Chapter 1

Eva Hale

September in New Haven clung stubbornly to the last heat of summer. The mock-Gothic buildings, baked in sunlight, shimmered under a blue, cloudless sky, while the Woman’s Table fountain in front of Sterling Library caught the brightness and flung it back at campus tourists in blinding flashes. College students, donning shorts and sleeveless tops, had returned, chasing away the somber quiet that had settled over campus during the graduate-heavy summer months.

Eva Hale, now starting her junior year, was stepping into what many said was the most ideal point of her college experience: past the traps of the infamous sophomore slump, not yet caught in senior year's scrambles for career and secret societies. Not that any of that meant much to her. A working classical pianist since she was barely out of childhood, Eva’s college years had never felt like the self-defining transformation for which her peers seemed to hold an optimistic hunger.

Or at least, it wasn’t supposed to.

It was an early afternoon seminar, and Eva arrived after walking bareheaded across Old Campus under the sweltering sun. Despite her baseball cap, Eva could feel her skin prickled and stung pink from the heat. Having come straight from her practice at the university's School of Music, she was grateful to slip into the small, shadowy classroom, its single window turned away from the worst of the glare. She was the first to arrive.

Eva had barely dropped her bag when she heard a chair scrape against the floor. Someone else had come in and, with an easy lack of fuss, settled into the empty seat beside her. An interesting choice, given that the rest of the chairs were still vacant.

Eva looked over — more curious than she’d admit — and caught the newcomer’s eyes as he returned her gaze.

He had striking, impossibly blue eyes. A gorgeous, straight nose that seemed to have come straight from a Caravaggio painting. His youthful mouth, perfectly defined, held a glint of mischief barely hidden in its upturned corners. His gaze seemed to acknowledge her — yet left her uncertain whether he really saw her at all.

From his sling bag, effortless intellectualism spread out. An iPad, a notebook, and a single pen.

Eva felt like she was the only one who didn’t know him, for everyone else did a double take when they came in and saw the young man. Each time he mentioned one of them by name during the seminar, they sat a little straighter, as if they couldn’t quite believe their luck at being singled out.

And yet, Eva thought, he still did not really look at anyone at all.

The first moment Eva thought he was really looking — really paying attention, was when the visiting professor, who had come to read an excerpt from his latest book on Nietzsche, was challenged — by Eva.

"Eva Hale," she identified herself. "I’d like to disagree."

For the second time that day, the boy next to Eva turned to look at her — this time, his blue, almond-shaped eyes bright with curiosity. While the others shifted uncomfortably — some visibly secondhand-embarrassed on her behalf, though she hadn’t asked for their pity — he seemed quietly delighted by the prospect of a challenge.

“Entertain me," his eyes seemed to say, as he lazily propped his chin on his fist.

Eva ignored him and fixed her gaze on the rest of the seminar room.

“I think the attack on Nietzsche is lazy and, frankly, reductive,” she began, voice calm but firm. “It’s tempting to dismiss an idea because bad actors have twisted it for their own ends — but that’s a fallacy. Misuse doesn’t erase merit. Especially with Nietzsche, we have to separate the man’s provocations from his underlying insight: the emphasis on individual excellence and the relentless pursuit of one’s potential.”

She saw her classmates bristle, their objections practically loading behind their eyes.

“Look — compared to Kant’s categorical imperative, which demands a universal, unbending moral code that’s impossible for flawed beings to meet, Nietzsche’s idea accepts that morality must be lived, not theorized. And unlike Bentham’s utilitarianism — which can reduce people to mere units in a cost-benefit equation — Nietzsche doesn’t measure worth by net happiness alone. He invites us to look at contribution, creation, the will to push the boundaries of human achievement. He treats human flourishing as an act of courage, not compliance.”

The air seemed to thrum with unspoken rebuttals. Eva could practically hear the familiar phrases forming:

“It’s a slippery slope."

“This opens the door to elitism."

“But morality must be inflexible."

She held up her hand before anyone could interrupt.

“Yes, there’s a danger in any philosophy taken to the extreme. But do we really believe we’re so incompetent — so intellectually fragile — that we can’t apply ideas with nuance? Do we want a morality that demands blind obedience, or one that challenges us to rise above mediocrity?”

Her eyes flicked to the boy beside her. He hadn’t moved, but his blue eyes gleamed with that same amused spark — a silent invitation to keep going, to keep provoking.

Just as Eva felt her frustration crest — the sense that they’d dismiss her point without even bothering to understand it — his voice broke in: warm, fluid, touched by the faintest trace of that old-world transatlantic lilt.

"I’ll have to agree with my classmate here," he said, his tone easy and self-assured, "though I do think the other side has raised some very interesting points worth considering."

The effect was immediate. The tension that had coiled tight around Eva’s words seemed to dissipate, replaced by a sudden hush of attentive goodwill. Even “the other side,” who’d been poised to tear her apart, now nodded along thoughtfully — as if her very same arguments had only become comprehensible once filtered through his careful diction and subtle charm. Those still trying to mount a rebuttal stumbled over their words, all but conceding before they’d begun.

He repackaged her arguments effortlessly — reframing her points about Nietzsche’s approach to morality, excellence, and misuse with a casual eloquence that made them sound not just reasonable, but freshly clever. He even added a note of wry humour that made the room chuckle.

"And when it comes to Nietzsche’s argument on the origin of morality," he went on, leaning back slightly in his chair, "I think we’re drifting dangerously close to a broader question — the nature of hierarchies. Rather like the ones that govern this campus, wouldn’t you say?"

Laughter rippled through the room, low and knowing. A few people shot each other looks that made Eva feel, uncomfortably, like an outsider to a joke she’d accidentally started but no longer owned.

"Or, if not that," he added, mouth curving into a half-smile, "then at least the age-old debate about the merits of aristocracies. And given my… let’s say, deeply conflicted position on that front — you’ll understand if I stop before I dig myself in any deeper."

The room burst into laughter — not the forced, nervous giggles that had greeted Eva’s own points, but genuine, warm amusement. With a few well-placed words, he had taken her thorny argument, sanded down its edges, and turned it into an easy punchline — one that left everyone smiling and nodding along, as if they’d all arrived there together.

Eva sat back in her chair, fighting the absurd feeling of conflicting satisfaction and resentment. She had been right all along, her points finally vindicated — and yet it was his voice that had made it right in everyone else's mind.

After class, Eva could hear footsteps following her out of the building.

“Harry Stafford,” said her new defender, catching up from behind. Despite his speed, it looked hardly like he had to put in any effort at all. His long legs seemed to be just taking a pleasant stroll.

“Eva Hale.” she replied without breaking her stride.

“Noted from back there." His smile hovered somewhere between boyish innocence and effortless omniscience. "Don't think I've seen you around campus?”

“I don’t imagine you have,” Eva shrugged. “I'm only here for a requirement."

“Spoken like it’s absolute torture to be in these ivy towers. Maybe that’s why you tried so hard to self-sabotage back there?” He said it flippantly, not at all concerned that she could take offense.

“What do you mean?” Eva snapped, though she hated how defensive it sounded.

“There's a fine line between brave and stupid, calling people out the way you did,” Harry shrugged, as if he were delivering an objective truth. “People don’t want to admit they’re wrong, even when they know it themselves. Bad for the ego.”

“Didn’t think intellectual apathy was alive and well on this campus.” Eva’s tone was acid.

“I didn't say anything about that. I’m talking about knowing how to handle people — human affairs, if you will.” Harry’s eyes glimmered with mischief. "You must get into trouble all the time, being so... contrarian. Not that I didn't enjoy it.”

Eva scoffed. “And aren’t you doing exactly what you say not to?"

“You can handle it.” Harry smirked, and it felt oddly flattering. “You're welcome, by the way.”

She let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “Save the gallantry. You just liked watching them squirm and stutter. I almost felt bad for them.”

Harry’s lips curved into a devilish grin. “They should have known better then.”

Angel Boy clearly had a ruthless streak.

As they walked the path toward Harkness Tower, the gothic spires of Branford College casting long, dappled shadows over their steps, Eva could feel people watching them. They made a rather odd pairing: luminously handsome Harry Stafford, so clearly of the popular set, strolling beside Eva Hale — pretty enough, especially for her dark eyes with long lashes, but striking more for that aloof, too-wise-for-her-age air she gave off. It was her detached manner, the way she seemed to exist entirely outside of Harry's radiant magnetism, that made people curious.

As they approached Old Campus, Eva noticed a group of strikingly tall, good-looking people waving him over—his kind, no doubt.

Harry waved back at them.

“That’s Sam Walker,” Harry said, flicking his hand toward a brown-haired guy with the easy grin of a frat prince. “He’s throwing something tonight — you should come.”

“No thanks. That sounds like torture to me."

Harry laughed. “See you next class then. Eva."

With that, and a blinding smile where his two slightly too-sharp canines flashed, Harry turned to run to his friends who were waiting for him.

Over the next few days, Eva threw herself into shopping for more classes, almost as if to find alternatives for the Nietzsche seminar.

“I will mostly have music courses, but I sort of want to take a course in Philosophy or Literature that's tied to one of the classical periods. The Philosophy seminar I went to last week might not work out though," Eva said over lunch to her best friend and former suitemate from freshman year, Cassandra Knight — an earnest History major whose enthusiasm for historical court intrigues led effortlessly to her appetite for campus gossip.

Eva had kept her wording vague enough so Cassandra's keen nose for drama might not catch on.

“On my part, lots of revolutions and epidemics," Cassandra said cheerfully — then stopped, mid-bite. Her eyes flicked past Eva’s shoulder.

“Does he know you?" She gestured towards the other end of the dining hall.

Eva turned. There was Harry, leaning back, half-listening to someone else, but unmistakably looking at her. The second their eyes met, he sent her a grin so dazzling that a few girls in the queue next to him actually forgot to move forward.

Eva turned immediately back to her plate.

“What was that?" Cassandra demanded, her antenna for intrigue now fully deployed. "Why do you pretend not to know him?"

“Who?"

“Harry Stafford. Don't play dumb — you knew exactly who to look at!"

“He's just a guy in a class I shopped last week."

Cassandra burst out laughing. “Just a guy? No, no. Hang on a minute."

Cassandra fished her phone out of her bag, then typed furiously. “Look."

Cassandra had given Eva what looked like a newspaper front page titled “Rumpus: Yale's 50 Most Attractive People" with Harry Stafford's face emblazoned on it like a national emergency. He was wearing a dinner jacket with half-buttoned shirt and undone bowtie. Even in grayscale, his eyes were unmistakably blue—gazing at the camera with that unconcerned, vaguely rebellious air. The lighting had the soft, guilty haze of a paparazzi ambush.

Eva flipped to the next page to read the brief paragraph—conspicuously short compared to a half-page spread for each of the other entrants.

"Number 2: Harry Stafford (JE '16). Scion of an American industrialist and a former English countess.

If you’re foaming at the mouth about why he isn’t number one—don’t blame us. Stafford ghosted our interview request, offered a self-effacing “Oh, I’m sure there are those far more deserving of this honour,” flashed a grin that’s probably illegal in at least ten states, and jogged off—presumably to The Jokers’ Society’s weekly meeting, where they select their next campus-wide prank and compete to be the best juggler."

So this was what his little speech about campus hierarchies and aristocracies had been about.

"Where do you even find this nonsense?" Eva asked.

Cassandra shrugged. "I need to keep tabs on my competitors." Cassandra was a campus news editor at the Yale Daily News. She was also slated to be elected its Editor-in-Chief in a few weeks' time.

Eva gave her a look. “Tough times for readers, having to choose between self-important op-eds and hormone-soaked tabloids."

“Clever, Hale. Applies to just about everything else here too.” A ghostly whisper almost made Eva jump out of her seat.

Harry grinned—boyish, blameless, and entirely unaccountable for his effect on the female population within a ten-mile radius. 'Hello, Eva. How are you?'"

"Not well, after reading that." Eva regained her composure. The Rumpus article was still visible on Cassandra's phone like a crime scene.

“You know, I'm very self-conscious about that," Harry said, completely disingenuously. “I must admit though — your absence at the seminar is felt keenly. Without you there to correct everyone, the atmosphere’s been... how do I put this gently? Sludge.”

He was, of course, referring to the two sessions Eva had skipped.

“Thanks, but I'm not sure I'm interested in providing your entertainment."

“How about your intellectual enrichment, then?” Harry leaned in a fraction closer, voice low, dangerously soft. “I’d love to hear your points.”

Eva could feel the air around them tighten, as Cassandra and half the dining hall practically held their breath to listen. Meanwhile, Harry seemed blissfully unaware that other humans existed — or more likely, he simply didn’t care.

“I'll attend if it does not interfere with my practice and rehearsals," replied Eva, doing her best to avoid his gaze. She was keen to have this end as soon as possible.

"Hooray!" Harry flashed his most blinding smile yet, retreating neatly out of her space.

Eva instantly regretted her concession. She had the feeling of having walked straight into his trap.

“If I do, please don’t think it’s because of you,” Eva added, hopelessly trying to salvage what little pride she could.

“Never!” Harry said cheerfully, already half-turning away. “I’ll lend you my notes. See you next class, Hale.”

He was gone before Eva could even think of a comeback. Meanwhile, she could feel Cassandra's gaze poring a hole in her face.

"Well well well?" The campus journalist sing-song-ed. “Campus royalty making time for our most reluctant concert pianist?”

"He's just bored," Eva did not take the bait. "It means nothing."

"If you say so," said Cassandra coolly, not at all buying it. "Just be careful with him though. My sources have it that he's already taken. Annie Walter, of the supermarket chain and superior cheekbones."

- End 1