Dante's POV
The car ride was merely the overture. A prelude to the true symphony of psychological warfare. This? This was the battleground. This was war.
We hadn't even made it up the imposing stone steps of Blackridge Academy before the whispers started. They always did when I walked in, a low, reverent hum that followed my every step, a testament to my lineage, my power, my untouchable status. But this morning, the murmurs were different. Sharper. Hungrier. More venomous. Because of her.
Cassidy Hart.
My new… stepsister. The designation felt like a brand, searing my skin with an unwanted connection. The girl everyone thought they could figure out at a glance: the new charity case, the inconvenient addition, the fresh meat. And the girl who, despite the blatant scrutiny, kept pretending like she didn't hear the ceaseless murmurs, the thinly veiled judgments. Even though I could practically feel her pulse racing through the air between us, a frantic, desperate rhythm that betrayed her feigned indifference.
"That's Dante Ashford… God, he's unreal…" The hushed adoration for me, always present, was now tinged with a new, ravenous curiosity directed at her.
"Wait. Who's she? Is he with her? No way. He'd never." The disbelief was almost comical, laced with a potent mix of envy and disdain.
"She's pretty… but not Blackridge pretty." The ultimate condemnation, a dismissal of her worth within the rigid hierarchy of this elite institution.
We crossed the vast, manicured expanse of the front lot in a silence that thrummed with unspoken tension. My hands were shoved deep into the pockets of my hoodie, knuckles white against the soft fabric. Her own knuckles were just as white, gripping the strap of her worn duffel bag as if it were the only anchor in a suddenly hostile ocean. Her shoulders were pulled back, rigid with defiance, her chin held high in a posture of forced pride. But it was an act. A desperate, transparent charade.
And I hated how much it fascinated me anyway. Hated that I couldn't tear my gaze away from the subtle tremors in her posture, the almost imperceptible flicker of fear in her eyes when she thought I wasn't looking.
I slowed my pace just enough to let her stay slightly ahead of me, forcing the spotlight onto her, amplifying the stares, the whispers. I wanted her to feel the weight of their judgment, to crumble under it. I watched the way people stopped mid-conversation, heads swiveling, eyes widening. Watched the way she pretended not to notice, her gaze fixed rigidly ahead, as if the imposing façade of the school held some profound secret.
"You're really bad at this," I said finally, my voice a low, sharp cut through the buzzing air, close enough for only her to hear.
She stiffened, every muscle in her body coiling, but she kept walking, refusing to acknowledge me directly. "Bad at what?" The words were clipped, an attempt at indifference that failed spectacularly.
I smirked, a cruel, knowing twist of my lips. "At pretending you don't care what they think. At pretending you're not rattled by every whispered judgment, every assessing glance. You're a terrible actress, Hart."
Her hazel eyes darted to me, quick and furious, blazing with an almost feral intensity. "Maybe I just don't care what you think," she snapped, the lie transparent, desperate.
"Lie better, Hart," I murmured, my voice a lazy, taunting grin, pulling her further into my orbit. "At least make it interesting. Give me something to work with."
Ahead of us, at the foot of the grand stone steps leading to the main entrance, a group of girls coalesced. Blackridge's finest: all glossed lips, perfectly tailored plaid skirts, and eyes that held the promise of casual cruelty. They turned their heads in unison as we approached, like a flock of predatory birds. One of them – blonde, of course, with a predatory gleam in her perfectly made-up eyes – actually stopped dead, her gaze a slow, deliberate drag over Cassidy, from her worn sneakers to her messy ponytail. It was an act of blatant, public dissection.
"Who's she supposed to be?" the blonde asked, her voice pitched just enough to carry, laced with a saccharine sweetness that made it all the more venomous.
Cassidy froze for half a second, her shoulders locking, before forcing herself to move again, her steps stiff.
I didn't. I stopped, turning my head just enough to look at the blonde, letting my smile turn sharp, dangerous, devoid of any warmth. My eyes were ice, challenging, warning.
"Worried you've been replaced, Brielle?" I drawled, my voice low and laced with a chilling amusement. It was a familiar game, one I played expertly.
Her perfectly made-up face paled almost instantly, the practiced smile dissolving into a look of genuine fear. She quickly looked away, gathering her pack with a nervous gesture, their whispers dying into a humiliated silence.
Beside me, Cassidy muttered under her breath, low enough that I almost missed it. "You don't have to do that."
"Do what?" I asked, resuming my pace, falling in step beside her as we started up the wide stone steps.