Page 22 of The Cruel Heir
But I did.
She was awkward. Quiet. Overlooked. Her body was too soft, her gaze too empty.
Then she looked at me.
No fear. No desire.
Just indifference.
And something in me cracked open.
That night, I imagined her differently. Smiling. Touching me. Kissing me in the backseat of my car. In my head, she was already mine. Every day, I built a new version of her who loved me back.
Even when I tormented her in real life. Even when she flinched when I walked by. In my fantasies, she always came back.
Because if she didn’t love me, what the fuck had any of this been for?
Freshman year,spring quarter. The first warm day after months of gray, and Clear View Prep’s quad was a kaleidoscope of pastel cardigans, and polished loafers. I’d just scored top marks on the econ midterm. Ego high. Power higher.
Zara sat alone, on the stone bench outside Watson Hall, violin case balanced on her knees, curls coaxed into a neat puff. New-money girls always tried their hardest to look effortless, and she almost pulled it off. Almost. Her skirt was second-hand Prada, a good cut, but the hem needed letting out. Tiny tells like that fascinated me. Little cracks in the mirror.
She was practicing fingerings on her thigh, mouthing the notes. Soft. Focused. Untouchable.
And I wanted her attention on me.
So I took it.
I tossed my leather duffel at her feet, hard enough to make the latches thud. “Move,” I said, loud enough for half the courtyard to hear.
She blinked up, her dark eyes clear, a question forming. Then that flash of recognition. Oh, it’s him. The other black kid they pretend is one of them.
Instead of sliding to the side, she stayed rooted. “Plenty of benches,” she murmured. Voice calm. Too calm.
Something in my chest flared with heat and hunger, and the sudden need to see her bend.
“What, scholarship girl can’t follow directions?” I let the word scholarship ring, and the crowd snickered on cue. I felt their laughter ripple through me, addicting. Power measured by how small I could make her.
She lifted the violin case like a shield. “Don’t call me that, I’m not even on a scholarship.”
“So what should I call you? Temporary? That new money will dry up as fast as your daddy likes to spend it.” I smirked, leaning closer, so only she could hear the next part. “Or would you rather I call you mine?”
Her throat bobbed. Just once. She said nothing.
But her fingers, brown, graceful, tightened on the handle until her knuckles blanched. No tears. No retreat. Just that stubborn silence.
For one sharp second I hated her for it. For refusing to break, the way the others did. For holding that spine, like it was a gift from God and not a liability.
Then the bell rang, scattering the audience. She rose, slow, measured, and walked away without a word, shoulders straight as a yardstick.
I watched every step.
And the strangest thing? Pride curled in my gut, right next to the cruelty. Pride that she wouldn’t cower, even when I wanted her on her knees. Pride that she carried both our histories on her back, and still refused to shrink.
I told myself it was annoying.
But the truth lodged deeper.
Every day after, I looked for her first. Before my friends. Before my grades. Before my own reflection. I looked just to feel that flash of bright, human anger she aimed at me like a blade.
