Fake Dating The School's Most Dangerous Boy

Scarlett's POV

The gymnasium chandeliers sparkled like they belonged in a palace instead of a high school. Twinkling lights. White tablecloths. A string quartet playing something fancy in the corner.

Westwood Academy's Fall Gala.

Fancy name for "watch rich kids pretend to be charitable while their parents write checks with more zeros than my mom's bank account has dollars."

I tugged at the strap of my dress—a borrowed navy thing that pinched under my arms—and kept my head down. Move along the wall. Smile if someone looks at you. Don't draw attention.

Basic survival rules for scholarship students.

The punch table sat in the corner, decorated with floating candles and rose petals. I grabbed a glass, more for something to hold than because I wanted it. My third hour of standing alone required props.

"Scarlett!"

I flinched. Maya appeared beside me, her red gown matching her excited flush. My only friend at this school. Also a scholarship kid, but she'd learned to play the game better than me.

"Did you see the auction items?" She grabbed my arm. "A weekend in the Hamptons. A yacht trip. I almost choked on my appetizer."

"Pretend to care quietly," I muttered. "You're making eye contact with the wealthy."

She laughed, loud and real. "They're not going to adopt us, Scar. Relax."

Easy for her to say. Maya could charm anyone. Me? I just wanted to survive two more years without incident. Graduate. Escape. Never see another Whitmore or Harrington or Rockefeller-wannabe again.

Speaking of Whitmores—

My stomach dropped.

Ronan Whitmore stood twenty feet away, surrounded by his usual crowd. Dark suit. Dark hair. Dark eyes that swept the room like he owned every person in it.

He probably did. His family owned half the city.

"Don't look," I whispered, but Maya already had.

"The devil himself." She tilted her head. "He's actually pretty tonight. In a 'might murder you' sort of way."

"Stop."

"What? I have eyes."

I forced my gaze elsewhere. Anywhere else. The decorations. The ceiling. The—

Someone bumped into me. Hard.

My punch glass flew from my hand. Time stretched weirdly as red liquid arced through the air, catching the chandelier light like a slow-motion disaster.

It landed exactly where disaster belonged.

All over Ronan Whitmore's white shirt.

The crowd around him went silent first. Then the people near me. Then the whole corner of the gymnasium froze like someone hit pause.

Ronan looked down at his chest. Red punch soaked through the expensive fabric, dripping onto his trousers.

I couldn't breathe.

This was it. This was how I got expelled. How I became another whispered rumor—the scholarship girl who assaulted a Whitmore with fruit juice. My mom would kill me. If Ronan didn't first.

"Scarlett Hayes."

His voice cut through the silence. Low. Calm. Terrifying.

I looked up.

Ronan Whitmore was smiling.

Not an angry smile. Not a cruel one either. Something else. Something that made my skin prickle.

"Well, well." He stepped forward, ignoring the drink dripping from his sleeve. "The girl who still hates me."

What?

The crowd murmured. People exchanged glances. Hates him? I'd never spoken to him in my life.

"I—" My voice cracked. "I didn't—"

"You spilled coffee on me freshman year." He kept coming closer. "Now punch. You're nothing if not consistent."

Freshman year. My brain scrambled through memories. There'd been a day in the cafeteria. I'd been nervous, overloaded with books, and—

Oh no.

I'd bumped into someone. Spilled my tray. Apologized a thousand times without looking up because looking up at Westwood students meant seeing contempt.

That someone had been Ronan Whitmore.

"You remember." He stopped inches from me. The crowd pressed closer, hungry for drama. "I wondered if you would."

"Get away from me." The words came out before I could stop them. Too loud. Too sharp.

His smile widened.

"Still feisty." He tilted his head, studying me like I was a puzzle he'd been waiting to solve. "Everyone warned me about you, you know. The scholarship girl who'd rather die than smile at a Whitmore."

What was he doing? Why was he talking to me like we had history? Like he'd noticed me at all in the past two years?

"Ronan, let's go." One of his friends stepped forward. "She's not worth—"

"No." Ronan didn't look away from me. "Scarlett Hayes. Three years in my school and you've never once looked at me. Never once smiled. Never once pretended to care about my family's money like everyone else."

My heart hammered so hard I felt it in my throat.

"You noticed that?" I whispered.

Something flickered in his eyes. Too fast to read.

"I notice everything about you."

The words landed like a slap. Around us, phones appeared. People recorded. Whispers spread like fire through dry grass.

My face burned. This was a game to him. Some twisted performance for his bored rich friends. Watch me torment the poor girl. Again.

"You're insane." I stepped back. "Leave me alone."

"Can't do that." He followed. "Not after you marked me twice. People will think there's something between us."

Laughter from the crowd. Someone wolf-whistled.

I hated him. I hated him with every fiber of my being.

"I'd rather die."

I pushed past him. Shoulder-checked him hard enough that he stumbled. Stupid. Dangerous. But I couldn't breathe in that circle of smirking faces.

Maya caught up at the exit. "Scarlett! Scarlett, wait!"

I burst through the gym doors into the empty hallway. My heels clicked against marble as I ran for the bathroom.

"Scarlett!"

I ducked into the girls' room, hands shaking. The mirror showed me pale and wide-eyed, chest heaving.

Maya appeared behind me. "What the hell was that?"

"I don't know." I gripped the sink. "I don't know him. I don't. Freshman year I spilled coffee on someone but I never looked up, I never—"

"Well, he knows you." Maya's voice went strange. "And apparently he's been watching you for three years."

"That's not possible."

"Did you see his face?" She moved closer. "When he said that. About noticing everything. That wasn't a joke, Scar."

I shook my head. No. No, this wasn't happening. Ronan Whitmore didn't notice scholarship students. He didn't notice anyone who couldn't benefit him.

"He's playing games. Rich people do that. They get bored and—"

The bathroom door swung open.

I froze.

But it was just a freshman, wide-eyed and nervous. She glanced between us, then ducked into a stall.

Maya lowered her voice. "Just stay away from him for the rest of the night. We'll sneak out the side entrance. Go back to my place. Pretend this never happened."

Right. Pretend.

Like I hadn't just become the center of attention at the one school where attention meant danger.

"Okay." I nodded. "Okay. Side entrance. Five minutes."

"I'll wait by the stairs."

She left. I turned to the mirror again, splashed cold water on my face, and tried to compose myself.