My Vow to Hate Him Forever

Charlotte

Hate.

The dictionary calls it an intense or passionate dislike.

But in my experience?

Hate is the fire that ignites in my veins whenever I see him.

It's the involuntary clench of my jaw when he passes by, moving with an infuriating, effortless grace, as if the universe itself rearranges for his convenience.

Hate is… Alexander Valence.

I stared at the paper in my hand.

99%.

A brilliant score. A cause for celebration for anyone.

But not for me.

Not today.

Because seated across the classroom, looking like some aloof deity with a pencil tucked behind his ear and an aura of complete indifference, was Alexander Valence.

And pinned to the corner of his test?

A perfect 100.

Naturally.

Of course he got a perfect score.

I didn't realize I was glaring until he lifted his head.

Our eyes locked.

The corner of his mouth lifted.

A smirk.

A small, arrogant, utterly infuriating smirk.

Then he turned to his friend, Carter, and said something that made him laugh.

As if I weren't even there. As if he hadn't just bested me for what felt like the hundredth time this term.

That was it.

I was going to lose my mind.

"I swear," I muttered, my teeth grinding, "if he gives me that look one more time, I'm going to shove this test down his—"

"Okay, calm down, killer."

Aurora, my best friend and perpetual voice of chaotic reason, leaned over our shared desk, iced latte in hand, one eyebrow arched. "You're literally about to set him on fire with your eyes."

"I wish I could," I hissed, tossing the paper onto my desk as if it had personally insulted me.

Aurora choked back a laugh. "It's one point, Char. You still have the second highest grade in the class."

"That's what makes it worse!" I whispered fiercely, glaring at the red ink like it was taunting me. "If it were anyone else, fine. Whatever. But it's him."

"Alexander Valence," Aurora sighed, her gaze drifting toward him as if he were a work of art. My lovely, traitorous friend had also fallen victim to his looks, which, for the record, I still maintained were perfectly average (okay, that might be a lie).

I rolled my eyes. "The scourge of my high school existence."

She took a long sip of her drink, not bothering to hide her smile. "He barely speaks to anyone, Char. Maybe he's not evil. Just… socially challenged."

"He smirked, Rory."

"Oh, the horror."

I dropped my forehead onto the cool surface of the desk with a groan. "Why couldn't he be intellectually mediocre? Or aesthetically unfortunate? Or… I don't know, have a profound allergy to success?"

Aurora chuckled, reaching over to pat my shoulder. "You're spiraling."

I didn't answer. I just let my cheek rest against the desk, peering over the edge at him.

Alexander was stretching now, arms raised above his head, the fabric of his stupid dark gray sweater pulling taut across his shoulders.

Perfect.

I hate him.

I hate him with a passion that burns.

And the worst part?

It was only Monday.

I'm not a person who hates easily.

In fact, I generally like people.

I'm that girl. The one who volunteers at the animal shelter on Saturdays, organizes charity drives for the food bank, and bakes for every school fundraiser. I'm the "model student," the "golden girl," the one with "a heart of pure gold," as Principal Benson once tearfully declared during an awards assembly.

Straight A's.

Swim team captain.

Trophies and medals? I've lost track.

Smiles? Always on offer.

Enemies?

Just one.

Alexander Valence.

He's the only person on this planet who can make my blood pressure spike like a rocket.

I remember his first day.

He walked into Cedar Ridge High with his hood up, hair slightly tousled, backpack slung carelessly over one shoulder. Every girl within sightline seemed to forget how to breathe. But not me. I was on a mission to be welcoming.

I approached him at the vending machines.

"Friendly warning," I'd said with my brightest smile, nodding toward the machine. "Unless you're fond of food poisoning, steer clear of the tuna salad."

He looked at me.

No laugh.

No smile.

Not even a nod.

He just walked right past.

At first, I made excuses for him. Maybe he was hard of hearing? Maybe he was having a bad day? But every interaction after that—every attempted joke, every friendly greeting, every effort to be decent—was met with the same wall of silence.

But here's the thing about me: I'm stubborn.

The more he retreated, the more determined I became to crack that icy exterior.

So, after one of his hockey games where he'd scored the winning goal and the stands were roaring his name, I decided to take the high road. I waited by the locker room exit, holding a small white box tied with a silver ribbon.

Homemade double chocolate chip cookies. Still warm from the oven.

I'd even decorated the tissue paper inside with little hockey skate stickers. I have standards.

He emerged, hair damp from the shower, his jersey draped over his shoulder. His eyes briefly met mine, and I summoned the sunniest, most Charlotte Arnault smile I could muster.

"Hey," I said, stepping forward cheerfully. "Incredible game out there. I made these. For you."

He looked at the box.

Then at me.

Then said, flatly, "No, thank you."

And he walked away.

My smile froze. My stomach dropped.

No, thank you?

That was the final straw.

"Why are you such a jerk?" The words burst out of me.

He stopped. Turned. A single eyebrow lifted slowly.

"Excuse me?"

"Did I do something to offend you?" I asked, louder now. People were starting to stare, but I was past caring.

He regarded me, his expression calm and utterly unreadable. "No."

"Then why do you act like I'm some massive inconvenience? I've told you jokes, offered you my notes, saved you a seat. I even showed you where your locker was that first week when you looked lost, and you didn't say a word. I've tried, Alexander. I've genuinely tried to be nice to you."

A muscle ticked in his jaw. His voice was low, cold. "I never asked you to be nice to me."

I blinked, stunned. "What?"

He crossed his arms, his tone sharp but even. "Look. I don't need to be part of your Perfect Princess routine."

I recoiled as if struck. "My what?"

"You don't have to make everyone adore you. You don't have to perform kindness just to validate your own self-worth."

My throat constricted. My heart hammered against my ribs. My hand was still clutching that stupid cookie box like a badge of shame.

People were watching. Whispering.

And he just turned and walked away.

No.

Absolutely not. He was not going to walk away after humiliating me like that.

"Alexander!" I shouted.

He halted mid-stride.

I stormed up to him and shoved the box against his chest, hard enough that he had to grab it to keep it from falling.

"Fine," I snapped, my voice trembling with fury. "You don't want to be civil? Fantastic. But remember this: I'm coming for you. In class, on the leaderboards, everywhere our paths cross… I'm taking the top spot. And you can throw those cookies in the trash for all I care."

Then I spun on my heel and marched away, heat flaming in my cheeks.

I didn't look back.

But I sincerely hoped the scent of chocolate chips haunted him.

And that, right there—that mortifying cookie confrontation in the hallway—was the official start of my undoing.

Because as much as I wanted to dismiss Alexander Valence as a temporary nuisance, fate had other ideas. Cruel, impeccably packaged, six-foot-two plans with annoyingly sharp cheekbones and an even more annoyingly brilliant mind.

Turns out, Alexander—that insufferable, arrogant jerk—wasn't just a hockey phenom with a face that inspired poetry.

No.

He was intelligent.

Devastatingly so.

So smart, in fact, that he accomplished the unthinkable: he pushed me into second place in our final class rankings.

SECOND place!

Me.

That had never happened. Not in kindergarten, not in elementary school, not in middle school, and certainly not during my entire four-year tenure of disciplined, overachieving, meticulously planned high school career.