First Look: Loathed Love - Chapter One (Patreon)

As a First Look, you all are receiving early access to Chapter One of Loathed Love. Please be respectful of your fellow readers and do not spoil anything for those who wish to wait to read. If you've read the eBook of Silver Sweet, you may have already seen the sneak peek of chapter one in the back. BUUUUUT that was just a portion of chapter one. So you are getting the whole thing today...and it's a long chapter. We are so excited for you to finally be in Audrey Cobalt's head. 🩷🕊️ Happy Reading!!

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I’m five minutes from missing the biggest opportunity of my collegiate career. Which has absolutely, unequivocally nothing to do with boys.

Sadly.

I would’ve rather my first freshman quandary be about matters of love.

Instead, I’m scuffing the soles of my Mary Janes as I walk too briskly across Manhattan Valley University’s campus. I am not a runner or even a power walker.

I gingerly stroll. I love taking in the scenery. Smelling the roses. Listening to birds tweeting in the trees. Sometimes, I even snap photos of them to send to my friend who has a talent for identifying bird species.

There is no time to admire MVU’s gothic stone architecture, stained-glass windows, gargoyle-topped turrets, or lush green lawns. I can’t even properly ogle the cute college guy reading against an old oak tree.

Oh, he’s really handsome.

Normally, I’d try to squint and distinguish the title of his paperback. You can learn a lot about a man by what he chooses to read.

Do not trip. I steady my pace. Lift my chin. Strutting gracefully ahead. Reynolds Hall is in sight.

I take a determined breath.

This isn’t about falling madly in love. As much as I’d prefer it to be.

I’ve yet to experience anything remotely as romantic as a Mr. Darcy or a dashing reformed rake from one of my many bodice rippers. (Suffice it to say, my bodice has never been ripped.)

It feels as if grand, epic love is meant solely for pages in books and for everyone but me. And I understand I’m not living in Much Ado About Nothing, where Benedick writes Beatrice truly terrible yet endearing poems.

But in this modern age, I would still love to be swept off my feet and ravaged head to fucking toe.

Has romance really evaded me?

Has it died?

Withered into a sad, pitiful state like a dried prune?

Are men truly so lazy that they can’t even attempt a badly written poem? 

Or is it just me—that I’ve never put myself in positions to find true love and I need to turn back and approach Oak Tree Boy?

That is not going to happen today, my resolve reminds me. You have a purpose, and it’s not finding a boyfriend.

I brush my red hair off my shoulder. “Farewell, Oak Tree Boy,” I say to myself.

“Who?” A salty-sounding feminine voice comes through my earbuds.

I forgot I left my best friend on a call. We do that a lot. Never hang up our phone calls. Sometimes it feels like we’re with each other always.

“What could’ve been my future husband,” I tell her and push through double doors. “I’m mourning our five children that never were, the honeymoon to the French Alps where he would’ve warmed me by the fire, then stripped off all my clothes and—”

“And been the reason you missed the quote, ‘biggest opportunity of your collegiate career,’ end quote.”

My smile expands. I love Kinney Hale. “My future husband would never,” I agree. “He’d only help me succeed in all avenues of life.” I drop my voice as I step into the cavernous, echoey, empty hall. “And then he’d fuck me relentlessly.”

“Such big dreams,” she deadpans.

“Oui. We can have it all, Kinney. Feral sex, once-in-a-lifetime love, and…” The classroom is empty? I spin on my heels, the marble squeaking beneath my Mary Janes. No one is here.

“Aaaaand,” she draws out. “Do not tell me you’ve already kicked your academic goals to the curb for Rotting Bark Boy.”

“Absolutely not. I must be lost. Was the room 102?”

“402.”

Hurriedly, I search for an elevator, then realize it’s an old building. There are none. “The stairs,” I say in horror at the worn-out marble steps.

 Four flights would be nothing if it didn’t feel like oxygen was already in limited supply.

“You can do a roundoff back handspring,” Kinney says pointedly. “You can climb some stairs.”

True, and yet…

“I wish to be carried,” I say as I scale the Everest of staircases, trying not to pant. “Preferably in sturdy, strong arms.”

“Too bad one of your brothers isn’t there.”

I scoff. “I meant by my future husband.” I refuse to stop and rest, even as my quad muscles scream at me. “But I do wish my brothers were here. Ben would give me a piggyback ride unprompted. Which sounds”—I huff, I pant—“rather lovely right now.”

Ben is somewhere on campus since he’s a junior at MVU, but fortune is clearly evading me in this precarious moment. Because if I had my way, my six-foot-five, hockey player brother would suddenly materialize right in front of my face.

Of course, I can do this without Ben. Without Tom. Without Eliot, Beckett, and Charlie. Without all five of my older brothers.

I’m the youngest of seven. I shouldn’t want to be coddled, but it’d be an utter lie to say it’s not nice having brothers who’d carry me across puddles and molten lava. Who’d protect me from trivial messes and gruesome death.

Given the right circumstances—like me faking a sprained ankle—even Charlie, my oldest and most disagreeable brother, would carry me up these stairs too.

But this is a new chapter where I don’t let them make my life easier at every turn. Because I’m eighteen. Maturity-wise, I might as well be twenty-five already.

However, they see me like I am fifteen going on fourteen.

It’s absurd.

I’m grown.

An adult in college.

And I’m embarking on matters greater than the heart.

Taking a new step, I wince down at my feet. “I think I might have blisters the size of Texas.”

“Sounds like you have the wrong size shoe.”

She can’t see my smile. “Or my Mary Janes aren’t meant to be worn by those who run late.”

“You’re not late to the tryouts yet. Just don’t stop moving.”

“Like minds,” I breathe hard, staring up the last flight of stairs like it’s fucking prey. I will devour. Conquer. Succeed.

It’s in my blood.

Surely.

Forging onward, I check my phone and reread a text.

MOTHER: There is absolutely nothing you can’t do, gremlin. Be courageous and yourself. Do not let a single pompous prick make you feel small at your tryouts. Or give them hell.

My lips rise.

College is my fresh start. I’ve hung up my pom-poms at Dalton Academy. I’m not a cheerleader anymore, and I’m diving headfirst into academics.

Without my best friend at my side.

My smile disappears. Kinney is a senior at prep school and won’t graduate until May. To sneak my call, she left her calculus class—which she hates anyway—to go to the girls’ bathroom. I imagine she’s alone wedged between the paper towel dispenser and sink.

I despise that word: alone.

I despise even more that I left her alone. But she urged me to leave Philly earlier than we intended. She still lives there with her parents, who are not-so-coincidentally my aunt and uncle.

Our moms are sisters and best friends. It practically sealed us as best friends for eternity since birth. We grew up down the street from each other. We used to be in the same grade. Since middle school, we imagined someday throwing our graduation caps in the air together.

Then…everything changed.

So we decided that I would graduate five months early and speed run my life into college and New York City.

I’d been dreaming of college since I was ten. The whole notion of being an adult, venturing out into the world and soaring, appealed more than being treated like a child rooted to the confines of age.

And then there was the grief of seeing all my siblings leave our childhood home one by one. I wanted to grow up alongside them. Be an adult with them.

That time is finally here.

It’s February 2—already a month into my first semester at MVU, and I can admit that quite literally nothing has gone as planned.

When I matriculated in January, I didn’t take into consideration that it was the second part of the school year. No freshman orientation guided me into the collegiate halls. They mailed me a campus map and a pamphlet that said, “Welcome to Manhattan Valley University,” and expected me to figure things out on my own.

Which is fine. I am capable, astute, savvy.

I don’t need hand-holding, but I didn’t expect so many freshmen to have already settled into friendship groups. Their first-day jitters all but waned while mine put the fresh in freshman.

Worst of all (and most importantly)—all the clubs are full.

Backgammon, Model UN, even Chess have no openings for new members. The collegiate dreams I made at ten years old always consisted of me being on an academic team, specifically quiz bowl.

Just like my mother.

She described her days on Princeton’s Quiz Bowl team as some of her most cherished memories. That was where she ran into my father, who rivaled her while playing for Penn’s team. Their love story grew in college, and while this is not about love, it is about me fulfilling the dreams I set for myself.

There’d been no spots open for quiz bowl. Not until today.

This is the moment my dreams will begin to come true.

I reach the fourth floor and quickly find 402. The old oak door looks heavy, the brass handle tarnished and nicked.

My labored breaths dissipate as determination surges energy into my lungs. “I’ve made it,” I tell Kinney.

“Go kill all your opponents and forget about Bark Boy.”

“Boy forgotten. You, always remembered.”

I like to imagine she’s smiling—the quintessential Kinney Hale ones. Little and brief smiles, as if they’re fissures in her hard goth-girl exterior.

I love when they appear, but I also love everything about her.

After we end the call, I slip my earbuds into my small leather bookbag. I tuck the loose hem of my rose-petal pink sweater into my ivory skirt, then smooth out my hair with my fingers. I am the sole redhead of my family, but the glossy strands are more carrot-orange than auburn.

This isn’t a beauty pageant. No one will care if I look like I’ve been tumble-dried in a laundromat.

I’m just barely on time.

Chin hoisted, shoulders drawn back, I reach out and turn the old knob and barrel into the classroom. But I’m too fast.

Three steps in, I collide into a hard chest. Coffee spills on the floor, and my shoes slip underneath the liquid—I’m ashamed to say I lose my balance.

Hands fly to the small of my back, clasping me in a strong hold so my head won’t meet the marble floor. Mossy-green eyes skim me in concern.

“You all right?” His deep masculine voice nearly steals my breath.

I have to be dreaming.

A man just caught me.

I just ran into a man like a head-on collision. Situations of this romantic caliber do not happen to me. They stay inside the worn pages of my paperbacks or remain on stages in plays.

My cheeks flame.

“I…” Words, gone. Which is lovely considering I’m never lost for them.

His pink lips lift in a smile, his toffee-brown hair so fluffy and windswept. He could be hired as Prince Charming for a little girl’s birthday party. Sleeves to his pale-blue button-down are bunched at his muscular forearms. Stylish, preppy, and put-together, he wears pleated navy pants, a brown leather belt, and shined loafers.  

I feel more shortened of breath in his arms than I did climbing the Everest of stairs.

It’s his smile, isn’t it? The little laugh pulling the corners of his lips—the sparkle of his eyes.

He may be handsome, but I refuse to ogle him for a second longer as he helps me upright. “I’m sorry about your coffee,” I say, my hand on his warm, hard chest for a beat. I try to ignore the splatter of latte on my shoes.

“Don’t be. It’s from the faculty break room down the hall. Machine is ancient, and it tastes like cafeteria coffee anyway.” He lets go of my arms, then sets his messenger bag on the professor’s desk several feet away.

I shake my foot like a dog pissed on me.

“Dior?” he asks.

“Pardon?”

“Your heels—they’re Dior.” He must see the designer buckle. “Here, let me.” He motions me closer with a couple fingers and digs out a napkin from his leather bag.

“You know your shoes?” I approach with arched brows.

“I know clothes, cars, crowned princes from the thirteenth century—the list extends beyond the letter C. And there’s an almost certainty that I know more than you.” He draws out the chair, as if he didn’t just slight me. Arrogance can be attractive. It goes hand in hand with confidence, after all.

I squeeze my gaze at him. “How can you be so sure?”

“For one, I’m a grad student. You look like a freshman.”

“Age isn’t a measure of intelligence.”

His inquisitive eyes sweep me. “Set your foot on the chair.” I clutch the desk for balance and put my foot on the seat. He adds, “For another, I’m on the quiz bowl team and you’re not.”

“It’s why I’m here. For the tryouts.” I scan the empty classroom. “Where is everyone else?”

“You’re almost late.” He finishes wiping off my shoes, then takes out his phone. “Five more minutes and Lia and Wilcox would’ve made it out of the building.” He texts with one hand and crumples the dirtied napkin with the other. “If those need to be professionally cleaned, let me know. I can send them to my cobbler.”

I suddenly realize he’s wearing a luxury watch.

So he’s rich and impossibly handsome?

With both of my feet on the ground, I tell him, “They’ll survive. My shoes are as resilient as I am.” I check the closed door.

“Lia and Wilcox are on their way back,” he says before I ask. “The sophomore we’re thinking about adding to the team is just okay. We’re considered a top-five team in the nation, so we’d prefer someone better. So we’ll give you a shot, freshman.” He pockets his phone and leans back on the professor’s desk. Unblemished, no moles or freckles dot his peach-pale skin. Tendrils of his brown hair sweep his forehead. “I’m Guy Abernathy.”

“Audrey Cobalt.”

“I know.”

I’m not shell-shocked. Being recognized comes with having parents in the public eye. But I play coy. “You know?”

His gaze voyages around my freckled cheeks and orange hair. “Youngest daughter of Rose Calloway and Richard Connor Cobalt.”

I curtsey, flaring out the ends of my ivory skirt. “That is me. I am her.”

He threads his arms, his ass just casually resting on the desk. “Your parents are geniuses.” That catches me off guard. Most people don’t offer that as their first assessment of my famous parents. I’ve heard so many other things about them and my family:

Your father owns Cobalt Inc., a multibillion-dollar corporation.

Your mother is a renowned fashion designer for Calloway Couture.

Your grandfather founded Fizzle, one of the most popular sodas in the world.

Your aunt is a sex addict, and her scandal thrust your entire family into the spotlight.

My parents being smart usually doesn’t rank high on their notability, even if it’s one of my favorite things about them.

“That’s true. They both graduated from Ivies,” I say.

“I was more so talking about their time in the academic tournament circuits. They’re legends. No one has come close to beating your dad’s PPG.” Points per game.

“I’d love to be the one to beat it.” If only.

“You think you can?” His gaze bores into me. Challenging.  

“Of course,” I lie.

Of course not.

I’m very doubtful I can dethrone my father, but I’m not about to blow my shot at these tryouts by devaluing myself. I add quickly, “Their love of quiz bowl is actually one of the reasons I want to join the team. I’m shocked you have an open spot.”

His fingers tighten on the lip of the desk. “Our fourth quit last minute. Family emergency. She’s moving back home to Concord.” His head swings to the left as footsteps clamber across the hall.

“Sorry, we’re back,” a girl says—Lia, I’m guessing. She untwists a bulky cream scarf and unbuttons her long gray peacoat. Pieces of her black hair unspool from her claw-clip like she ran to the fourth floor.

As soon as she sees me, her brown eyes pop in surprise and her movements slow. “You’re really here.” I’m about to respond, but her head whips to Guy. “We thought you might’ve been joking.”

“She is a Cobalt. In the flesh.” Guy winks at me.

I’ve never truly admired a wink before, but the way my stomach flutters, he might as well have blown me a kiss. Regardless, I’m realizing if I wasn’t a part of an esteemed lineage of quiz bowl champs, I likely wouldn’t even be given this chance.

No pressure, Audrey.

It’s not as if I haven’t felt it before. All my siblings are supremely talented in their chosen passions. Not to mention, Charlie is a literal genius. Maybe even more brilliant than our father, but Charlie would rather scoop out his eyeballs than be forced to participate in a collegiate academic tournament. I’ve been under shadows so large for so long that it doesn’t make me cower in the face of this kind of pressure.

All I want to do is prove to everyone I am worthy.

I am smart.

I’m more than just the youngest Cobalt.

“I’m here for the tryouts,” I tell Lia and the tall, lanky guy who hurriedly shuts the door. He lifts aviators to the top of his head and darts around the coffee spill to avoid mucking his polished loafers. He’s as well dressed as Guy. His crisp, white button-down contrasts with his deep-brown skin.

He says fast, “Jordan Reyes Wilcox. Everyone calls me Wilcox, and I have about ten minutes before a lunch date—so you better live up to the hype.”

“She will,” Lia vouches. “Her mom is Rose Calloway.” I get the sense she convinced Wilcox to return.

“I won’t take too much of your time, I promise,” I tell him.

Lia drags Wilcox to the four rows of student desks. She’s smiling from ear to ear, appearing overly pleased that another option exists and that the option is me.

I inhale a reassuring breath, just to murder my nerves.

Guy suddenly sidles beside me, and too many emotions swarm me at once. Eyes on the prize, Audrey. And it’s not him.

“This is Lia Chung,” Guy says, introducing her. “Second-year grad student.”

“I’m getting my master’s in biomechanics,” Lia adds and sits on top of the desk.

I smile. “Impressive.”

She plucks out a small tablet from her purse. “I haven’t gotten it yet, but I won’t reject the compliment.”

“I am terrific at giving encouragements. If the team needs a morale boost, I am quite efficient on that front.”

“We’re looking for aptitude, not a cheerleader.” Wilcox leans against the desk beside Lia like he’s one second from bolting.

I nearly argue, but Guy tells me, “Wilcox finishes his undergrad in May, but he’s already been accepted to Manhattan Valley Law School and spends his lunches networking with attorneys at his parents’ firm.”

Wilcox motions for Guy to hurry. “The firm: Wilcox & Reyes. My parents are divorcees who work together. Guy is our esteemed captain. I do quiz bowl for fun. What other things does she not need to know? She’s not accepted yet. We can give her our bios later, Guy. I have places to be.”

Guy slips me a furtive smile. It’s a slanted, closed-lipped smile that reaches his mossy-green eyes. It teeters between flirty and friendly, and I just naturally assume friendliness.

“I’m ready whenever you are,” I tell him.

Guy leaves my side to sit on the desk between Lia and Wilcox.

I smooth my hair off my shoulders and tilt my chin, standing before their judgment with unbridled confidence.

Just like my mother taught me.

Lia tucks her tablet to her chest. “Do you have any quiz bowl experience? From high school?”

“Yes.” I nod. “I was on the team for a year. I brought my stats if you need them.” I slip off my brown leather bookbag, about to unclasp the gold latch.

“No need,” Wilcox says quickly.

He means, No time.

Guy jumps in, “We just want to ensure you know how it works. Tossups, powers, negs. If you make it, we’ll run our own practices and start building your stats at a collegiate level.” He folds his arms and grips his biceps in a masculine, quizzical manner. “Why just one year?”

“The team wasn’t serious,” I say truthfully, adjusting my bookbag on my shoulder. “Another girl and I were the only two doing any independent studying—and I didn’t like that we were placing so low. I’d rather not be on a team at all than be on a bad one.”

The number of times my brother Eliot asked me how my matches went and I had to confess to placing last was mortifying enough. My brothers and my sister are spectacular at what they do. I don’t want to be the only Cobalt who comes in last place.

But maybe it’s not a great trait. That I didn’t stick it out. That I called it quits rather than being a motivating support for the rest of the team. The ship was sinking, and I jumped.

Guy, Lia, and Wilcox don’t nod or shake their heads or let any judgment pass through their blank expressions, so I can’t be sure of their opinion on the matter.

“What do you know about music?” Lia inquires.

“Music?” I frown.

Guy leans forward a little. “We’re not a generalized team, and we don’t have subs, so each of us is required to be a specialist in a category while also knowing a little about everything else.”

Lia wiggles her fingers. “Science, math, and sports.”

Wilcox is eyeing the analog clock above the whiteboard. “Lit and philosophy.”

Guy holds my gaze. “And I’m a history specialist with a secondary strength in geo and current events. Our gap right now is music and fine arts.”

Oh.

No.

Fuck my life. Truly.

I can manage most of the fine arts category, but in music I know only the basics: a handful of popular composers, maybe two opera terms, and a bit of music from ballets. Ask me about an instrument, though, and I’d struggle not to gawk and eat air. Charlie plays piano, and Tom is a literal professional musician. They would both ace this right now. How do I manifest my brothers’ knowledge?

My pulse speeds for a second. Admitting my lack of expertise will shut the door in my face. No quiz bowl. No achievements under my name. I’ll be the youngest and least accomplished Cobalt. When my mother asks how tryouts went—I’ll have to admit I didn’t make the team.

I failed?

No.

I can’t do it.

I can’t.

“It’s your lucky day,” I lie into a bright smile. “I’m proficient in music.”

“Seriously?” Lia asks, excitement seizing her eyes. “Because this would be so perfect.” Her enthusiasm makes me feel like molten cow manure. This is why I keep lying to a minimum. It doesn’t feel good.

My brothers would claim I’m the worst liar in the family, but it’s likely being a bad liar by Cobalt standards still makes me an above-average liar to everyone else. They seem to be buying it so far.

I think.

Wilcox throws out quickly, “Who composed Clair de lune?”

Really? I keep my expression void of surprise. “Claude Debussy,” I say confidently. Who knew my love for the Twilight movies would pay off so spectacularly?

Guy doesn’t look overly impressed. I suppose it’s a single composer. I could have gotten lucky. To be fair, I think I did.

Before they sling harder questions, I say, “A four-on-the-floor is a drum pattern. A hocket is a musical term derived from the French word for ‘hiccup.’ Verismo was a genre of opera that focuses on ordinary people. I promise I know my stuff. You can ask me anything.”

I don’t really mean that. Those were random facts I scrounged up from the dry well that is my music knowledge. Please, please, please only ask me things I know.

“Name three Russian composers,” Lia says, which is such a softball. Truly, my siblings would all be able to knock this one out of the park. I’m not special here.

“Tchaikovsky, Stravinsky, Shostakovich,” I answer quickly.

Wilcox nods hurriedly. “Okay, she’s in—”

“Wait,” Guy says to him. “Give me five minutes with her.” Yes, please. I smooth my lips together and hope heat doesn’t rise to my cheeks.

Wilcox groans, then rests back against the desk.

Guy focuses on me. “Three German composers.”

Wow, this is going well. I tell him, “Bach, Beethoven, Brahms.”

Lia smiles. “Should we do a buzzer tryout?”

“No,” Wilcox snaps. “Guy said five minutes, not thirty.”

Guy ignores them to ask me, “Who composed the original score for the ballet Giselle?”

I perk up. “Adolphe Adam.” My brother Beckett being a principal dancer at the New York Ballet Company is suddenly a godsend—especially since Giselle is his absolute favorite ballet, thanks in part to the music.  

“Which century?”

“Nineteenth, I believe.”

“Are you sure?” he challenges.

I stand firm. “Positive. Specifically, the year 1841.”

He smiles wider into a nod. “Correct.” Now he’s checking the analog clock. “I have office hours with a professor in ten minutes.” He plants his hands on the desk and pushes to his feet to tell Wilcox and Lia, “She can be on the team in a probationary context. We’ll run through drills next practice.”

I made it?

I’m on the team.

“See you, probie.” Wilcox races out the door, not offering a second glance.

Probationary. It’s not permanent yet.

That’s fair.

“Welcome to the—” Lia cuts herself off as her phone rings. “Sorry. Talk more Thursday! Excited you’re here!” She rushes to the door, then answers, “Hey, babe…” Her voice drifts away.

Guy goes to his messenger bag on the professor’s desk. “Lia will ignore the whole world for her girlfriend.”

I hardly know Lia, but I already love that she’s in love. As all people ought to be. “That’s awfully sweet.”

“Until we’re in the middle of a strategy discussion”—he opens his bag—“and she leaves to take a two-hour phone call with Izzy.”

I can see how that’d be bothersome. But still. “Love is worth the disturbance, I imagine.”

“She’s not the one being disturbed.” Guy digs a spiral-ring notebook from his bag. He runs a hand through his toffee-brown strands. He has some of the best hair I’ve ever seen. “We meet up every Thursday at seven p.m.” He holds out the notebook and a ballpoint pen. “Write down your email and phone number, so I can contact you about practice.”

Practice.

I have teammates.

I’m about to be a part of an academic team.

My heart is beating out of my chest. I can’t wait to tell my mother. I can’t believe this is happening. I can’t believe they didn’t ask me harder questions.

Fate.

Destiny.

Some fortuitous spirit has most definitely descended and granted me this wish. Because if I wasn’t supposed to be on this team, they would have grilled me with in-depth questions about instruments and orchestras instead of the rudimentary composer questions.

Not that I can keep this ruse up for long.

Thursday.

It’s Monday, so I need to be able to ace the drills in three days. I need to become a musical genius—because there is no future where this disarmingly hot grad student finds out I just lied my way onto the team.

No fucking way.

“Here you go.” I pass the notebook and pen back to Guy.

He tucks them underneath his arm. “On se voit bientôt, Audrey.” We’ll see each other soon.

And he speaks French. Because, of course, how more perfect could he possibly be for me?

Butterflies flap fiercely in my stomach, and it takes me a long second to understand why. It’s not just the French.

He didn’t call me “Cobalt.”

He said my name.

Audrey.

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“Loathed Love," Copyright © 2026 by K.B. Ritchie