****
Author note:Author's Note
Every dash you find in this novel represents a pause — whether it's a moment of silence, a shift in the scene, or an emotional break in the character's voice.
This book is dedicated to my beloved mom, who encouraged me to write and believe in my dreams.
This is my beginning. Thank you for reading.
— Vicky's Fantasies
*****
The air inside Monteluz Academy smelled like money and secrets.
Ella Delgado stepped out of her mother's old silver Audi, adjusting her plaid skirt and brushing invisible lint off her blazer. Her fingers were shaking, though she'd never admit it. This wasn't just any school—it was the school. Elite. Untouchable. The place where politicians' children got caught cheating and still graduated with honors. Where people like her were barely tolerated, even if her family wasn't exactly poor. Just... average rich.
As she walked through the iron gates, heads turned. Not because she was stunning—though she definitely was—but because she didn't belong. Her confidence? Unapologetic. Her vibe? Defiant. Ella had no intention of kissing up to anyone, no matter how rich or beautiful they were.
Especially not Ryan Cortez.
Her first glimpse of him came before first period even started. He was leaning against the marble staircase like it was his throne, surrounded by a circle of friends who looked like they belonged on magazine covers. He was taller than she expected, dark-haired, sharply sculpted. His blazer was half-unbuttoned like he couldn't be bothered. His laugh was low, lazy, and it wrapped around the girls near him like smoke.
He looked up—and caught her staring.
Their eyes locked. For a second too long.
His smirk was sharp, insulting. Like he'd already dismissed her.
Ella rolled her eyes and walked away.
---
Her locker was stuck. Of course.
"Need help, newbie?" came a voice behind her. Male. Amused.
She didn't even need to turn to know who it was.
"I'm good," she replied coolly, still struggling with the jammed metal.
But Ryan didn't move. Instead, he leaned in beside her, his breath brushing her ear. "I'd say you're about two seconds from losing that war. Want me to show you how to use your hands properly?"
She turned to him, face flushed—not from his nearness, but from rage.
"Thanks," she said with a sugary smile. "But I don't take instructions from entitled jackasses."
The hallway went quiet for a moment. People heard. And watched.
Ryan chuckled, stepping back like she'd amused him.
"Feisty," he muttered. "You'll last a week."
"Wrong. I plan to own this place."
His eyes darkened for a flicker of a second, and then he walked off like she was nothing.
But she wasn't nothing. And she'd make sure he remembered that.
***
Later that day, she found herself in AP Literature—unfortunately seated right next to him.
"Seriously?" she muttered.
He just smiled and spread his legs a little wider, his thigh brushing hers beneath the table. She jerked away.
"I don't bite," he whispered, without looking at her.
"I do," she whispered back.
His smirk faltered.
****
The class dragged on. Ella tried to ignore the heat crawling under her skin every time his arm brushed hers. He smelled unfairly good—like spice and something expensive. She hated that she noticed.
When the teacher assigned a partner project—of course they were paired. Of course.
"I'm not working with you," she said immediately as the bell rang.
Ryan stood, slowly gathering his things. "It's cute that you think you have a choice."
"You're disgusting."
"You're obsessed."
She grabbed her bag and stormed out before she said something she'd regret.
****
That night, she couldn't sleep.
Not because of him—obviously. It was the stress. The new school. The pressure. That's all.
So why was she remembering the way his voice dipped when he said obsessed? Or the way his eyes raked over her like he already knew what she looked like naked?
She hated him.
She really, really hated him.
So why did her fingers slide into her underwear at the memory of his smirk?
God, she hated herself too.
---
The next morning, she found something in her locker.
A note.
In bold, messy handwriting:
> "Thought you didn't take orders, sweetheart. But let's be honest—you want to be told exactly what to do.
Meet me tonight. Tennis court. Midnight. Or are you scared?"
—R.
Ella crumpled the note, heart racing, cheeks burning.
She wasn't going.
She shouldn't go.
She couldn't.
But deep down, in a place she didn't want to admit existed...
She already knew she would.