Welcome To Westrange.

If there was one thing I hated more than overpriced lattes and fake designer bags, it was losing-especially to him.

Westrange High was the kind of school where last names meant more than first names, where power was currency, and where perfection wasn't just expected-it was required. The halls smelled of old money and polished floors, and the students? Entitled, arrogant, and cutthroat.

And at the very top of the food chain stood Zayne McCall.

My nemesis. My competition. My worst fucking nightmare.

I adjusted my glasses as I walked through the marble-floored hallways, dodging groups of students who parted like the Red Sea the moment they saw me coming. Not because they feared me-no, that was his thing. I wasn't scary. I was smart, competitive, and impossible to intimidate.

That's why people knew my name.

Jasmine Thompson. Debate team captain. Straight-A student. Academic powerhouse. The girl who almost had it all-except for the goddamn Number One spot. Because no matter how hard I worked, no matter how many nights I spent buried in books, no matter how many times I almost beat him...

Zayne always won.

And he knew it.

"Thompson," a voice drawled from behind me, smooth as sin and twice as infuriating.

I didn't have to turn around to know who it was. The way the air shifted, the sudden wave of **cologne-expensive, intoxicating, and unfairly good-**told me enough.

Zayne McCall was here. And, as always, he was unbearably close.

I took a slow breath, forcing my heartbeat to stay normal before turning to face him. Bad idea.

Zayne stood there, leaning against a row of lockers like he owned the entire damn school. His wolf-cut hair, dark brown and tousled in a way that looked effortless, framed his siren eyes-that dangerous mix of light desert brown with specks of gold that made girls forget how to breathe. Not me, though. I had self-control. Mostly.

His lips curved, amusement flickering in his gaze as he scanned me lazily. "Saw the rankings this morning," he said, adjusting the strap of his expensive leather bag. "Tough loss, Thompson. Again."

I clenched my jaw. "Go to hell, McCall."

His dimple deepened, his expression dripping with cocky satisfaction. "You should come visit sometime. Might suit you."

My nails dug into my palm. Do not punch him. Not in the first period.

This was our dynamic-a constant war, a never-ending game of who could outdo the other. In debates, in academics, in every goddamn thing. He made everything a competition. And worse? He made it look easy.

I turned on my heel, refusing to entertain him further, but he fell into step beside me, his long strides effortlessly matching mine. "So, debate finals are next week," he mused. "Nervous?"

"No," I lied.

His lips twitched, like he could see right through me. "Cute."

I stopped walking. "What?"

That lazy half-smile of his widened, pure arrogance wrapped in sinful charm. God, I wanted to wipe it off his face. Preferably with a textbook.

"I said," he repeated, stepping closer, voice lower, "it's cute when you lie."

Heat crawled up my spine, not because of his words but because of the way he said them-casual, teasing, like he enjoyed getting under my skin.

I swallowed, shoving past him. "Whatever. You'll lose this time."

Zayne chuckled, a deep, knowing sound that sent unwanted shivers down my spine. "We both know that's not true, Thompson."

I hated that he was right.

And I hated that I wanted to prove him wrong even more.

Game on, McCall.

I exhaled sharply, shaking off the lingering irritation as I made my way toward my locker. Dealing with Zayne McCall first thing in the morning was a guaranteed way to spike my blood pressure. And it was only Monday.

Sliding my combination into the lock, I barely had time to react before a familiar voice chirped behind me.

"Let me guess-McCall got under your skin again?"

I turned to find Ava Langley, my favorite nerd and my personal voice of reason, leaning against the locker beside mine, arms crossed, one perfectly shaped brow raised in amusement. Ava was the kind of girl who could ace a calculus exam with her left hand while sketching an anime character with her right. Small, sharp-tongued, and chronically unimpressed, she was also the only person who saw my feud with Zayne as a comedy show rather than a war.

"You saw that, huh?" I muttered, tossing my books inside.

"Hard not to," she snorted. "You two have chemistry."

I gagged. "We have mutual hatred and unresolved aggression. Not the same thing."

Ava smirked knowingly, adjusting her glasses. "Sure, babe. Whatever helps you sleep at night."

Before I could argue, a loud thud echoed from down the hall. A stack of papers went flying, and I spotted Max Carter, the school's resident tech genius-slash-clumsy disaster, sprawled on the floor, his laptop case sliding across the tiles.

"Shit-Max, you good?" I called out.

He groaned dramatically, flipping onto his back like a dying fish. "Define 'good.'"

Ava rolled her eyes, walking over to pick up his laptop before he could break another one. "Dude, you fall more than the school's WiFi."

Max sat up, rubbing his head, his brown curls sticking out in all directions. "In my defense, that hallway floor came out of nowhere."

I snorted, kneeling to help gather the loose papers scattered around him. "Maybe if you actually looked up from your phone when you walked, this wouldn't happen."

"But then how would I stay updated on the latest school drama?" He grinned, wiggling his brows. "Speaking of, I heard McCall has a new stalker."

I rolled my eyes, shoving the papers into his hands. "Don't they all?"

"Apparently, this one wrote him a poem," Ava said, adjusting her glasses. "A whole-ass sonnet. In calligraphy."

I stared. "You're lying."

"Wish I was."

Max sighed dramatically. "If only someone would write me a love poem."

I patted his shoulder. "Maybe if you stopped tripping over your own feet, someone would."

"Damn," he muttered, clutching his chest. "Right in the self-esteem."

The warning bell rang, cutting our laughter short. Students rushed toward their classrooms, and Ava nudged me with her elbow. "You heading to debate practice after school?"

"Obviously," I said. "Finals are next week. Gotta be ready."

She smirked. "Gotta beat McCall, you mean."

I huffed, shoving my locker closed. "Same thing."

Max gave me a pitying look. "Jas, at what point do you admit you're in a slow-burn enemies-to-lovers situation?"

I smacked him with a rolled-up piece of paper. "At what point do you admit you're a walking hazard?"

He winced. "Fair."

Ava chuckled. "Come on, let's go before Mr. Adler locks us out again."

As we hurried down the hall, I couldn't help but shake my head. Zayne McCall was not a slow burn. He was a wildfire. And I had no intention of getting burned.

Yet.