WOODY'S POV

  I woke up earlier than usual. There is a meeting scheduled at Eastbridge Academy this morning—some possible partnership between my father's firm and the school board—sponsorship, maybe scholarships. I'm not sure. He asked me to go in his place. Said it'd be good PR. Clean. Friendly. "Wear something that says future CEO," he'd said last night.

  I throw on a navy suit, nothing too serious, just pressed enough. I leave the tie.

  By 9:13 a.m., I'm pulling into the East-bridge parking lot, the school's crest polished into the front entrance glass like it's proud of its history. I check my reflection. Tighten my cuffs. Then I walk in.

  They have me waiting outside the administrative office. It smells like printer ink and teenage ambition. The Dean's caught up in another meeting, so I sit on a bench in the hallway, scrolling through emails.

  I had a meeting with the Dean about a generous donation I was making—new books for the science labs and upgraded computers for the tech wing. The kind of gesture that got your name printed on shiny plaques and mentioned in board meetings. Then the increase in the scholarship programs. He gave me the names of the students that were on the program—ranging from new students to old students, to different people from both in and outside of the country.

  By 10:45, the meeting was already over. I'm standing outside the administrative building, sunglasses on, tie already loosened. The meeting was short. The air is too stiff inside, and I need a breather.

  Students are trickling out for their lunch break — laughter, slammed lockers, voices echoing through the courtyard like static. I hate crowds. Always have.

  I walk toward the school garden for quiet.

  That's when I saw her.

  She's sitting beneath the archway by the roses, almost hidden in plain sight. Cross-legged on a faded green bench, head tilted slightly, scribbling into a spiral notebook. No eye contact. No distractions. Earphones in. Hair in a loose, stubborn bun that can't quite hold her thick, rich brown curls. They frame her face like wild thoughts.

  Her skin catches the sunlight — a warm light-brown glow, like polished oak. Her hazel eyes flick up, once, briefly — not at me, not really — and drop again. But it's enough. Enough to knock something loose in me.

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  She's not trying to be seen. Not trying to hide either. She just is. As she exists on a frequency no one else can reach.

  Every other girl I passed today was rehearsed — filtered, prepped, curated. But her?

  She looks real.

  She's dressed in a cropped olive-green jacket, wide-leg black trousers, and matte boots that tap lightly with each shift of her leg. Under the jacket is a soft gray shirt — draped, simple, but not careless. Everything fits just right. Not too dull. Not too loud. She's got this look in her eyes like the world owes her answers.

  Her skin is this warm light-brown tone, like smooth oak in the sun. Her hair is full and thick—wild curls, rich brown, bouncing with every step but never chaotic. Her hazel eyes flash briefly in my direction, not enough to notice me—yet—but enough for me to notice her.

  But then she moves — subtly — her thumb brushing against her cheek. A tear.

  So small. So quick I could've missed it.

  But I didn't.

  I couldn't.

  There's something tight in my chest. A sharp twist that I don't have a name for. Not yet. It's not pity. Maybe curiosity.

  Who made her cry?

  Why?

  What the fuck could've broken someone who doesn't even look breakable?

  She stands up before I can answer my thoughts. Books clutched to her chest like armor. She disappears into the school building — and without thinking, I follow. Not close. Just enough to see which hallway. Which door?

  Room 2B.

  I turned the other way, pretending I was heading somewhere else. But I've already memorized the path.

  I ask a student later, casually, "Who's the girl who sat under the rose arch?"

  He squints, shrugs, and says, "You mean Lily Evans?"

  Evans.

  A name.

  It sounded familiar.

  I checked the list the dean had given me earlier. My eyes wandered up and down the list—that's when I caught it. Lily Evans.

  Her name was on the top list for the scholarship program for the locals. I took out my phone sending a message to Jorge, to get me every single info on her and her family.

  By evening, I've found everything I need—the last child to Mr. and Mrs. Evans. They have six daughters—Madison, Beatrice, Kristy, Katherine, Kimberly, and Lily. Her Dad works for one of my Real Estate companies, and her Mom is a manager and agent for their Model daughter Beatrice.

  Her older sister Madison, struck my eye. She was around the same age I was—she graduated from college at the age of 23 and is already a nurse at the St. Andrews Federal Hospital.

  Something in me isn't letting this girl I just met go. I don't know what it is but I might just linger on it a bit. There's nothing wrong with getting to know her sister.

  Maybe that's Madison's purpose. But it's not about Madison.

  It never was.

  By the time I reached my estate. I knew more about her than I could imagine. She was a very unique person. She loved to read a lot though—not romantics but more classics. She knows how to paint well. She entered a painting competition anonymously, won, and didn't show her face at the event.

  I wonder why she would do that. She was a very intelligent person, she refused several scholarships that were better than the school she goes to currently. Why is this person blocking so many good things that could happen to her?

  The curiosity in me grew stronger and stronger. I need to find her sister now.