The smell of acetone and burnt rubber still clung to the air when the scores went up.
I was wiping down my station, fingers stained faint yellow from iodine, when the classroom buzz shifted—sharp, electric, the sound of something about to explode. Someone laughed. Someone swore. Someone said my name like it tasted wrong in their mouth.
“Emma Carter. One hundred. Again.”
I didn’t look up right away. I already knew.
Perfect scores didn’t feel like victories anymore. They felt like armor—thin, cracked armor I kept reforging because if I ever let it slip, everything underneath would be exposed. The scholarship. The two part-time jobs. The mother who pretended not to notice how exhausted I was every night.
Then came the pause.
“And Lucas Vanderbilt… ninety-nine point five.”
That was when I looked up.
Lucas leaned back against his lab bench like the world had personally apologized to him. Dark hair perfectly messy, sleeves rolled up just enough to show he didn’t need to try. People like him never did. The son of a school board member. Legacy stitched into his last name. He smiled—not at me, not at the board—but at Chloe.
Chloe, who sat front row like she owned oxygen.
“Well,” she said loudly, heels clicking as she stood. “Looks like the charity case wins again.”
Laughter rippled. Not everyone. Enough.
My jaw tightened. I told myself to breathe. To count. To remember why I was here.
Lucas’s smile faded.
“That’s not funny,” he said.
The room stilled. Chloe turned, surprised. “Excuse me?”
“She earned it,” he continued. “Every point.”
Chloe scoffed. “Please. She probably lives in this lab. Some people actually have lives.”
I felt heat rise up my spine. I should have stayed quiet. I never stayed quiet.
“At least I don’t buy mine,” I said.
A collective oof.
Chloe’s eyes flashed. “What did you say?”
Lucas straightened. “Emma—”
“If you’re going to insult me,” I went on, heart pounding, “try harder. I’ve worked two jobs since sophomore year. I’ve slept in classrooms. I’ve missed prom, games, everything—so yeah, I study. And I still beat you.”
The room erupted.
Lucas looked at me like I’d slapped him and fascinated him at the same time. “You’re confident,” he said slowly.
“Try desperate,” I shot back.
He smiled then. Not the easy one. Something sharper. “How confident?”
I didn’t think. That was my mistake.
“If you ever beat me,” I said, “I’ll agree to whatever you want.”
Silence.
Chloe laughed first. “Oh my God. Listen to her.”
Lucas’s eyes didn’t leave mine. “Anything?”
I swallowed. “Anything reasonable.”
He tilted his head. “Three months. You pretend to be my girlfriend.”
The room exploded.
“What?” I said.
“You help me get my mother off my back,” he continued calmly. “No blind dates. No future-wife auditions. Just… you and me.”
Professor Hayes cleared his throat sharply. “Enough. This is a classroom.”
But it was too late. Everyone was watching.
My scholarship letter flashed in my mind. The committee. The recommendation I needed. The way Lucas’s mother’s name was engraved on half the building.
I nodded once. “Fine.”
Lucas’s grin was slow and dangerous. “Deal.”
Two weeks later, the retake results were posted.
Lucas Vanderbilt: 100.
Emma Carter: 99.5.
My breath left my body.
“No,” I whispered.
I scanned my paper again. The final problem—reaction yield under altered pressure—had been marked incorrect. But my calculations were right. I knew they were. I’d checked them twice. Three times.
Lucas stood beside me, quiet this time. “Looks like I won.”
I stared at the red ink like it had betrayed me personally. “There’s a mistake.”
“Is there?” Chloe purred, looping her arm through his. “Guess genius isn’t perfect after all.”
After class, Professor Hayes stopped me.
“Emma,” he said gently. “Come by my office.”
The door closed behind us.
“You solved it correctly,” he said without preamble.
My heart jumped. “Then why—”
“There was pressure,” he continued. “A donation. A condition.”
The room tilted.
“Lucas’s mother,” he said. “She wanted him to win.”
Something inside me cracked—not loudly. Quietly. Like glass under water.
“So this was never a fair bet,” I said.
“No,” he admitted. “And I’m sorry.”
I walked out of the lab feeling smaller than I ever had.
Lucas was waiting in the hallway.
“Guess we’re dating,” he said softly.
I looked at him, really looked at him. At the boy who hadn’t asked how I felt. At the boy who benefited from my loss.
“This isn’t real,” I said.
“I know,” he replied.
But the way he looked at me said this was only the beginning.