Hate Me, Love Me

"Omg, sis, is that Asher?" Kaylie gasped, clutching my arm like she’d seen a god descending from the clouds. I didn’t even look at first. I just sipped my matcha latte like I hadn’t heard her. But she was practically vibrating with excitement, pointing across the café like a maniac. Finally, I followed her gaze. There he was. Asher Levant. Dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit, walking through the glass doors like he owned the world. He was flanked by three men in equally expensive suits, no doubt his dad’s business associates or overpaid assistants. The way people stepped aside as he passed—ugh. The arrogance was thick enough to choke on. "Yes," I replied flatly, eyes already dropping back to my book. "That’s him." "I keep wishing… one day he’ll notice me," Kaylie sighed dreamily, resting her chin in her hand like she was starring in some teen drama. Here we go again. My best friend has been obsessed with Asher since—God, I don’t even know—primary school? She used to make me follow him around like we were some low-budget spies. I never understood what she saw in him. Sure, Asher had the whole tall-dark-and-handsome thing going on. Brown eyes that looked like melted chocolate, thick brows, a strong jawline, and a body that definitely hit the gym more often than I did the library. He was built, confident, and knew how to wear power like a second skin. But personality-wise? He was a certified, full-course, golden-plated asshole. If men were books, Asher was one of those glossy covers hiding the most arrogant, annoying, ego-filled story ever written. And don’t even get me started on the rumors—girls throwing themselves at him, tabloids whispering about his ‘mysterious late-night guests,’ and photos of him with a different model every month. But to Kaylie? He was still a dream. "I’d honestly sleep with him for just one night," she whispered, eyes wide. I almost choked on my drink. "Kaylie!" I hissed, swatting her arm. "Don’t lower yourself for that guy. He’s an arrogant jerk and a certified playboy." "He’s not a playboy," she shot back with an eye-roll that screamed denial. "Really?" I raised an eyebrow. "Do you not remember the magazine covers? The rumors? The fact that you’ve cried—what? Four? No, five times—over him being linked to some random girl with perfect teeth?" She turned red. "Okay, yeah… but I keep wishing—maybe one day—" "One day, he’ll still not know your name," I cut in, trying to soften it with a laugh. "K, listen to me. You’re beautiful. Smart. Loyal. And so much better than chasing after someone who treats women like toys he forgets to pick up." She went quietly, chewing her straw like it held all the answers. I could tell she wasn’t convinced, but I let it go. I’d said my piece. I flipped the page of my book, determined to ignore the way Asher’s laugh echoed across the café as like he knew I was trying not to hear it. Kaylie stared dreamily at his table. "But Sofie… he never did anything bad to me. He just never noticed me." "Exactly. And that’s the problem," I muttered. "Stop defending someone who doesn’t even see you." But deep down, it wasn’t just about Kaylie. I had my own reasons for disliking Asher Levant. Reasons older than high school crushes and café sightings. My family hated his. My grandma called them “parasites in suits.” My mother warned me as a kid to never talk to him, to never be friendly, to never—ever—trust a Levant. Our families had been rivals for decades. Business enemies. Competing in everything from real estate to fashion and now tech. I’d grown up hearing them fight over territory, sue each other for petty things, smear each other’s names in press releases. Hatred was practically written into my bloodline. And it didn’t help that Asher and I went to the same school, were always in the same classes—and he always beat me. Always. Top student? Him. Best project? Him. Student council president? Him again. I was always second. Always just behind his shadow, no matter how hard I worked. It was like the universe had decided Asher Levant was the golden boy, and I was just… the footnote. I hated that. I hated him. Because no matter how fast I ran, how much I studied, how well I did—he’d smile that smug smile, wink like a jerk, and somehow still win. So yeah. No thanks. Let Kaylie swoon over his eyes or his voice or his ridiculous i********: profile with shirtless pics and overpriced cars. I’d rather spend my time with fictional characters who didn’t have egos the size of their bank accounts. Still… I found my eyes drifting back to him. He was laughing at something, his head tilted slightly back. His smile wasn’t smug this time. It was—annoyingly—genuine. Soft. Like he was actually… human? Ugh. I rolled my eyes again and forced myself to focus on my book. I didn’t trust that smile. Not for a second. I needed a refill. Not because I was thirsty, but because I needed space. Away from Kaylie’s starry eyes and away from Asher’s stupid laugh still echoing in my ears. I closed my book, stood up, and walked to the counter. The barista was busy with another order, so I stepped into line and pulled out my phone. That’s when it happened. A shoulder slammed into mine—hard—and I stumbled back, barely catching myself against the glass display. “What the hell—” I snapped, eyes flashing up— And of course. It was him. Asher Levant, Mr. Perfect himself, standing in front of me like he had no idea what a personal bubble was. He turned slowly, brows raised, expression already dripping with arrogance. “Watch where you’re standing, princess.” Princess? “You walked into me,” I growled, straightening up. “Do they not teach basic manners at your rich-boy academy?” He gave me a once-over, a slow, infuriating look that made my blood boil. “Oh, it’s you. Sofia Valencia. Still bitter I’m smarter than you?” My jaw tightened. “Still delusional, I see.” The barista glanced nervously between us, clearly sensing the tension. I stepped forward to order, but Asher cut in front of me like I wasn’t even there. “Excuse me!” I barked. “There’s something called a line.” “I’m sure your ego can wait thirty more seconds,” he said without looking at me. “Black coffee, two shots. Name’s Asher.” “Of course it is,” I muttered under my breath. He finally turned to face me again, smug smile glued in place. “Still drinking those overly sweet green things? Figures.” “My matcha latte is none of your business.” “Everything you do is dramatic. Even your drinks scream ‘look at me, I’m unique!’” I laughed, bitter. “Says the guy whose entire personality is based on being a rich heir with an i********: following.” “Jealousy doesn’t suit you.” “And arrogance doesn’t make you smarter. Just louder.” He stepped a little closer, lowering his voice. “You always this defensive, or is it just when I’m around?” “You’re not that special,” I snapped. “You’re just a thorn I’ve had to put up with my entire life.” “Funny,” he said coolly, picking up his coffee from the counter, “I could say the same about you.” Our eyes locked. Something heavy and unspoken sat between us. It wasn’t just rivalry anymore. There was too much history—too much heat, and not the good kind. “Good luck with your second place,” he added, then turned and walked off like he owned the damn place. I stood there, pulse racing, fists clenched. God, I hated him. Didn’t I?