Page 17 of Ignition

Two hours, peace had lasted.

The muted, warm light from overhead lamps spilled over the lacquered hardwood floor and the polished leather upholstery of wooden stools.

The Rook, my favourite bar, was abuzz with the usual crowd: socialites wearing too much make-up, trying to catch something, middle-aged men whose hairline wasn’t the only receding thing—and who somehow still tried to make eyes at them.

Satisfaction still hummed in my bones as I swirled the crystal glass and stared into the gin and tonic I was nursing.

My phone rang and my blood froze. My father. I gulped down the dregs of my drink and answered on the second ring.

“How are you, da—”

“What’s this I’m hearing about a scholarship student?”

His voice cut through my greeting like a blade, snagging on the front of my ribs.

Straight to the point. Of course.

I dragged in air, a ragged breath meant to compose myself, but only scorching my throat on the way in.

“Oh, her. No idea,” I lied through my teeth.

Though my tone tried for casual, my spine stiffened.

He let out a long, pained groan, like her existence had offended his ancestors.

“Christ. Place is going to the dogs.” A pause and a puff of a cigar. “Speaking of, Donald just gave me an earful.”

The whiskey slur to his words was as familiar as the back of my hand. Didn’t make it sting less.

My fingers tapped the dark wooden surface of the bar as I searched my brain. Donald Allory, a powerful ally—with a daughter I was meant to court. Or whatever the fuckin’ phrase was.

As if reading my thoughts, he added, “The blind date with Alice. Don’t screw it up.”

His voice was brisk, snappy, like a whip hitting flesh.

Without so much as a goodbye, the call cut off.

A slow breath tore through my lungs as my phone landed on the bar face down with a louder, heavier clunk than it should have been.

I scrubbed a hand over my face, tossed a few bills on the bar and stalked out, thumbing at the screen over a number I hadn’t bothered to save.

Alice. Right. Time to play the heir.

Chapter six

Mia

Attending classes felt like waking up inside a dream. The professors were not only authors of the very books I’d been studying for our curriculum before I even knew of this place, but also renowned attorneys, judges, and prosecutors, with minds as sharp as their tongues.

The familiar, warm bubble swelled in my chest as I stepped into the seminar room—smaller, more intimate than the grand lecture halls—peppered with round tables which spoke of collaboration and shared ideas.

Shelves upon shelves of books lined the pale walls, broken up only by vintage maps or tall, rounded windows. The comforting smell of old leather-bound tomes and the particular hint of dust clinging to them floated into my nostrils, settling my pulse.

If the price was being a near pariah—so be it.

I regretted the thought as soon as it formed.

“Can I switch teams?”