The morning sun was sharp, casting long streaks of gold across the estate's driveway. Elena stood at the front entrance, dressed in her usual campus attire—simple jeans, a soft blouse, and a backpack slung over one shoulder. But nothing else about the morning felt usual.
A sleek black car pulled up—long, low, and gleaming. One of Luca's most expensive. The kind of vehicle that turned heads before it even stopped moving.
The chauffeur stepped out, dressed in a crisp suit, and opened the rear door without a word.
Elena hesitated for half a second, then climbed in.
The interior smelled of leather and quiet wealth. The seats were cool, the windows tinted. She sat upright, hands folded in her lap, heart thudding softly.
As the car pulled away from the estate, she watched the world blur past—gates, trees, traffic. Her thoughts were louder than the engine.
She imagined the campus. The stares. The whispers. The girls from the group chat.
She wasn't going to hide.
She wasn't going to explain.
She was going to walk in, sit down, and learn.
The car turned onto the university road. Students were already milling about—backpacks, coffee cups, earbuds. Normal life.
Then they saw the car.
Heads turned. Conversations paused. A few students actually stopped walking.
The chauffeur pulled up to the front of the building and stepped out again, opening the door with practiced grace.
Elena stepped out slowly.
She didn't rush.
She didn't look down.
She walked toward the entrance, her backpack over one shoulder, her steps steady.
She could feel their eyes on her.
She could feel the questions.
But she didn't flinch.
She was Elena Hart.
And she had arrived.
The hallway outside the lecture hall buzzed with low chatter and the shuffle of students settling in. Elena walked slowly, her footsteps echoing against the tiled floor. Her backpack felt heavier than usual—not from books, but from the invisible weight of eyes.
She reached the door and paused.
Then she stepped inside.
The room was already half full. Students turned instinctively at the sound of the door, and for a moment, the hum of conversation faltered.
Heads tilted.
Eyes narrowed.
Whispers bloomed like smoke.
Elena kept walking.
She didn't meet their eyes. She didn't scan the room for familiar faces. She just moved—steady, deliberate—toward the back row.
She heard fragments as she passed:
"Is that her?"
"She came in that car…"
"Did you see the driver?"
"She looks different."
She reached the last row and slid into a seat near the corner, placing her bag quietly on the floor. Her hands trembled slightly as she opened her notebook, but she kept her face composed.
From the front of the room, the professor hadn't noticed yet. He was still arranging his notes, adjusting the projector.
Elena stared at the blank page in front of her.
She used to feel invisible here.
Now she felt exposed.
But she was here.
She had come back.
And no one—not the whispers, not the rumors, not the stares—was going to take that from her.
The lecture ended with the usual rustle of papers and the soft thud of laptops closing. Students began to file out, some in pairs, others alone, their conversations picking up again like a stream that had been briefly dammed.
Elena stayed seated.
She pretended to scribble something in her notebook, but really, she was waiting. She didn't want to be caught in the hallway crowd. She didn't want to be jostled or stared at again.
But someone lingered.
A shadow fell across her desk.
Elena looked up.
It was Zara.
Zara, with her perfect eyeliner and the kind of confidence that made people listen even when she whispered. She had been part of the group chat. Not the loudest voice, but one of the ones that mattered.
"Elena," she said, like she was testing the name on her tongue.
Elena nodded, cautious. "Hey."
Zara tilted her head slightly. "You're back."
"Yeah."
A pause.
Zara glanced around, then leaned in just a little. "People are saying a lot of things."
"I figured."
Another pause. Longer this time.
Then Zara surprised her.
"I don't believe half of it," she said. "But… you should know what's going around."
Elena's grip tightened on her pen. "Let me guess. That I was paid off? That I disappeared because I was guilty?"
Zara didn't flinch. "Some of that. Some worse."
Elena looked away, jaw clenched.
Zara hesitated, then sat down beside her, ignoring the few students still lingering nearby.
"I don't know what happened," she said quietly. "But I know what it's like when people decide your story for you."
Elena turned to her, surprised.
Zara shrugged. "Just saying… if you ever want to talk, I'm not here to judge."
Then she stood, slung her bag over her shoulder, and walked away.
Elena sat there for a moment longer, staring at the empty seat beside her.
Maybe not everyone had made up their mind.
Elena had just zipped her backpack and stood to leave when she heard the voice—sharp, smug, and unmistakably theatrical.
"If it's not Elena Hart," the girl said, loud enough for half the hallway to hear.
Elena turned slowly.
There she was—Marissa Lang, flanked by her usual clique. Three girls, all dressed like they were auditioning for a fashion blog, arms crossed, eyes gleaming with anticipation.
Marissa stepped forward, her heels clicking against the tile like punctuation.
"You've been missed," she said, lips curled into a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "We were starting to think you'd dropped out. Or… dropped into something more profitable."
The girls behind her giggled.
Elena didn't respond. She adjusted her bag on her shoulder and kept walking.
But Marissa wasn't finished.
"Nice car, by the way," she called out. "Very subtle. Chauffeur and everything. You must be doing very well for someone whose dad's in the hospital."
Elena stopped.
She turned, slowly, her eyes meeting Marissa's.
"I'm doing what I have to," she said, voice calm but firm. "And if you ever find yourself in my position, I hope people treat you better than you treat others."
Marissa blinked, caught off guard by the directness.
The hallway had quieted.
Elena didn't wait for a reply. She turned and walked away, her steps steady, her spine straight.
Behind her, the clique stood frozen for a moment—then one of the girls muttered something, and the laughter resumed, but it was thinner now. Less certain.
Elena didn't look back.
She didn't need to.
She had said enough.
The sun had dipped lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the pavement outside the campus gates. Elena stood alone near the curb, her backpack slung over one shoulder, her arms folded tightly across her chest.
She had texted the chauffeur ten minutes ago.
She just wanted to leave.
The day had drained her—every stare, every whisper, every moment of pretending not to care.
Then she heard them.
Laughter. Heels clicking. Perfume trailing.
Marissa Lang and her clique.
They spotted her instantly.
Marissa slowed her pace, eyes narrowing as she approached. Her voice was sharp, venomous.
"You filthy thing," she said, loud enough for nearby students to hear. "You really decided to give whore life a chance. Let's see where it takes you…"
She rolled her eyes dramatically, scoffed, and turned on her heel. Her friends followed, snickering like backup dancers in a cruel performance.
Elena didn't flinch.
She didn't speak.
She just stared at the pavement, her jaw clenched so tightly it ached.
Then—headlights.
The sleek black car pulled up, gleaming under the fading light. The same one that had turned heads that morning.
The chauffeur began to step out, but Elena moved first.
She opened the rear door herself and climbed in, slamming it shut behind her before he could even reach the handle.
She didn't care about protocol.
She didn't care about appearances.
She was sick of being there already.
Inside the car, the silence wrapped around her like armor. The leather seats were cool against her skin. She leaned her head back, eyes closed, trying to breathe.
She wasn't weak.
She was just tired.
And tomorrow, she'd have to do it all again.