Chapter 3

The last text felt like a final ultimatum: *“Counting down from three. If you don’t come out, I’m... I’m really never talking to you again. Three. Two. One...”*

I slammed my textbook shut, grabbed my black umbrella, and bolted out of the reading room.

By the time I pushed open the heavy double doors of the library, the spot under the streetlamp was empty.

Only a pool of water remained, reflecting the cold white light. And in the middle of that puddle lay a small, pink rhinestone hair clip.

I picked it up, my heart sinking to the pit of my stomach.

It was Chloe’s favorite hair clip. No one was ever allowed to touch it. Now, it was abandoned in the mud.

A dark SUV had just sped away from the curb, its tires splashing rainwater onto the sidewalk. A voice memo on my phone—which had automatically recorded her voice-to-text—captured a faint, deep male voice in the background:

*“Miss Vanderbilt, it’s time to go. Your father has been waiting a long time.”*

Then, Chloe’s tearful, desperate voice: *“I’m not going back! All he cares about is his business mergers! I told him I’m not going to that closed-off training camp!”*

I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. It was her family’s security detail. But right after, a wave of cold anger washed over me.

If she was going to let them take her, why did she have to text me and mess with my head first?

I unlocked my phone and dialed the unknown number.

It rang twice before someone picked up. The background was quiet, save for Chloe’s shaky, muffled breathing.

"Chloe," I said, my voice sharp and tense.

"...Logan." Her voice was quiet, thick with tears. "Why did you come out? The three seconds were already up."

"I have your hair clip," I said, ignoring her question. "Where are you?"

"In the car. My dad is sending me to the elite prep camp upstate tonight." Her voice suddenly cracked, filled with bitter resentment. "Logan, do you think I’m pathetic? I humiliate you in public during the day, and then I cling to you like a desperate ghost at night. Honestly, I disgust myself too."

"What are you trying to say, Chloe?"

"I'm saying... I took the photo from your notebook. And I tore out the sketch. You're free now, Logan. No one’s going to fight you for the top spot anymore. And no one’s going to use 'academic discussions' as an excuse to stare at you."

The heavy click of automatic car door locks echoed through the line.

"Goodbye, Logan."

The call went dead.

I stood in the rain, my knuckles turning white around the pink hair clip.

Everyone at Oakwood Prep said Logan was just a heartless, test-taking machine.

But only I knew how many calculations I had to run to perfectly maintain that 0.5-point gap right behind her, just to keep her looking back at me.

I walked back into the library and opened my notification history.

Even though she had unsent the message quickly, the preview on my lock screen still clearly showed those six letters.

*Hubby.*

It was a stupid nickname from a game of Truth or Dare back in freshman year. She had lost the dare, blushed furiously, and promised that if we both got into Oakwood Prep, she would call me that forever.

But once we got in, she put her armor back on, becoming the untouchable heiress once again, acting as if that promise had never existed.

I sat back down at my desk and flipped to the damp last page of my notebook.

Underneath where she had torn out the sketch, there was another hidden note I had written in tiny font:

*“If the final equation of physics is love, I admit defeat. I am completely, utterly helpless.”*

I picked up my phone and sent her my first text of the night.

"I’m only explaining the third method for that physics problem once. If you don’t show up at the National Selection next week, I’ll drag you out of the Vanderbilt mansion myself."

Three seconds later, a one-word reply came back: *“Screw you.”*

Right after, she sent a picture.

It was a selfie taken in the backseat of the luxury SUV. Chloe was hiding in the shadows, wiping away tears, but her hand was clutching the Polaroid photo she had stolen from my notebook.

Her caption read: *“Just you wait, Logan. I’m going to crush you next week.”*

***

The exam room for the National Team Selection was so quiet you could hear a pin drop.

I sat right in the middle of the front row. The desk to my left was empty.

That was Chloe’s seat.

The proctor checked his watch for the third time. Only five minutes left before the doors locked.

"Um... son, please place your ID card flat on the table," the proctor said, tapping my desk.

I looked down and realized I was gripping my permit so hard my knuckles were white, the edges of the paper completely wrinkled.

"Sir," I said, my voice dry. "Is Chloe Vanderbilt not coming?"

The proctor adjusted his glasses and sighed. "The administration office just got a call from the Vanderbilt family. They withdrew her from the competition. Something about... medical issues."

Medical issues?

Bullshit. When she was yelling at me on the phone yesterday, she sounded like a wild cat.

Just then, a commotion broke out at the entrance of the hall. A middle-aged woman in a neat maid uniform was arguing frantically with the security guard. When she saw me turn around, her eyes lit up. She broke past the guard and ran toward the window next to my row.

It was Maria, the maid from Chloe’s house.

Through the glass pane, her face was twisted with panic. She frantically gestured to me, mouth opening wide to silently scream two words: *HELP HER.*

I stood up abruptly.

"Mr. Logan! The exam is about to start. Where do you think you're going?" the proctor barked.

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