Olivia
Jealousy, I had always believed, was an illogical, unproductive emotion. It had no place in my well-ordered life. It was a messy, chaotic feeling, and I had systematically eliminated mess and chaos wherever possible.
And then I saw Ethan laughing with Sarah-Jane Connolly.
Sarah-Jane was the head of the university's cheerleading squad, a bubbly, blonde business major who seemed to glide through life on a cloud of perfume and popularity. She was, in many ways, the female equivalent of Ethan's public persona. And she was currently touching his arm and giggling at something he'd said, her head tilted at an angle that was clearly meant to be flirtatious.
We were at a mandatory student leader mixer, one of the many tedious events on the campaign trail. Ethan and I had arrived separately, maintaining a professional distance. Our "relationship" was still a secret, a series of stolen moments and late-night texts. In public, especially at official events, we were still rivals.
But as I watched Sarah-Jane lean in closer to Ethan, a hot, ugly feeling coiled in my stomach. It was irrational. It was unproductive. And it was undeniably jealousy.
Ethan, to his credit, seemed more polite than engaged. He was smiling, but it didn't reach his eyes. It was his public-facing smile, the one he used for donors and deans. I knew the difference now. I knew the real smile, the one that crinkled the corners of his eyes, the one he saved for trivia victories and late-night confessions.
Still, the sight of her hand on his arm sent a spike of possessiveness through me that was so sharp it took my breath away. He's not yours, a cold, logical voice in my head reminded me. This is a fake relationship. A bet.
But my heart wasn't listening. My heart was replaying the memory of his thumb wiping mustard from my mouth, of his hand in mine as we walked out of the library, of the way he'd looked at me in the media room right before his phone had rung.
I was so lost in my own internal turmoil that I didn't notice Mia sidle up next to me, a plastic cup of punch in her hand.
"If looks could kill, Sarah-Jane would be a pile of ashes right now," she said, following my gaze. "Someone's looking a little green-eyed."
"I am not," I snapped, turning away. "I'm just… assessing the political landscape. Sarah-Jane is influential with the athletics department. Ethan is clearly trying to win their endorsement."
Mia took a long, slow sip of her punch. "Uh-huh. And the way you're clenching your jaw could crack a walnut. Look, Liv, it's okay to be jealous. It's normal. It means you actually like the guy."
"I do not 'like' him," I said, the words feeling like a lie on my tongue. "He is my political rival. And my… strategic partner. That's all."
"Keep telling yourself that," Mia said, unconvinced. "But for the record, he's not into her. He's been looking for you since he got here."
As if on cue, Ethan's eyes met mine from across the crowded room. He gave Sarah-Jane a polite nod and gracefully extracted himself from the conversation, making a beeline for me. My heart did a stupid little flip.
"Chen," he said, his voice a low murmur as he reached us. "I was wondering where you were."
"Just observing the competition," I said, my tone cooler than I intended.
He raised an eyebrow, sensing my mood. "Everything okay?"
"Everything's fine," I said, taking a sip of my own punch.
He looked from me to Sarah-Jane, who was now watching us with a curious expression, and a slow, knowing smile spread across his face. He was putting the pieces together. He knew.
"Oh, I get it," he said, his voice dropping so only I could hear. "You were jealous."
"I was not," I hissed, my cheeks burning.
"You totally were," he teased, his eyes dancing with amusement. "The formidable Olivia Chen, brought to her knees by a cheerleader. I'm flattered."
"You're infuriating."
"You're cute when you're jealous," he murmured, leaning in closer. His proximity was overwhelming, his familiar scent of sandalwood and confidence clouding my thoughts. "But you have nothing to worry about. She's not my type."
"And what is your type?" I asked, the question slipping out before I could stop it.
His gaze softened, the teasing light in his eyes replaced by something deeper, more sincere. "Smart. Formidable. A little bit scary. Someone who challenges me. Someone who knows the difference between a budget deficit and a balance sheet."
He was talking about me. My name was an unspoken word hanging in the air between us. My breath hitched. This was the most direct he had ever been. It was a confession, wrapped in a compliment.
"I, uh…" I was speechless. My usually sharp, articulate brain had short-circuited.
He just smiled, a real, genuine smile that made my knees feel weak. He reached out and, in a move that was both brazen and incredibly gentle, he took the punch cup from my nerveless fingers.
"Come on," he said. "Let's give them something to really talk about."
He took my hand, his fingers lacing through mine, and led me out of the crowded mixer and into the cool night air. His hand in mine felt right. It felt like coming home.
I had always thought jealousy was a weakness. But as I walked beside Ethan, his hand holding mine as if it were the most natural thing in the world, I realized it was something else entirely. It was a compass. And it was pointing directly, terrifyingly, at him.