Anonymously Yours

ARIA POV

"You're holding your dessert fork incorrectly, Aria," Jaxon said in a cold tone. 

He didn't even bother looking up from his phone, his thumb casually swiping across the bright screen. "Then again, I suppose proper table etiquette wasn't high on the priority list back in whatever cramped, falling-apart apartment you two crawled out of."

The sharp clink of my silver spoon hitting the plate echoed through the glass-walled dining room of the Hayes estate. My knuckles turned white around the handle of my fork. I stared across the polished black marble table at my new stepbrother, the blood rushing to my ears so fast it sounded like a roaring tide.

Jaxon Hayes was nineteen, devastatingly handsome, and easily the most miserable human being walking the face of the earth. He sat draped in a tailored charcoal sweater, his messy dark hair falling just above eyes as sharp and gray as winter ice. Every single feature of his face seemed sculpted to look down on the rest of the world, and for the last three weeks, that cold, agonizing gaze had been aimed exclusively at me.

"Jaxon, please," his father, Richard Hayes, sighed from the head of the table. Richard didn't sound angry; he just sounded exhausted. He lowered his folded newspaper, his dark brows pulling together as he looked at his son. "It's a simple family dinner. Leave the girl alone."

"I'm just offering some helpful guidance, Dad," Jaxon replied smoothly, finally sliding his phone into his pocket and leaning back into his leather chair. He tilted his head, his gray eyes sweeping over me with deliberate, brutal slowness. They lingered on the soft curve of my jaw, the broad line of my shoulders, and the way the fabric of my sweater stretched over my chest. "After all, if she's going to be living under this roof, she should at least try not to look like a complete outcast. We have standards in this house."

Across the table, my mother, Victoria, let out a nervous, high-pitched laugh. She quickly reached over, placing a manicured hand over Richard’s arm while shooting me a tight, pleading glare that screamed don't you dare say a word.

"Oh, Jaxon is right, Honey! It's completely fine!" my mother insisted, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. "Aria is still getting used to everything. The transition has been... a lot for her. But she’s learning!"

I swallowed down the thick lump of humiliation rising in my throat. Learning. As if I were a stray dog my mother had brought inside from the rain, begging the rich man not to kick us back out onto the street.

My mother had spent the last five years dragging us through cheap apartments, unpaid rent notices, and desperate social climbing. When she finally snagged Richard Hayes, a widowed billionaire whose logistics empire practically owned the city, she thought she’d won the grand lottery. She moved us into this sprawling, soul-crushing glass fortress on the cliffs of Crestwood, completely blind to the fact that Richard's only son viewed us as nothing more than parasitic gold-diggers invading his late mother's home.

And maybe Jaxon was right about my mom. She was after the money. But I wasn't. I had begged her to let me stay behind, to let me get a small apartment near campus, but she had cried, begging me not to ruin her "fresh start." So here I was. Trapped in a palace, starving in front of a full plate of food.

"I'm done," I said quietly.

I set my fork down, placing it deliberately on the left side of the plate just to spite him, and pulled my napkin from my lap, tossing it onto the table.

"Aria, sit down," my mother hissed under her breath, her eyes wide with warning. "We haven't even finished dessert."

"I'm not hungry," I replied, my voice steady despite the absolute chaos raging inside my chest.

I stood up from the heavy chair, pushing it back just hard enough for the legs to scrape loudly against the polished floor. I didn't glance at my mother, and I refused to give Richard an apologetic smile. But as I turned to leave, my eyes accidentally caught Jaxon's.

He was watching me, a faint, arrogant smirk playing on his lips, enjoying every single second of the destruction he caused. He picked up his crystal water glass, taking a slow sip as if silently toasting to my defeat.

I turned on my heel and walked out of the dining room.

I didn't stop until I reached the top floor of the east wing. My room was massive, larger than the entire main floor of our old apartment, but it felt more like a pristine cell than a bedroom. White walls, floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over the dark trees of the estate, and furniture that looked too expensive to actually touch.

I slammed the door shut, locking it with a sharp clack, and slumped back against the cold wood.

Tears burned the backs of my eyes, hot and furious, but I squeezed my eyes shut and forced them down. I refused to cry over Jaxon Hayes. I refused to let a self-righteous, arrogant prick make me feel small in my own skin.

Plus size. Out of place. Outcast.

His words echoed in my mind, picking at the raw, vulnerable spots I spent every single day trying to protect. I opened my eyes and looked across the room at the full-length mirror leaning against the wall.

I walked over slowly, stopping a foot away from my reflection. I looked at the curves of my hips, the soft flesh of my stomach underneath my oversized green sweater, the full shape of my face framed by dark hair. In high school, I had learned to build thick, invisible walls around myself. I wore dark clothes, carried sharp sarcasm like a shield, and kept everyone at a distance so nobody could hit me where it hurt.

"You're fine," I whispered to the empty room, my voice trembling slightly. "You just have to survive this year."

Walking over to my desk, I collapsed into the chair and pulled my laptop open. The bright light illuminated the mess of notebooks, hockey magazines, and schedule sheets scattered across the wooden surface.

And there, right in the center of the desk, lay a crisp white envelope.

My hand hesitated before reaching out to touch it. I pulled out the folded piece of paper inside, staring at my own handwriting.

I saw you at the rink today, the letter read. You play like the ice belongs to you. I wish I had the courage to tell you that to your face, but for now, I’ll just watch from the stands.

It wasn't signed. It was never signed.

My chest tightened as a completely different face flashed through my mind. Blake Reed.

Blake was everything Jaxon wasn't. He was the star captain of Crestwood University’s hockey team, charismatic, gorgeous, with golden-brown hair, an infectious smile, and a laugh that seemed to light up every room he walked into. He was Jaxon's best friend, which made him completely off-limits, but watching Blake on the ice was the only thing that kept me sane during my brutal first month at university.

When Blake played, he was pure grace and power. When he smiled at the crowds after a win, my heart did stupid, embarrassing flips in my chest.

For months, I had been slipping those little handwritten notes into locker #88 at the university rink after late-night practices, praying that maybe, just maybe, he'd read one and wonder who wrote it.

Until yesterday.