Chapter 5 Anomalies in the Honors Wing

Christian Vance did not like things that did not make sense.

‎As the sole, undisputed heir to the massive Vance corporate empire, his entire upbringing had been built on a foundation of cold, calculating, unyielding logic. From the moment he could walk, he had been trained by high-society tutors and elite corporate strategists to spot anomalies in numbers, to read the hidden, darker motives of business rivals, and to look past the carefully manicured, shallow facades of the upper-class elites who constantly swarmed around his family. He could tell within three seconds flat if someone was lying to his face. Hypocrisy was a language he spoke fluently, and because of that, nothing in the mortal world ever truly surprised him.

‎Yet, as he leaned his broad shoulders against the brick pillar of Oakridge High School’s exclusive honors wing, his piercing gray eyes were locked onto a walking, breathing contradiction.

‎Lyra.

‎From a distance, she looked exactly like the pathetic, tragic figure the petty student body claimed she was. Her posture was deliberately hunched over, as if she were trying to collapse into herself to escape the eyes of the world. Her school uniform was a full size too large, swallowing any hint of a silhouette, and her skin was a muddy, uneven brown that looked entirely artificial under the harsh, buzzing fluorescent lights of the corridor. She was currently walking down the center aisle, her slender arms tightly cradling a massive, precarious stack of advanced chemistry and trigonometry textbooks, her head bowed low as she tried to navigate the aggressive sea of students.

‎But Christian’s eyes narrowed to sharp slits as he focused entirely on her movements. She’s hiding, his sharp mind deduced, systematically dissecting her every single step.

‎Despite her desperate, best efforts to look clumsy, awkward, and completely invisible, her stride was impossibly fluid. Christian had spent enough nights at mandatory high-society galas watching professional prima ballerinas to recognize perfect physical calibration. When a rowdy, oblivious freshman accidentally sprinted past her, nearly colliding with her side, Lyra didn't flinch or stumble. Instead, she pivoted on her heel with a subconscious, lightning-fast grace that completely defied her heavy, baggy clothing. Her bone structure, subtly visible beneath the terrible, dark makeup and artificial blemishes, was perfectly, terrifyingly symmetrical. It didn't make a bit of logical sense. To Christian, it was like watching a majestic, royal apex predator trying—and failing miserably—to pretend to be a wounded, dying sheep.

‎Suddenly, a rowdy group of varsity athletes crowded the hallway just ahead of her, laughing loudly as they carelessly threw a leather basketball back and forth. One of them, a heavy-set junior named Brody, backed up blindly to catch a pass, his massive, padded shoulder colliding violently with Lyra’s side.

‎The heavy stack of textbooks went flying, scattering across the polished linoleum floor with loud, echoing thuds that silenced the immediate area. Lyra staggered backward from the impact, her thick-rimmed, ugly glasses slipping down the bridge of her nose.

‎"Watch where you're going, freak!" Brody barked over his shoulder, not even bothering to look down or offer a hand before laughing and walking away with his friends.

‎Christian watched intently as Lyra immediately dropped to her knees, her slender, elegant fingers moving with rapid, precise efficiency to gather the scattered loose papers and heavy volumes. Nobody stepped forward to help her. In fact, several popular students deliberately stepped right over her books, snickering to one another and throwing nasty remarks down at the dirt.

‎Sighing softly, Christian stepped away from the brick pillar. Ordinarily, he didn't care about petty high school drama. He found it beneath him. But his intense, borderline obsessive curiosity finally got the better of him. He walked over, his pristine, expensive designer shoes stopping right in front of her pile of papers. He knelt down smoothly, his hand reaching out to grab a stray notebook before a passing student could trample it.

‎"Here," Christian said, his deep, smooth voice cutting cleanly through the ambient noise of the hallway.

‎Lyra froze instantly. She slowly raised her head, looking straight up through her thick lenses. For a mere fraction of a second, as her head tilted against the light, her muddy brown contact lenses shifted slightly out of place. Christian caught a literal glimpse of something buried beneath them—a sudden flash of a blue so violently bright, luminous, and deep it looked like a burning sapphire hidden in the dark. But just as quickly as he saw it, she blinked, and the dull, lifeless brown returned.

‎"T-Thank you," Lyra stammered, her voice tightly controlled, almost robotic, as she snatched the notebook from his grip.

‎But as their fingers briefly brushed during the quick exchange, an invisible, powerful jolt of static electricity seemed to snap violently between them. Christian’s breath caught completely in his throat.

‎It wasn't the sudden shock that paralyzed his muscles. It was the smell.

‎The moment he got within two feet of her frame, an overwhelming, intoxicating fragrance completely enveloped his senses. It was the scent of wild, morning-dew roses, so pure, breathless, and potent that it felt like a physical wave crashing against his chest. It didn't smell like a cheap synthetic perfume sprayed from a bottle; it smelled entirely alive, blooming directly from her very skin. It stood in total, defiant contrast to the dirty, unwashed, muddy appearance she forced the human world to see.

‎Christian’s heart hammered against his ribs as he stared directly at her face. Close up, he could see the edges of the dark tanner peeling slightly near her hairline from the humidity, revealing skin underneath that was as blindingly white as fresh, unblemished snow.