Chapter 1

Elara Vance clutched her violin case, her heart still soaring from practice. Juilliard was a dream, a world away from her quiet upbringing, a dream made possible by hard work and the Hayes Family Philanthropic Scholarship. A scholarship Seraphina Hayes, Julian Thorne's childhood friend, had apparently wanted. Elara knew Seraphina felt slighted, but Julian, her Julian, was always so supportive, so loving. He made the glittering world of New York feel like home.

Her phone buzzed, a frantic text from Julian's number.

"Elara! Emergency! Sailing accident. Hamptons. Need O-neg blood. Only you. Private clinic. Address attached. Hurry!"

Panic seized Elara. Julian, reckless on his sailboat. O-negative. Her blood type.

She didn't question it. She dropped her violin at her dorm and ran, hailing a cab, her mind a blur of fear for the man she loved.

The clinic was discreet, expensive-looking, just as Julian would arrange.

A calm nurse took a lot of blood, more than Elara thought was usual for a donation.

"He'll be okay, right?" Elara asked, feeling dizzy.

"Mr. Thorne is lucky to have you," the nurse said, offering juice.

Elara pushed it away, her only thought Julian. She had to see him. He was everything to her.

Days later, Elara still felt weak, the city's summer heat pressing down. She hadn't heard much from Julian, just short texts saying he was recovering. A knot of worry tightened in her stomach. She had to see him, make sure he was truly okay. She took the subway to his Upper East Side apartment. The doorman, used to her, nodded her through.

The apartment door was slightly ajar. Laughter drifted out, Julian's distinct baritone mixed with the braying of his friends, Chad and Bryce, and Tiffany's shrill giggle.

Elara pushed the door open a little more, peering in.

Julian was lounging on his leather sofa, a drink in hand, looking perfectly healthy. No sign of any accident. On the coffee table, next to discarded food containers, was a medical blood bag – her blood bag – half-empty, leaking onto a stack of glossy magazines.

Tiffany pointed at it. "Seriously, Julian, the blood bag was a bit much, even for you. What'd you even do with it?"

Julian smirked, swirling his drink. "Poured most of it down the drain, darling. Can't have evidence, can we?"

"This was the most elaborate prank yet, Thorne! Number nineteen, right?" Chad guffawed, slapping Julian's back. "Making her think you needed her precious O-neg."

"Nineteen masterpieces of revenge," Julian drawled, his eyes glinting. "Seraphina will be pleased. She was so cut up about that scholarship."

Bryce chimed in, "Remember the locket? The 'priceless heirloom'?"

Julian chuckled. "A ten-dollar trinket. Watching her search Central Park in that blizzard for a fake? Priceless. She even got pneumonia. I was so 'worried'."

Tiffany squealed. "And the recital! That 'avant-garde masterpiece' you 'found' for her? The sound of a dying cat would have been more melodic. Her face!"

"The charity gala was my personal favorite," Julian said, his voice dripping with contempt. "That ridiculous chicken costume. 'Artistic statement,' I told her. The photos went viral. She actually believed I was outraged on her behalf."

They all roared with laughter.

Elara saw Julian then, truly saw him. He wasn't pale or injured. He was vibrant, his eyes cold and cruel as he basked in his friends' admiration. The sailing accident, the urgent need for her blood – all a lie. Another twisted game.

"It was for Seraphina, of course," Julian continued, his voice smooth. "She was devastated when Elara, that little charity case, won the Hayes Family Philanthropic Scholarship. The one Seraphina considered her birthright. Little Miss Nobody waltzing into Juilliard on Hayes money? Seraphina couldn't stand it. So, I promised her Elara would pay."

Elara's world tilted. Her breath hitched. The floor seemed to drop away. Each memory of Julian's affection, his grand gestures, his loving words, now felt like a carefully placed shard of glass. The blood donation, her fear, her sacrifice – it was all a joke to him. The most elaborate prank yet. Nineteen of them. Her body swayed, a wave of nausea and profound weakness washing over her. The room spun.

Humiliation, hot and sharp, burned through her. She couldn't breathe. She turned and fled, stumbling out of the apartment, out of the building, into the indifferent city streets. The laughter followed her, echoing in her ears. She ran, tears streaming down her face, a raw sob tearing from her throat.

Her phone rang. Her father.

"Ellie-bean? Just calling to check in. Your mom and I, we've firmed up the Colorado plans. House is picked out. We'll be moving right after my official retirement ceremony next month. You still thinking about coming with us for a bit, get away from the city noise?"

His calm, steady voice was an anchor in her storm.

"Yes, Dad," Elara choked out, her voice hoarse. The city felt like a cage, Julian's laughter the bars. "Yes, I'm coming. I want to come home. Now."

The decision, once a vague possibility for a summer break, solidified into an urgent need. New York, Juilliard, her music – it all felt tainted, poisoned by Julian Thorne.