[Rosella's POV]
First rule of surviving an elite school where your entire outfit costs less than someone's cufflinks?
Never look lost.
I walked through the marble halls of Saint Augustine's with fake confidence and real caffeine in my veins. My blazer was a size too big, my shoes squeaked with every step, and I was pretty sure I passed the same chandelier three times — but I held my head high like I belonged.
Because I do belong.
Even if every hallway whisper says otherwise.
> "Is that the scholarship girl?"
"She talked back to Damien Carter yesterday."
"Ballsy. She won't last."
Plot twist: I plan to last.
And if I'm going down, I'm going down loud.
I finally found my first class — Advanced Literature — and slipped inside. The room smelled like old books and old money. Rows of navy blazers and designer pens. One empty seat left.
Front row.
Right next to Damien freaking Carter.
Oh, fate. You messy little witch.
He looked up when I sat, pen already twirling between his fingers. He didn't say a word. Just smirked — slow and smug — like he knew something I didn't.
"Miss Rivers," the teacher said. "I assume you've read The Tempest?"
I nodded. "Yes, ma'am."
"Thoughts?"
Oh, you wanna do this? Okay.
> "It's a story about power and revenge, dressed up as forgiveness. Prospero's not a hero. He's just good at pretending."
The teacher blinked. "Interesting interpretation."
Next to me, Damien let out a soft, amused exhale. Not a laugh. Not quite. But something close.
I didn't look at him.
I refused to give him the satisfaction.
---
Break came faster than I expected. I was walking toward the courtyard when three girls blocked my path like a Gucci-sponsored wall.
> "Hi," one of them said with a glossy smile. "I'm Veronica. Head of the Social Committee. We vet… new entries."
Translation: she was the queen bee in a Chanel hive.
I smiled back, all teeth. "Rosella. Head of the 'Mind Your Business' committee."
Her smile tightened. "Just thought I'd give you a friendly warning. People who try to climb too fast around here usually fall hard."
Behind her, the other girls nodded like backup dancers.
I shrugged. "Good thing I'm not here to climb. I'm here to break the ladder."
Gasps. One choked laugh from somewhere behind me. Veronica blinked.
And then I walked away.
Was I shaking inside? Maybe.
But outside? Ice.
---
By lunchtime, I had a solid headache and exactly zero friends. I took my tray and headed for a corner table by the window. Alone was fine. Alone was safe.
Until he appeared.
Damien Carter. In all his arrogant, brooding, annoyingly-golden glory. He dropped into the seat across from me like he owned the table. Which he probably did.
"Cozy spot," he said. "Avoiding people?"
"Just the ones with superiority complexes and overpriced cologne."
He smirked. "You wound me."
I sipped my juice. "Not yet. But give me time."
He leaned forward, elbows on the table, eyes locked on mine. "You're playing a dangerous game, Rose."
"It's Rosella."
"I know. Still doesn't change the fact you're painting a target on your back."
"Then maybe you should stop staring at it."
He laughed. Like, actually laughed. And that messed me up more than it should've.
Because for a second, it wasn't cruel or cocky. It was warm. Unfiltered. Real.
And I hated that I noticed.
---
Later that day, I found a note in my locker. No name. Just six words, scrawled in black ink:
> "Careful, Rose. This school eats queens."
I stared at it for a long time.
Then I crumpled it up, tossed it in the trash, and walked away with my head high.
Let them come for me. Let the whispers grow louder.
I wasn't here to blend in.
I was here to win.