Hate Me Like You Mean It

THE DANCE OF FIRE AND ICE

The doors to the Great Hall swung open, and the roar of the crowd vanished, replaced by a vacuum of shocked silence.

Meredith felt every eye in the room track her movement. She was used to being stared at—usually for her thrifted shoes or the way she dominated a debate—but this was different. This was a room full of London’s elite realizing that the girl they had spent weeks mocking was now standing at the side of the most powerful boy in the building.

Henry didn't let go of her hand. In fact, his grip tightened, his thumb tracing a slow, deliberate circle over her skin. It was a claim.

"Don't look at the floor," he murmured, his voice a low command meant only for her. "Keep your eyes on the horizon. Let them wonder what you’re thinking."

The orchestra began a slow, sweeping waltz. Henry led her to the center of the marble floor. Around them, the clusters of silk and tuxedoes parted like the Red Sea.

Henry pulled her in. One hand settled firmly on the small of her back, the heat of his palm seeping through the midnight-blue silk of her dress. Meredith placed her hand on his shoulder, her fingers grazing the hair at the nape of his neck. The physical contact was electric, a sudden surge of adrenaline that made her breath hitch.

"You’re shaking," Henry whispered as he began to move. He was a natural dancer—graceful, powerful, and entirely in control.

"I’m not used to being the center of a circus," she replied, her voice breathless.

"It’s not a circus, Meredith. It’s a battlefield. And you’re winning."

He spun her out and drew her back in, his chest flushing against hers. For a moment, the hatred she had carried like a lead weight began to transform. It wasn't that she forgave him—not yet—but the proximity was blurring the lines. She saw the way the light caught the scar on his jaw, the one she had given him. She saw the flicker of something vulnerable in his eyes, a desperate need to be understood by the only person who had ever truly challenged him.

"Why the dress, Henry?" she asked, her voice dropping as they moved into the shadows of the stone pillars. "Why the security? Why the public display? You could have ruined me a dozen times over."

Henry stopped dancing. He backed her into the recess of a velvet-curtained alcove, shielded from the prying eyes of the ballroom. The music was a distant hum, the scent of expensive lilies and his cologne filling the small space.

"Because I realized something," he said, his voice raw. He leaned in, trapping her against the cold stone wall with his body. "I don't want to ruin you, Meredith. I want to be the only thing you have left when everything else falls apart."

The "steamy" tension that had been building since the library finally boiled over. Henry’s gaze dropped to her lips, and this time, he didn't wait for permission.

The kiss wasn't soft. It was a collision. It tasted like champagne, rain, and years of suppressed longing. It was the kiss of two people who hated each other but couldn't breathe without the other’s oxygen. Meredith’s hands found his hair, pulling him closer, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his chest. In that moment, the poverty, the scholarship, the McFord name—none of it mattered. There was only the heat of him and the desperate hunger of her.

He pulled back, his forehead resting against hers, both of them gasping for air.

"This changes nothing," she whispered, though her body was leaning into his.

"It changes everything," he countered.

But before she could respond, the heavy curtains of the alcove were ripped open. It was Alistair McFord, Henry’s father. His face was a mask of cold, aristocratic fury, and behind him stood the Principal of King's College, looking pale as a ghost.

"Henry," Alistair’s voice was like a whip. "Get away from that girl."

Henry straightened up, shielding Meredith with his body. "No."

Alistair looked at Meredith with a disgust so profound it felt like a physical weight. "I expected better of you, Henry. To think I was going to let her keep that scholarship. But after the 'evidence' that was just sent to my office... I think we're done here."

Alistair tossed a manila envelope onto a small side table. It spilled open, revealing photos—not of Meredith’s home, but of Meredith and Henry in the library the night before, their bodies intertwined in a way that looked highly "inappropriate" for a scholarship student and a donor's son.

"The board has already voted," the Principal stammered. "Meredith... you’re being expelled. Effective immediately."

Meredith felt the floor fall away. She looked at Henry, her eyes wide with betrayal. Had he set this up? Was the kiss just another way to ensure her destruction?

But Henry wasn't looking at his father. He was looking at the photos, and then back at Meredith with a look of pure horror.

"I didn't do this," he whispered.

"It doesn't matter who did it," Alistair said, a cruel smile touching his lips. "She's gone. And you, Henry, are coming with me to New York. Tonight."

Henry looked at the door, then at Meredith, then back at his father. He reached out to grab Meredith’s hand, but Alistair’s security guards stepped between them.

"Wait!" Meredith cried out, but the world was already moving too fast.

As she was ushered toward the exit, stripped of her future and her dignity, Henry shouted her name.

"I'll find you, Meredith! Don't you dare give up! Do you hear me? Hate me like you mean it, but don't you dare forget me!"

The doors slammed shut. Meredith stood on the cold London pavement in her moonlight-blue dress, alone, ruined, and for the first time in her life... completely, utterly in love with the boy she was supposed to hate.