I don't belong here.
That's the first thought running through my head as I stare up at the glass-and-stone monstrosity that is Blackwell Academy. The kind of place where the hallways gleam, the lockers look designer, and the students arrive in cars that cost more than my entire apartment building.
And me? I got here by bus. With a secondhand backpack and the faint smell of coffee clinging to my sweater from my morning shift at the diner.
A scholarship. That's what they called it. A golden ticket to one of the most prestigious schools in the country. The kind of opportunity people like me aren't supposed to get. My brother Noah calls it a miracle. I call it a mistake.
One look at the students spilling across the courtyard tells me exactly what I'm walking into: girls with glossy hair and designer skirts, boys with smirks and wristwatches that probably cost more than my rent. Everyone knows where they fit here. Everyone but me.
I hug my books tighter, praying no one notices the frayed edges of my sneakers. I just have to survive the year. Keep my head down, get good grades, and maybe—just maybe—this scholarship will be my ticket out of this life.
The universe doesn't care about my survival strategy. Not when I turn the corner and crash directly into a wall.
At least, I thought it was a wall.
My books scatter across the polished marble floor. My coffee—my one comfort, my one lifeline—explodes across the chest of the person I just collided with. A very expensive-looking navy suit now drips with caramel latte.
"Oh my God," I stammer, dropping to my knees to gather my books. "I'm so sorry—I wasn't looking—"
"Clearly."
The voice is cold. Sharp. Annoyed in a way that makes my stomach twist. I look up, and that's when I see him.
Tall. Dark hair. Eyes like ice—blue, piercing, and way too intense for an eighteen-year-old. He doesn't look like the other boys in this school. He looks older, sharper, like someone who doesn't just walk through life, but owns it.
And the way everyone else in the hallway suddenly falls silent tells me exactly who I just drenched in coffee.
Ethan Blackwell.
Heir to the Blackwell empire. The boy with his family's name stamped on the very walls of this school. Untouchable. Perfect. The one person I was supposed to avoid at all costs.
"Great," he mutters, dabbing at his shirt with a silk handkerchief someone instantly hands him. He doesn't even look at me, not really. Just that quick flick of icy eyes, like I'm something under his shoe. "First day and the charity case is already making a mess."
My cheeks burn, the sting of humiliation rushing hot across my skin. Laughter ripples through the hallway, Chloe Harrington's high-pitched giggle cutting sharper than the rest.
I force myself to stand tall, even though my hands shake. "I said I was sorry."
Ethan finally looks at me then—really looks. His gaze drags over me like he's sizing up an opponent in a chess match. For a moment, something flickers in his eyes—amusement? curiosity?—but it's gone as quickly as it appeared.
"Sorry doesn't clean silk," he says flatly, before turning on his heel and walking away, the crowd parting for him like he's royalty.
And just like that, my first day at Blackwell Academy becomes a nightmare. I didn't just spill coffee on the school's most powerful boy. I spilled coffee on the boy who practically owns the place.
The rest of the morning is exactly what you'd expect after a scene like that. Whispers follow me through the hallways like shadows. That's her. The scholarship girl. The one who spilled coffee on Ethan Blackwell.
Every time I walk past a group of students, heads tilt, eyes flicker, phones lift like they're capturing proof of my humiliation for later entertainment.
By the time I find my first class—English Literature—I'm ready to crawl under a desk and hide for the next year.
I slide into the last empty seat in the back row. A girl with glossy blonde hair (and the kind of manicure that could slice glass) turns to look at me, eyes scanning me up and down like I'm gum stuck to her shoe. Chloe Harrington. I recognize her instantly from the academy's website—student council president, queen bee, socialite-in-training.
"You must be Ava Carter," she says sweetly, her voice dripping honey and venom at the same time. "Scholarship student, right?"
I open my mouth to respond, but she doesn't wait. She just smirks, flips her hair, and whispers something to the girl next to her that makes them both laugh. I grip my pen harder, forcing myself to focus on the teacher's voice instead of the sting crawling under my skin.
Keep your head down, Ava. Survive the year.
By lunch, I'm starving—but the cafeteria is a battlefield. Crystal chandeliers hang over tables that look more suited to five-star restaurants than high schools. Groups cluster in cliques, their conversations filled with words like yacht and vacation villa.
I get a tray of food that costs more than I make in an hour at the diner, and search desperately for a corner to disappear into.
That's when I hear it.
"Guess the charity project's already failing."
The voice makes my stomach drop. Ethan Blackwell, standing by the window, surrounded by a group of boys who look just as polished and powerful as he does. His icy gaze flicks briefly toward me before he turns back to his friends, dismissing me like I don't matter.
I catch something in that glance. A spark. A challenge. Like he knows I'm watching, and he wants me to know I'll never be good enough to stand in his world and maybe he's right.
Still, something inside me—the stubborn part, the part that got me this scholarship in the first place whispers back: Watch me.
That night, as I sit in my tiny apartment, flipping through my textbooks, I can still feel his eyes on me. Cold. Cutting. Curious.
I don't know it yet, but Ethan Blackwell hasn't just ruined my first day. He's about to ruin everything.