The Jilted Heiress And Her Ruthless Savior

My fiancé, Howell, bought every red rose on the East Coast and dumped them on the campus quad.

My roommates thought it was the apology of the century, begging for me back.

But I have a fatal pollen allergy. If I walked into that heart-shaped sea of flowers, my throat would swell shut in minutes.

"He's an idiot," my friend yelled. "How does your fiancé forget your medical history?"

I just pulled out my EpiPen and put on a mask.

"They are not for me."

They were for Carrie, the manipulative girl he had repeatedly chosen over me.

For years, he blamed me every time she put him in danger, eventually breaking our engagement to protect her fragile act.

While he waited for her in that deadly cloud of pollen, Carrie was busy dropping a heavy terracotta pot from a third-floor balcony, slicing my arm to the bone.

When Howell finally called Carrie's name on the megaphone, the embarrassed crowd panicked and fled.

I was caught in the stampede. A girl slammed into me, ripping my fresh stitches wide open.

As hot blood poured down my arm and my lungs burned from the distant rose oil, I watched Howell smile at the girl who was actively trying to kill me.

The absolute selfishness of it erased my last drop of pity.

Just as my knees buckled, a massive arm wrapped tightly around my waist.

Darion Green, the ruthless and untouchable student body president, scooped me up into his chest, his pitch-black eyes glaring at the crowd with murderous fury.