Chapter 10 TORTIOUS INTERFERENCE
POV SYLVIE
The morning of the Torts exam felt like a fever dream.
I had spent the last forty-eight hours trying to memorize the four elements of negligence while simultaneously trying to forget the way Nathaniel’s thumb had traced my jawline. It was an impossible mental tug-of-war. Every time I read the word “Duty,” I thought of our contract. Every time I read “Breach,” I thought of that kiss in the garden.
I walked into the lecture hall, my eyes bloodshot and my caffeine levels approaching a dangerous threshold. I was wearing my luckiest oversized sweater—the one with a small coffee stain that looked like Italy—and my hair was tied in a bun so tight it was basically a facelift.
Nathaniel was already there.
He looked disgusting. Not literally—literally, he looked like a god. He was wearing a crisp white polo and dark jeans, leaning back in his seat with a casual confidence that made me want to throw my heavy textbook at his head. He didn't look like he’d spent the night tossing and turning. He looked like he’d slept ten hours on a bed made of silk and the tears of his enemies.
I took my seat next to him, the "reserved" spot that everyone now left empty as if we had some kind of contagious royal plague.
"Morning, Belrose," he murmured, not even looking up from his sleek, silver laptop. "You look… frantic. Did you spend the night arguing with your cat again?"
"I don't have a cat, Nathaniel. I have a brain, which is currently occupied by the Proximate Cause doctrine and the urge to commit an intentional tort against your person."
"Violence is a sign of intellectual defeat," he said, finally turning to look at me. His eyes did a slow sweep of my face, lingering on my lips for a second longer than necessary. "Are you ready to lose? I heard the curve on this exam is brutal."
"I don't lose. I thrive on brutality."
The professor started handing out the exam papers. The silence in the room was so thick you could have carved it. This wasn't just a test for us; it was a showdown. For three years, we had traded the top spot in this class like a hot potato. Today, with the entire campus whispering about our "romance," the stakes felt personal.
Go.
For the next two hours, the only sound was the frantic scratching of pens. I dove into the questions like a woman possessed. I deconstructed liability cases, analyzed duty of care, and tore through the multiple-choice section with surgical precision.
But halfway through, I felt a familiar heat.
Nathaniel had shifted. His elbow was inches from mine on the shared desk. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him tap his pen against his chin—a habit he only had when he was thinking about a particularly tricky question.
Focus, Sylvie. Do not look at the pen. Do not think about the fingers holding the pen.
I reached for my water bottle, but my hand was shaking just enough that I fumbled it. The bottle tipped, sliding across the mahogany surface right toward Nathaniel’s exam paper.
Before I could gasp, his hand shot out, catching the bottle with lightning reflexes.
Our fingers brushed.
It was a tiny spark, a fraction of a second, but it felt like a lightning strike in the middle of a library. I froze. He didn't let go of the bottle immediately. He held it, his gaze meeting mine. In that split second, the exam hall vanished. The "Academic Rivals" weren't there. It was just the two of us, trapped in the memory of the garden.
"Careful, Belrose," he whispered, so low the proctor didn't even twitch. "You’re leaking."
"It’s just water," I hissed, snatching the bottle back.
"Is it?"
He went back to his paper, a tiny, infuriating smirk playing on his lips. I spent the next ten minutes re-reading the same sentence about res ipsa loquitur because my heart was thumping so loud I couldn't hear my own thoughts.
When the timer finally buzzed, I felt like I’d just finished a marathon. I handed in my paper, my hand still trembling slightly.
We walked out of the hall together, the crowd of students parting like the Red Sea. The whispers started immediately, but for once, I didn't care. I was too busy calculating my score.
"Question forty-two," I said as soon as we were in the hallway. "The one about the falling piano. Did you go with strict liability or negligence?"
"Negligence, obviously," Nathaniel said, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "The piano wasn't an ultrahazardous activity; it was a failure of the hoisting mechanism."
"Wrong! It was an inherently dangerous situation given the crowded sidewalk. Strict liability applies."
"In the Third Circuit, maybe. But Astoria follows the Restatement (Second). You overthought it, Sylvie."
"I did NOT overthink it! You’re just too used to things being handed to you on a silver platter, you don't recognize a complex legal nuance when it hits you in the face!"
We stopped in the middle of the quad, bickering like we had a hundred times before. It felt… normal. It felt like the "us" that existed before the fake engagement, before the photos, and before the kiss. It was comfortable.
"You're so stubborn," he said, but he was smiling. A real smile. One that made his eyes crinkle at the corners.
"And you're a pompous elitist."
"And you love it."
The words hung in the air, heavier than any legal doctrine. The smile on my face faltered. "Nathaniel—"
"The car is coming in ten minutes," he said, his tone shifting back to the "business" voice, but his eyes remained soft. "The fitting for the gala dress is at three. Then we have the rehearsal for the announcement speech."
"I can write my own speech, thanks."
"No doubt. But my grandfather wants it to sound… 'softer.' More like a girl in love and less like a girl preparing a closing argument for a murder trial."
"I am what I am, Nathaniel. If he wanted a soft girl, he should have hired a professional actress."
Nathaniel stepped closer, his shadow falling over me. "He didn't want an actress. And neither did I."
He didn't explain what he meant. He just turned and started walking toward the gates, leaving me standing there with my lucky sweater and my racing heart.
I looked down at my hand—the one that had touched his during the exam. The ring was still there, heavy and cold. We were playing a dangerous game, one where the rules of evidence didn't apply and the damages weren't financial.
We were playing for keeps, and for the first time in my life, I didn't care about the grade. I cared about the man who was currently winning the argument of my life.
I took a deep breath, adjusted my backpack, and followed him.
"Hey, Cavill!" I shouted.
He stopped and looked back.
"The piano was definitely strict liability! I'll bet my twelve dollars on it!"
He laughed—a clear, bright sound that echoed through the campus. "You're on, Belrose. You’re on."