Classes had just let out. Students spilled from the building in designer floods—cashmere sweaters, tailored blazers, watches worth more than most people's cars. A few thrown Frisbees. A cluster of girls laughing too loudly near the fountain.

Bella DeLacroix stood at the top of the stone steps, a pair of oversized Chanel sunglasses perched on her nose, one heel tapping impatiently against the limestone. Her phone was pressed to her ear.

And stopped.

A figure was cutting across the lawn, moving against the current of students like a shark through shallow water. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Dark hair cropped close, jaw set with a sharpness that suggested he'd bitten through more than a few arguments in his lifetime. He wore a plain black tee stretched across his chest, sleeves straining over biceps that looked like they'd been sculpted in a gym—or a prison yard. A bull tattoo coiled around his right arm, horns curling toward his shoulder.

He didn't look around. Didn't seem to care that every few steps, someone's head turned to track him.

Bella's lips parted slightly.