Chapter 2: Chasing Ethan Blake

Back in high school, I went to Lincoln Park Academy—the most elite private school in Chicago. The cafeteria reeked of tater tots and burnt coffee, and the school’s pep rally banners still hung crooked over the lockers. Among the sea of trust fund kids, there was a handful of scholarship students who’d clawed their way in with sheer brains and grit.

I thought those kids were invisible, buried in books. Until I saw Ethan Blake.

At the grade assembly, he stood out—tall, lean, eyes that sliced through the crowd. When he accepted the national AP Physics trophy, he just nodded, almost cocky, like he was untouchable. He wore our ugly blue-and-white uniform like it was designer—everyone else looked like they’d raided the lost and found.

In that moment, watching him in the auditorium’s spotlight, I made up my mind: I wanted him.

That same afternoon, high on determination and whatever hormone makes teenagers reckless, I cornered Ethan in the competition classroom.

I was blushing, my heart racing like I’d run a marathon, but I blurted it out: “Hi. I like you.”

Ethan was bent over a notebook—quantum mechanics, I think. He looked up, eyes flashing with irritation, like I’d crashed his sacred space. But then he froze, pencil midair, before dropping his gaze and saying, cool as ever: “I don’t date in high school.”

I was stunned. My carefully rehearsed lines vanished into thin air.

My parents died when I was little—a car crash on Lake Shore Drive during a blizzard. My grandfather raised me in a world of love and luxury. Our family name was everywhere, etched on buildings from the Loop to Lincoln Park. I’d never been denied anything in my life. Who did Ethan think he was, rejecting me?

I wanted to throw a tantrum, stomp my foot like when Grandfather wouldn’t buy me a pony. But staring into Ethan’s eyes, impossibly dark and unreadable, I swallowed my pride instead.

He was gorgeous, steady, brilliant—just one problem: he was broke. An orphan, living on state support, surviving at our school only because of his scholarship. The subtle repairs on his uniform—let-down hems, neatly patched cuffs—caught my eye. Inspiration struck.

“You need money, right?” My voice went up, excited. “Just tell me—how much to be my boyfriend?”

To show I was serious, I yanked out my Amex Centurion and Chase Sapphire cards, tossing them on his desk with a clatter.

I was so proud of myself, I didn’t notice the whispers around us, or the phones coming out. Ethan’s face turned to stone, colder than a Chicago January.

Before I could push further, he suddenly stood up.

The chair screeched across the linoleum, making everyone jump. I stepped back, startled. “What…what are you doing?”

Ethan stood in the window’s glare, face blank, lips pressed tight, his eyes black as midnight. Then he looked away, turned, and walked out, his footsteps echoing in the silence.

After that disastrous confession, I chased him with the kind of single-mindedness that would make a reality show producer proud.

For three years, I “ran into” him everywhere—the library, the cafeteria, even outside the boys’ bathroom (total accident). I stuffed designer gifts in his desk—Montblanc pens, Hermès scarves, even a Rolex once (he returned it so fast my head spun).

Ethan ignored everything. He returned gifts, sent love letters back with red-pen grammar notes (which stung more than just tossing them). He kept everyone at arm’s length, like we were contagious, but with me? He didn’t even bother to hide his annoyance—the vein in his temple would throb whenever I pushed too far.

But honestly, I didn’t mind. He looked annoyingly good even with a scowl. Hell, he’d probably look hot puking his guts out.

Senior year, feeling bold after too many rom-coms, I made wine-filled chocolates by hand and gave them to him on his birthday—October 15th, I had it memorized.

He frowned at my lopsided box, but I put on my best puppy-dog eyes and held out my bandaged wrist: “Look, I even burned myself making these…at least try one.”

He never accepted gifts. But seeing my burn—second-degree, thanks CVS nurse—he hesitated, then actually ate one.

He ended up in the infirmary, face swelling like a balloon. Someone in the hall snickered: “Chased him for years and you don’t know he’s allergic? You trying to kill him or date him?”

My cheeks burned. “You don’t know anything!”

Still, I felt guilty. That night I bribed the night nurse with Bulls tickets and left a stack of expensive SAT prep books by Ethan’s bed. Guilt’s pricey.

Sitting by his bed, the IV drip marking time, I whispered, “I’m sorry. Seeing you faint scared me to death. I called 911 three times before they said you were already here. I just wanted to do something nice, but I always screw it up.”

Ethan slept, face white as the hospital sheets, a practice book still clutched in his hand. I couldn’t help it—I was drawn to him, not just his looks, but that stubborn pride he wore like armor.

Chin in my hands, I murmured, “Ethan Blake, I really, really like you. Why don’t you like me?”

Maybe I imagined it, but I thought the red flush on his neck crept up his cheeks.

After I got home, my burn got infected. I spiked a fever, delirious and calling out names in my sleep. When I woke up, Grandfather was there, sitting ramrod straight, applying ointment to my wrist with a gentle touch.

Feeling small, I muttered, “Grandfather, why can’t I get anything right…?”

He cut me off: “So what? Even if you never accomplish anything, you’re still my heir.”

He ruffled my hair, eyes warm but steely. “Sophie, remember—no one’s worth losing yourself for. What you want is yours.”

I was too sick to understand. I nodded, then drifted back to sleep, dreaming of dark eyes and cold voices.