Bass vibrates straight through the soles of Nanna Kohl's combat boots, shaking her ribs with every heavy drop. Crimson strobe lights slice across the packed dance floor, turning the sweaty, writhing bodies of New York University’s elite into a blurred, chaotic mass. Sweat and cheap perfume hang thick in the air, a suffocating mixture that makes her throat dry. Standing near the edge of the VIP lounge, she tugs the hem of her neon green hoodie down to her thighs. Her signature oversized streetwear is a deliberate shield against the predatory eyes of the athletic department's finest. Tonight is supposed to be a celebration, but she feels like an alien stranded on a hostile planet. Derek, her older brother, has just secured the seasonal opening championship for the NYU Violets hockey team, cementing his status as the golden boy of Manhattan's collegiate sports scene. He is currently surrounded by a crowd of adoring fans and boosters, completely oblivious to her discomfort. Everyone who mattered in the university’s elite athletic circle is crammed into the VIP section of Prism, an exclusive Manhattan club that smells of expensive tequila, spilled Red Bull, and desperate ambition. Clenching her teeth, Nanna scans the crowd for Ethan. Her boyfriend of two years promised to meet her by the bar twenty minutes ago, but his texts have gone completely silent. Starting her senior year of college is daunting enough without having to hunt down her own boyfriend in a sea of drunk freshmen and aggressive linebackers. They are supposed to be celebrating together, marking the beginning of their final year. Instead, she stands alone, holding a lukewarm ginger ale that lost its fizz twenty minutes ago. The ice melts into a watery pool at the bottom of the plastic cup, mimicking the slow dissolve of her patience. Checking her cracked phone screen for the tenth time, she bites her lower lip until it hurts. No new messages, no missed calls, just a blank notification tray that seems to mock her. A heavy sigh escapes her lips as she looks around the room. Beautiful girls in silk slip dresses and skyscraper heels laugh at jokes made by guys with broad shoulders and easy smiles. Neon green cotton makes Nanna look like a construction cone in a sea of high-fashion models. She can feel their judgmental side-eyes, their silent questions about why Derek Kohl's shy little sister is allowed in here looking like a walking safety hazard. Derek insisted she come, claiming that celebrating his victory means nothing if his family isn't there to witness it. But the moment they crossed the threshold, he was swept away by a tide of teammates, leaving her to fend for herself. Left to her own devices, she is drowning. Her social battery is depleted to zero before she even finishes her first drink, her chest tightening with the familiar, suffocating grip of social anxiety. Moving away from the booming speakers, she heads toward the quieter corridor of the private booths. The VIP area curves around the back of the club, partitioned by heavy velvet drapes that offer an illusion of privacy. Perhaps Ethan has slipped away from the noise to find a quiet place for them. He knows how much she hates loud, crowded spaces, always promises he will shield her from the worst of her anxiety. Hope flickered briefly in her chest, warm and naive. She grips her phone tighter and pushes past a group of laughing lacrosse players who don't even bother to make room for her. --- Shadows grow deeper as she walks down the dim hallway. The bass muffles into a rhythmic, thudding heartbeat, making the air feel thick and heavy. Right around the corner, a semi-private booth sits partially obscured by a massive stone pillar. It is a secluded spot, far away from the prying eyes of the main dance floor. Familiar laughter echoes from the alcove, sharp and high-pitched. It doesn't belong to Ethan, but to Chelsea Vance—the girl who has made it her personal mission to undermine Nanna since freshman year. Cold dread settles in her stomach, heavy as lead. Her footsteps slow, her boots dragging against the sticky hardwood floor as her heart begins to race. Peering around the edge of the pillar, her breath hitches. Her hands begin to shake, the plastic cup slipping from her fingers and clattering to the floor, spilling the remaining liquid. Entwined on the plush leather banquette are two figures, bathed in the sickly green glow of a neon sign. They are so wrapped up in each other they don't hear the cup drop. Ethan’s hands, the same hands that held Nanna's this morning, are buried in Chelsea's blonde hair. His head is tilted back, his mouth pressed hungrily against her neck while she giggles, her fingers clawing at the collar of his college jacket. Nausea surges up her throat, hot and violent. The world seems to tilt on its axis, the muffled music of the club suddenly sounding miles away, like she is underwater. Her heart hammers against her ribs, a trapped bird desperate for escape. She tries to speak, to yell, to demand an explanation, but her throat feels like it is coated in sand. Chelsea looks up, her blue eyes locking onto Nanna's over Ethan's shoulder. A slow, victorious smirk spreads across her lips, completely devoid of remorse, savoring the exact moment Nanna's heart shatters. Traitorous tears prick the corners of Nanna's eyes, hot and humiliating. She is frozen, paralyzed by the sheer weight of her own stupidity for trusting him. Suddenly, the view vanishes. Broad, massive shoulders block her line of sight, replacing the agonizing scene with a wall of black leather and the intoxicating scent of cedarwood, mint, and expensive cologne. Jaden Brooks stands in front of her, his towering six-foot-four frame completely cutting off the VIP booth behind him. He looks like an impenetrable fortress, shielding her from the carnage. His dark hair is slightly damp from post-game sweat, curling wildly at the nape of his neck. Amusement dances in his amber eyes, though his jaw is set in a hard, rigid line. "Lost your way, little Kohl?" Jaden murmurs, his voice a low baritone rumble that vibrates through her chest. He looks down at her, his eyes searching her pale face. Anger flares instantly, hot and sharp, cutting through the icy numbness of her heartbreak. She hates him. She hates how easily he wears his confidence, how he rules this campus with a cocky grin, and how he always manages to catch her at her absolute worst. "Get out of my way, Jaden," she hisses, her voice trembling despite her best efforts to sound fierce. She tries to push past him, but he doesn't budge. Stepping to the side, she tries to bypass him, but he shifts effortlessly, his massive body tracking her movement like a predator cornering its prey. He is determined to keep her from looking. "Trust me," Jaden says, his tone dropping to a dangerous quiet. "You don't want to look at that. It's a garbage fire, and you're too pretty to get ash on your oversized pajamas." "I said, move!" She shoves his chest, but it is like trying to push a mountain. He doesn't even flinch, his chest muscles solid beneath his leather jacket. Tears spill over her eyelashes, burning her cheeks. She hates her vulnerability, hates how weak she feels in this moment, especially in front of her brother's best friend—the notorious playboy who probably breaks hearts for breakfast. "Did you know?" She whispers, her voice cracking as she looks up into his sharp, handsome face. "Did you know he was doing this?" Jaden’s expression softens, just a fraction, a brief flicker of something dark and dangerous crossing his features before his mask of cool indifference slips back into place. He reaches out, his long fingers hovering near her face. "Does it matter?" Jaden asks softly, his thumb reaching out to brush a tear from her cheek. His touch is surprisingly warm, sending a shiver through her entire body. Pulling away from his touch, she glares at him, her knuckles clenching so hard they turn white. "Don't touch me. You're just like him. A liar. A cheat. You think everything is a game." "Careful, Sweetheart," Jaden warns, his amber eyes darkening with a sudden, intense heat. "You're barking at the wrong dog. I'm trying to save your dignity here." "I don't need your pity!" Her voice rises, attracting the attention of a few passersby. She wants to scream, to tear down the walls, to make Ethan feel even a fraction of the pain ripping through her. Behind Jaden, the sound of rustling clothing signals that the two in the booth are finally pulling apart. Ethan

Chapter 1: The Poison in the Punch