Siena Vale
I had exactly thirteen seconds to not end up on the student council's radar.
Not because I cared about rules. God no. But because I was on thin ice, and I liked to skate fast.
Thirteen seconds. That's all I had.
Unfortunately, the student council had turned the front gate into a firing squad. Blazers pressed, clipboards loaded, moral superiority oozing from every pore. I could see them from the edge of the parking lot—lining kids up, checking watches, dishing out detentions like party favors.
Leading them? Alec Grayson, student council president, full-time menace, part-time Greek statue.
Hard pass.
I glanced at the stone wall bordering the east wing. It was tall. Steep. Dramatic. Just like me.
Climbing it wasn't a question. It was a necessity.
I adjusted the strap of my bag, kicked off my heels—designer, tragic—and ran. My fingers gripped the cold iron trellis, nails scraping stone. Skirt flying, coat billowing, heart pounding.
Halfway up, I grinned.
This was the kind of morning I lived for. Rebellion, adrenaline, maybe a little bruising. Better than math class, anyway.
The bell tower began to chime in the distance.
One... two... three...
I swung a leg over the top of the wall, boots scrambling for balance.
Four... five...
And then—my foot slipped.
The world tilted. I slipped forward, arms flailing.
And for half a second, I thought—someone's got me.
Because I saw him. Alec Grayson. Standing a few feet away in the courtyard, perfectly poised, perfectly still. Like he'd been waiting for me.
Our eyes locked.
And then?
He took a step back.
And I fell.
Flat onto the grass. My bag landed beside me with a pathetic thud. My pride? Scattered somewhere near my left shoe.
I groaned, sitting up. "Ow."
A shadow fell over me.
I looked up.
Alec stared down at me, hands in his blazer pockets, expression unreadable. His dark hair framed his face like a crown of disdain. His eyes didn't even blink.
"You jumped the wall," he said calmly.
"No," I said. "I fell over it. Subtle difference."
He raised a brow. "You were avoiding the gate."
"You were running a public execution out there."
"It's called discipline."
"It's called a power trip, Grayson."
He didn't respond. Just looked at me for a beat longer than necessary, like he was mentally filing me under Problem—then Problem He Doesn't Have Time For.
And then?
He walked away.
Just turned and left me sitting there on the cold, slightly muddy grass like I was irrelevant. Forgotten.
Which was, frankly, infuriating. Because being yelled at? I could handle that. Being flirted with? Sure. But dismissed?
Unforgivable.
"Thanks for the help, President!" I called after him, not bothering to hide the sarcasm.
He didn't even turn around.
Which was fine.
Because I would see him again.
And next time?
He wouldn't walk away so easily.
Alec Grayson
She falls like a comet — fast, reckless, and with no regard for gravity or consequences.
One second, I'm scanning the list of tardy students in my hand, prepping for another efficient morning of rule enforcement. The next, there's a blur of movement at the top of the east wall.
Siena Vale.
Of course.
I don't move. I don't shout. I just watch.
She's in mid-air before she even realizes her foot slipped. For a moment, her arms pinwheel, and her expression flickers with panic. It should be satisfying. Watching someone so smug lose control.
But it isn't. It's… distracting.
She crashes into the grass, landing with a grunt and a flurry of expensive fabric. A bag tumbles beside her. Something sparkly and obviously not regulation flies out. She groans and props herself up on her elbows like this happens to her every Tuesday.
I take a step forward—out of instinct.
Then stop.
No. She doesn't need help. Not from me.
Especially not from me.
She's not hurt. Just ruffled. Like a cat that tried to leap a fence and misjudged the landing.
She sits up slowly, flipping her hair over one shoulder like this whole thing was choreographed. Like the ground chose her. Her blazer is spotless, probably custom. Her tie is loose in that "don't care but still hot" kind of way. And even now, grass in her hair, she looks like she owns the school.
I hate that I noticed.
She pats herself down, smooths her skirt, then fixes her lip gloss in her phone screen—seriously?—without even glancing at me.
I don't speak. I just stare.
She finally looks up. Our eyes lock. There's no shame in her gaze, just defiance. Amusement. Like I fell.
"You're late," I say coolly.
"So are you, to rescuing damsels in distress," she fires back.
I could write her up. I should. I have the form already half-filled in.
But instead, I say nothing. I turn on my heel and walk away.
Not because I'm indifferent.
Because if I stayed one second longer, I might've smiled.
And Siena Vale does not deserve that win.