[Rosella's POV]
Saint Augustine's smelled like old money and expensive perfume — the kind of place where even the air felt filtered, purified of poverty and public school accents.
I clutched my cracked phone like a lifeline, standing just inside the towering iron gates, taking in the view.
Gold-trimmed blazers. Monogrammed suitcases. People casually mentioning summer homes in Santorini like it was no big deal. I stuck out like a sore thumb — or, more accurately, like a public school girl in a sea of platinum-spoon prodigies.
My stomach clenched. One year. One scholarship. Zero drama. I could do this. I had to.
"Oi, you there!" a sharp voice cut through the buzz.
A cherry-red Aston Martin glided into view, gleaming in the sun like a polished threat. The boy behind the wheel looked like he walked out of a billionaire Pinterest board — sculpted jawline, tailored uniform, and a smirk that belonged in a cautionary tale.
"Move, scholarship girl," he called. "You're blocking the royal driveway."
I blinked. Did he just—?
Instead of moving, I adjusted my bag and stared at him like he was a mosquito. "Didn't know it was your kingdom, Your Highness."
Around me, whispers erupted.
"Who is she?"
"Does she know who that is?"
"She's dead. She's so dead."
The boy stepped out of the car, oozing lazy power.
Damien Carter. The name hit my brain like a cold splash of water. I'd heard about him. Everyone had. Son of the Carter Tech Empire. The so-called King of Saint Augustine's. Rich. Ruthless. Untouchable.
He walked toward me, the air shifting like he brought his own weather system.
"You must be Rosella," he said. "The charity case."
I smiled, slow and dangerous. "And you must be Damien. The personality case."
He paused. Just a second. His smile didn't falter, but something flashed in his eyes — interest, maybe. Or insult.
People were staring now. Watching like it was a Netflix drama unfolding live.
"You're new here," he said coolly. "I'll give you a free pass this time."
"Sweet of you." I leaned in. "I won't return the favor."
That did it. His jaw tensed, just slightly. But he only tilted his head, as if intrigued.
"You've got guts," he said. "But guts won't help you survive here, Rose."
"It's Rosella."
"I know." He smirked. "But I like Rose. Prettier. Easier to crush."
Before I could throw hands — or worse, my coffee — the bell rang, echoing through the marble courtyard.
Damien turned without another word, sliding back into his stupidly fancy car like he hadn't just declared war. The engine purred, and he drove off — but not before glancing at me through the rearview mirror.
Challenge accepted, Carter.
---
Inside the great hall, everything shimmered. Chandeliers dangled like crystal spiders. Rows of students sat in silence as the headmaster droned on about "upholding tradition and excellence" and other rich-people nonsense.
I sat stiffly near the back, still fuming. My palms itched to write about the encounter in my journal, but I'd left it at home. Probably for the best — any entry would just be a stream of:
"Damien Carter is a pretentious piece of—"
"…and now we welcome our newest scholar, Miss Rosella Rivers."
My heart jumped. I stood slowly, all eyes on me.
They didn't clap. Not really. A few polite taps. A few bored looks. And Damien, three rows up, lounging with the arrogance of a prince, raised a single brow.
I didn't flinch. Didn't smile. Just nodded like a queen in exile — crown still invisible, but definitely there.
When I sat, I felt it — the tension, the scrutiny, the unspoken you don't belong here stares. But also something else. Power. The kind that came not from money, but from not caring who had it.
Let them whisper. Let Damien Carter smirk.
He thought I was weak.
He had no idea who I really was.