempering my tone. "It's been a rough day. What's up?"

"I heard something interesting from your uncle." Helen's voice cooled into something unreadable. "He's furious."

My stomach curled. "Why?"

"Apparently, you behaved rudely with one of his supporters."

My pulse ticked, slow, and dangerous.

"What do you mean?"

"Don't lie to me, Yara. I'm talking about Mr. Harris." Her tone sharpened. "He claims you threw wine at him."

That lying, manipulative bastard. He really went crying to my uncle, twisting the story in his favor?

"Did he mention why?" I asked, my voice deceptively smooth, though my grip on the phone tightened.

"David didn't ask." Of course, he didn't. Because why bother with details? "I'm asking you—did you do it or not? There were witnesses."

Witnesses. More like spectators too entertained by the drama to actually see anything.

"That man tried to drag me off somewhere like I was his property," I said flatly. "So yes, I threw the damn wine at him." I sighed, half wishing my aim had been better. "Unfortunately, it landed on someone else."

A pause. Then—

"What?" Helen sounded momentarily thrown. Then, a slow, exasperated exhale. "We need to talk about how you handle yourself in public. Under any circumstances." A beat. "Who did it hit?"

I hesitated. It's better if she heard it from me than anyone else.

Then, like a slow-motion guillotine, I dropped the name.

"Zayne."

Silence.

"Zayne...who?"

I stared at the ceiling, already bracing for impact.

"Lanston."

Another pause.

Then—

"You what?!"

Helen's shriek nearly ruptured my eardrum. I calmly held the phone at arm's length, watching my fate unravel in real-time.

The scolding that followed was relentless, and I zoned out halfway through. Once Helen got into this mode, nothing could stop her—not even if I were on my deathbed. I just let her voice wash over me, murmuring the occasional mhmm to prove I was still conscious.

"You've made a bigger mess than I imagined," she finally exhaled, her voice laced with exasperation. "Since no word got out, I'm assuming he didn't take it personally."

I wasn't so sure. But when I saw an opportunity to de-escalate, I seized it. "On the contrary, he seemed pretty cool about it. He even mentioned he was the one who got in the middle." I hesitated, my fingers tightening around my phone as I recalled that moment. Those eyes—sharp, amused, assessing. Like he was peeling me apart, layer by layer, finding something worth keeping.

"That's great," Helen replied, her calculating tone slipping back into place. "This could be a good chance to establish some rapport. I'll send an apology gift on behalf of my misbehaving niece—something that will catch his interest."

I ignored the misbehaving part and smiled in relief. "Glad my screw-up could be useful. Anyway, I've got to run. Tight schedule. Love you, bye!"

I hung up before she could find something else to nitpick.

By the time I reached the CS building, I was running on fumes. When I entered the designated meeting room, three pairs of eyes snapped toward me.

"You sure took your sweet time," Caleb, the back-end programmer, greeted me with his signature glare. His voice was as dry as overcooked toast.

I slumped into a chair, catching my breath. "Got held up by my professor." Then, forcing a smile, I met his gaze head-on. "The character designs I turned in yesterday—did they meet your expectations?"

Tate, the ever-enthusiastic one, nearly vibrated in his seat. "Meet our expectations? You nailed it! The designs are seamless, like a perfectly optimized UI. It's gonna make the gameplay feel smoother than ever. Right, Caleb?"

Caleb barely spared him a glance. "Huh."

Orion snickered. "That's Caleb-speak for 'I'm impressed.'"

I arched a brow, pretending to be unfazed, though my pride took a hit. Even my toughest professors could muster more enthusiasm than a single 'huh'.

Screw my pride. I wasn't here to collect validation.

Once the meeting wrapped up, Tate bolted out, claiming he'd collapse from starvation. Orion followed, shaking his head at him. I took my time gathering my things, hoping to avoid the rush. Caleb lingered too, methodically wiping down the whiteboard, moving with that quiet efficiency that made him seem even more detached.

I reached for the door handle, only to have another hand beat me to it.

A large hand.

Caleb.

He hesitated, glancing down at me from his impressive height. The sudden proximity sent a prickle down my spine, and I instinctively stepped back. He didn't move immediately, just studied me in that unreadable way of his.

I swallowed, then gestured at the door. "Go ahead."

His gaze lingered for a second longer than necessary before he finally pushed it open.

Caleb regarded me silently for a moment before twisting the knob open, standing sideways with his hand in his pocket, without moving.

I figured he wanted me to go first. Tentatively, I stepped out, feeling his eyes on me as he locked the door.

I shifted my feet awkwardly. I barely had an exchange with the man who was the team leader through the entire meeting, I turned to him to bid him goodbye when he spoke out first.

"You're too laid back."

His blunt statement froze the polite smile on my face. "Huh?"

Caleb leaned against the door, his gaze icy, indifferent. "I think you heard me," he said slowly like he was explaining something painfully obvious to a child. "You're not taking this project seriously."

Seriously? Why did it feel like the universe had collectively decided to pick on me today? First Professor Crowley, then Helen, and now him?

I didn't know, why he was being at my case when I was doing my part exactly how I was supposed to. But it looked like I'd have to be the bigger person here. I took a deep breath, my voice calm. "What makes you say that?"

"You showed up late to our second meeting like some kind of celebrity," he shot icily. "Did it ever cross your mind that we're busy too? Now we have to adjust to the changes differently because of your last-minute suggestions."

I blinked, stunned. That was what he was mad about? "Seriously? I was a few minutes late and I told you why. It's not like I came late on purpose. And I suggested changes to a few initial color schemes and landscaping that your past designer did, which is part of my job you know."

He crossed his arms. "Those few minutes add up. And when you don't communicate properly, it affects the workflow. We can't keep adjusting every time you decide to change something. I'm not gonna coddle you like those two."

Sugarcoat it? The nerve of this guy. He thought I needed coddling?

I bit back my scathing remark. Was he the reason their initial designer fled? Oh, I could totally see why. I'd agreed to work with them because the game's concept had intrigued me—it felt like a real challenge. Now I was seriously second-guessing myself.

But giving up was never in my nature. Besides, dealing with arrogant assholes was probably going to be a life lesson in itself. The art critics are a menace.

"You could've brought it up in the meeting, Caleb. I'm open to suggestions." I stepped closer, every inch of my being radiating defiance. "We're supposed to be a team, right? But you keep acting like I'm the one screwing everything up."

He took a slow breath, eyes never leaving mine, and for a split second, I could feel something dangerous in his gaze—like I was walking a razor's edge. Then, just as quickly, the moment passed, and he shifted, pulling the strap of his bag over his shoulder in a smooth, almost careless motion.

"Mhm," he muttered, noncommittal, before he turned and walked away, his posture stiff, but that same swagger in his step.

The nerve of this guy.

"Arrogant prick," I muttered under my breath, my gaze still burning into his retreating back. Just because someone looks good doesn't mean they're not a pain in the ass—unlike a certain someone who looked good and had manners to match.