Dante's POV
If hell had a passenger seat, an intimate, confined space designed to amplify every last nerve-fraying sensation, it would look exactly like this. The rich, supple leather interior of my Aston Martin gleamed under the unforgiving glare of the morning sun, reflecting the oppressive blue of the sky. My custom playlist, a carefully curated selection of aggressive rock, thumped low through the surround-sound speakers, a desperate attempt to drown out the silence, to drown out her. My hands, usually loose and confident, rested almost rigidly on the polished wood of the steering wheel.
And sitting next to me, in the hallowed space of my car, arms crossed defensively over her chest, jaw tight, staring out the window like the passing scenery held all the answers to the universe, was Cassidy Hart.
Apparently, Berenda's precious little luxury sedan, a recent gift from my ever-generous father, had experienced a sudden, inexplicable mechanical failure last night. A convenient breakdown, I suspected, designed to force this very situation. And Dad – ever the gentleman, ever the blind fool – had insisted I be "nice" and extend my hospitality by taking her to Blackridge Academy.
Be nice.
The words tasted like ash in my mouth. Nice was for people who deserved it, for people who weren't actively trying to dismantle my life.
The second she'd climbed into the passenger seat, the heavy thud of the door closing sealing us in this metal cage, she'd muttered, her voice low and laced with a lethal edge, "Don't talk to me."
So, of course, that was exactly what I did. I twisted the knife before the engine had even fully warmed up.
"You always sit like that?" I asked, my voice a casual drawl, laced with a mocking curiosity. I flicked a glance at her, catching the rigid line of her profile.
Her head snapped around, her eyes, those infuriating hazel eyes, blazing with an instant, reflexive anger. "Like what?" she snapped, her voice sharp as broken glass.
"Like you're constipated," I replied, my lips curving into a slow, deliberate smirk. The words were designed to be crude, juvenile, to chip away at her composure, to push her past that carefully constructed veneer of politeness.
Her mouth fell open slightly, a flash of surprise, then a deeper wave of furious indignation washed over her features. She sucked in a sharp breath, her hands clenching tighter in her lap, and she turned back to the window, presenting me with the stubborn set of her jaw.
"You're an asshole," she muttered, the words barely audible, but vibrating with undisguised contempt.
"You've said that already," I said casually, tapping my fingers against the steering wheel, the sound a rhythmic, irritating counterpoint to the low thrum of the engine. "Gonna have to get more creative if you wanna hurt my feelings, Hart. That one's losing its sting."
She scoffed softly, a low, dismissive sound that was almost swallowed by the rumble of the engine, but she didn't look at me. The silence stretched, growing taut and heavy between us, punctuated only by the hum of the tires on the asphalt and the low thump of my music.
I hated it.
Not because I liked hearing her voice – which I emphatically did not, or so I told myself – but because I hated how quiet she was when no one was watching. How she could recede into herself, become almost imperceptible. It unnerved me. Like she was hiding something, burying it deep, guarding it with a ferocity that was almost unsettling. It was the quiet before a storm, or the stillness of a predator waiting to strike.
"So what's the plan?" I asked finally, breaking the silence with a deliberate abruptness that made her flinch almost imperceptibly. My voice was low, laced with a cold cynicism.
She frowned, still staring intently out at the passing landscape, a blur of manicured lawns and towering gates. "What plan?" Her voice was laced with an innocence that I immediately dismissed as another carefully rehearsed act.
"You know," I said, letting a cruel smirk play on my lips. "How long before you start chasing some poor bastard at school? Find yourself another wallet to climb into, another mark to sink your teeth into. You and Mommy dearest gotta keep your options open, right? Can't put all your gold-digging eggs in one basket."
That got her. My words, precise and cutting, struck their intended target. Her head snapped around, her eyes blazing with an almost feral intensity. The morning sun, now higher in the sky, caught the light in them, turning them into molten gold.
"You really think that's all I care about? Money?" Her voice was tight, barely controlled, vibrating with suppressed fury.
"You're here, aren't you?" I shot back, my voice flat, challenging. "In this car, heading to a school that costs more than most people make in a year, courtesy of my father's generosity. Seems pretty clear to me."
"Not by choice!" The words burst from her, raw and unfiltered, almost a scream. And her voice… it cracked. Just a little at the end, a fragile fissure in her carefully constructed anger, revealing a hint of something underneath. Something raw and vulnerable.
And for some inexplicable reason, that cracked note, that sliver of fragility, pissed me off more than anything else she could have said. It was an unwelcome glimpse behind the curtain, a reminder that she wasn't just a caricature, a villain in my carefully constructed narrative. It unsettled me, made my carefully cultivated disdain waver for a fraction of a second.
I stayed quiet after that, my jaw tight, gripping the steering wheel tighter than I needed to, my knuckles white against the dark wood. The low throb of the engine filled the silence, a constant, dull drone.
At the next red light, the car idled, a momentary pause in our forced journey. She finally spoke again, her voice softer now, almost a whisper, yet infused with a quiet conviction that was oddly compelling.
"You don't know me, Dante." The statement wasn't a challenge this time, but a quiet, almost mournful declaration.
I kept my eyes fixed on the road ahead, on the mundane parade of other luxury cars waiting at the light. "I know enough," I muttered, my voice clipped, dismissive. I refused to engage with that soft edge, that hint of vulnerability. It was a trap.
"No," she said, shaking her head, a slow, deliberate movement that I caught in my peripheral vision. "You don't. You've decided who I am because it's easier than actually looking. Easier than seeing something that might disrupt your perfect, controlled little world." Her words were sharp, incisive, cutting through my carefully constructed defenses with an unnerving precision. She saw through me, or at least, she thought she did.
I glanced at her then, just a quick flick of my eyes, a momentary break from my unwavering gaze on the road. But she was already staring at me, her gaze piercing, unwavering, as if she could see directly into my thoughts, through every cruel word I'd ever thrown at her, through every layer of disdain I'd built around myself. Her cheeks were still flushed, a faint, almost delicate pink, and her hands were clasped tightly in her lap, fingers interlocked.
For a second, the air in the car felt too hot, too close, suddenly charged with something unspoken, something that hummed beneath the surface of our sharp words and mutual animosity. It was an uncomfortable, unsettling sensation.
"Don't look at me like that," I muttered finally, my voice rougher than I intended, an unexpected note of vulnerability creeping in.
"Like what?" Her voice was soft now, almost gentle, a stark contrast to the anger that had defined our interactions. It was disarming.
"Like you think you're better than me," I said, my voice hardening, forcing myself back into the familiar territory of aggression. I turned the wheel, pulling into the sprawling, impeccably manicured parking lot of Blackridge Academy, the familiar landscape of my privilege.
Her lips curved into the faintest smile – not sweet, not kind. It was almost… sad. A wry, knowing twist of her mouth that managed to be both infuriating and strangely captivating.
"I don't think I'm better than you," she murmured, her voice barely a whisper, yet it resonated with an undeniable truth. "I just think you're afraid someone else might be."
That one hit harder than I expected. It was a direct blow, bypassing all my defenses, striking at a raw, exposed nerve I hadn't even known existed. The truth of it, delivered so calmly, so precisely, felt like a physical blow. The air rushed out of my lungs.