If surviving my first day at Blackwell Academy felt like walking barefoot across shards of glass, then walking into my second day feels like wading into shark-infested waters—knowing they've already tasted blood.
The whispers haven't stopped. They follow me down hallways, echo off marble walls, stick to me like gum I can't scrape off my shoe.
That's her. Ethan's charity case.
The girl with the coffee accident.
She'll be gone by Christmas.
I should care less. I've spent most of my life being invisible, a background extra in other people's stories. At my old school, that was survival. Here, invisibility feels impossible. Blackwell Academy has a way of spotlighting flaws, and mine are practically in neon.
I push open the heavy oak doors to my History class, clutching my notebook like it's armor. Rows of students glance up, and just as quickly, dismiss me—everyone except the boy leaning casually in the back row, a faint smirk curling his lips.
Ethan. Of course.
His tie is loose, his blazer draped over the back of his chair like he owns not just the school but time itself. His friends flank him, effortlessly charming, whispering jokes that earn laughter from the girls sitting nearby.
The moment our eyes meet, my stomach lurches. Not because he's handsome—which he is, annoyingly so—but because he's watching me. Not the careless glance of yesterday, but a deliberate, measured look. Like he's waiting to see if I'll crack under the pressure.
I force myself to walk past him, each step heavier than the last, and slide into a seat near the front. Out of sight. Out of mind.
At least, that's the plan.
"Miss Carter," the teacher's voice cuts through the room. Mr. Halden, tall and sharp in his tweed jacket, glances down his roster. "Our newest addition. You'll be pleased to know this class is discussion-heavy. I trust you'll have plenty to contribute."
I nod, throat dry. Perfect. Put the scholarship girl on display.
The lecture begins—industrial revolutions, economic empires, dynasties of wealth. The irony is suffocating. Every name on the board is a reminder that I'm sitting among the modern heirs of power, legacies written in dollar signs.
Halfway through, Mr. Halden poses a question. "What is the single greatest factor that determines who rises to power in society?"
Silence. Then, the scrape of a chair.
Ethan.
"It's not intelligence," he says smoothly, every word dripping with confidence. "Or talent. It's bloodline. You're either born into power, or you're not. Everything else is a delusion the less fortunate tell themselves to feel better."
A ripple of agreement, soft laughter, fills the room. My pen freezes against the page.
I know I should keep quiet. I know challenging him on my second day is social suicide, but something inside me refuses to stay silent.
I raise my hand.
"Yes, Miss Carter?"
"History doesn't agree with that," I say, my voice steadier than I feel. "If bloodline was everything, dynasties would never fall. But they do. Power shifts. It always has. It always will. Intelligence, timing, and yes, ambition—those change the game."
For a second, the room goes still. Ethan's eyes lock on mine, cold fire sparking in their depths. And then—he smiles. Slow. Sharp. Like I just stepped onto a chessboard he's been waiting to play on.
"Well," he drawls, leaning back in his chair. "Looks like the charity case can read."
Laughter erupts again, but it doesn't sting the way it did yesterday. Because beneath his smirk, I catch it—a flicker of something else. Respect. Interest. Maybe even a challenge. I know, with a sinking certainty, that this isn't the last time Ethan Blackwell and I will collide.
By the time class ends, my pulse is still racing. I shove my notebook into my bag, desperate to escape before anyone decides to make me their entertainment again, but of course, escape isn't an option at Blackwell Academy. Not when Chloe Harrington exists.
She steps directly into my path, her perfectly manicured hand resting lightly against the doorframe, blocking my exit with a smile sharp enough to cut glass.
"Well, well," she purrs, her voice low enough that only I can hear but loud enough that her friends lean in like they're watching a show. "The scholarship girl has a brain. Who knew?"
I tighten my grip on my strap. "Move."
Her eyes glitter with amusement. "Careful, Ava. This isn't whatever public school you crawled out of. People who challenge Ethan Blackwell… don't last long here."
A prickle of unease crawls down my spine, but I force myself to meet her gaze. "Maybe someone should."
Her smile falters, just for a second, before snapping back in place. She leans closer, her perfume sweet and suffocating. "Oh, sweetheart. You really don't get it, do you? Ethan isn't someone you fight. He's someone you survive."
And with that, she steps aside, tossing her hair as she rejoins her entourage, their laughter echoing down the hall.
By lunch, the story of my little debate with Ethan has spread like wildfire.
I feel the eyes on me as I move through the cafeteria, whispers sparking like matches. She talked back to him. Ethan actually smiled. Who does she think she is?
I grab a tray and keep my head down, aiming for the same corner table I hid at yesterday. But before I can sit, a voice cuts across the room.
"Carter."
I freeze.
Ethan Blackwell is lounging at the center table—the table, the one every social group orbits around. His friends are laughing, their trays barely touched, but his eyes are on me. Unflinching. Waiting.
The cafeteria goes still, as if everyone's holding their breath. My instincts scream at me to ignore him, to keep walking. But that same stubborn spark that made me raise my hand in class refuses to let me shrink away.
I lift my chin and meet his gaze. "Blackwell."
Something flickers in his expression—amusement? approval?—but it's gone before I can pin it down. He gestures casually to his side, an invitation or a command, I can't tell.
I force a steady breath and turn away, taking my tray to the far corner instead. My heart pounds, but I don't give him the satisfaction of looking back. Across the room, laughter rises again, but this time it feels different. Sharper. Like a game has just begun and I've already made my first move.
That night, back in my apartment, I replay the day over and over in my head. Ethan's smirk. Chloe's warning. The way the entire school seemed to tilt when he said my name.
It's not just that Ethan noticed me. It's that he wanted everyone else to notice, too and that scares me more than anything. Maybe Chloe was right. Maybe Ethan Blackwell isn't someone you fight but I don't think I know how to do anything else.
By the time the last bell rings, I'm ready to disappear. School ends, but my day doesn't. Not when bills don't pay themselves and scholarships don't cover electricity or rent.
The neon sign above Marty's Diner flickers as I push through the door, tugging on my apron. The familiar scent of grease and coffee grounds is oddly comforting. Here, no one cares about Blackwell Academy or last names that carry power like weapons. Here, I'm just Ava—the girl who refills cups and wipes down tables.
"Noah!" I call into the kitchen, where my older brother is clattering dishes. He's barely twenty, already carrying the weight of someone twice his age. "Shift swap still good for Friday?"
"Yeah," he shouts back, grinning briefly before returning to the mountain of plates. "Don't burn the place down before then."
It's normal. Easy. Ordinary. And after today, ordinary feels like a blessing.
The bell over the door jingles, and I grab my notepad, plastering on a smile. "Welcome to Marty's—"
The words die on my lips. Standing there, in an immaculate black suit that doesn't belong anywhere near sticky diner booths, is Ethan Blackwell.
My stomach plummets. He takes in the space with cool detachment, like he's stepped into a zoo exhibit. His gaze slides to me, and for a moment, the corner of his mouth curves—slow, deliberate.
"You work here." It's not a question. It's an observation. A discovery.
I clutch the notepad tighter. "Congratulations. You figured that out all by yourself."
The smirk deepens, and he saunters toward a booth, sitting like he owns the place. "Coffee. Black."
My jaw clenches. "This isn't the academy. You don't get to bark orders."
"And yet," he says, leaning back, "you're still going to bring it."
Heat floods my face—anger, embarrassment, maybe both. But I turn and grab the pot, pouring the steaming liquid into a chipped mug. Setting it in front of him, I mutter, "Careful. Wouldn't want to ruin another one of your silk shirts."
For the first time, his smile shifts. Less smug, more dangerous. Like I've intrigued him in a way he didn't expect.
"You're different," he says quietly, almost to himself. "Everyone else… They play the game. But you? You fight it."
I cross my arms. "Maybe I just don't like spoiled rich boys who think the world owes them something."
He laughs—low, genuine, surprising. "Careful, Carter. That sharp tongue of yours might get you in trouble."
I lean closer, lowering my voice. "Or maybe it's the only thing keeping me alive here."
Our eyes lock, tension crackling in the air like static. For a heartbeat, the diner fades away—the clatter of dishes, the hum of the jukebox, all of it swallowed by the unspoken challenge hanging between us.
Then, just as quickly, he stands, tossing a bill on the table. Crisp. Hundred-dollar. Way more than the cost of a cup of coffee.
"Keep the change," he says smoothly. "Consider it… insurance."
And with that, he's gone, the door swinging shut behind him.
I stare after him, the bill trembling in my hand. Insurance. A warning. A promise.
I'm not sure which scares me more.
One thing is clear: Ethan Blackwell has noticed me and nothing about my life will ever be ordinary again.
I stand there for a beat too long, the hundred-dollar bill pinched between my fingers like it's radioactive.
Noah pokes his head out from the kitchen. "Whoa. Big spender. Who was that?"
"Nobody," I say quickly, shoving the bill into the register before my brother can ask more questions. Nobody—but also the one person I can't seem to escape.
For the next hour, I keep expecting Ethan to reappear, but the door doesn't jingle again. I should feel relief, but instead there's a restless weight in my chest, like he left something behind that I can't shake.
By the time my shift ends, the streets are quiet, slick with rain from an earlier storm. I pull my jacket tighter around me, the diner's neon glow shrinking behind as I start the walk home.
Halfway down the block, I hear it—the low purr of an engine. A sleek black car rolls to a slow crawl beside me, its tinted windows gleaming under the streetlight. My pulse spikes. I don't need to see who's inside.
The passenger window slides down, and there he is—Ethan Blackwell, leaning against the leather seat like this is all perfectly normal.
"Get in," he says simply.
I blink at him. "Excuse me?"
"It's late. You shouldn't be walking home alone." His tone is casual, but his eyes—steady, unreadable—pin me in place.
I laugh, sharp and incredulous. "What is this? Some kind of rich-boy savior act?"
"It's common sense." A pause, then softer: "Carter, the city isn't safe."
For a moment, something in his voice makes me hesitate. It's not mockery or arrogance—it almost sounds like concern. Almost. Then I remember Chloe's words. Ethan isn't someone you fight. He's someone you survive.
I shake my head. "Thanks, but I'll take my chances."
I turn and keep walking.
The car idles for a moment, then pulls forward, matching my pace. He doesn't press again, but I feel his gaze, heavy, tracking me until I reach my building. Only then does the car glide away, disappearing into the night.
Inside my apartment, I peel off my damp jacket and drop my bag by the door. Noah's asleep on the couch, textbooks scattered across his chest. I tug a blanket over him before retreating to my room.
Only when I'm lying in bed, staring at the cracked ceiling, do I let myself unravel. Why did he come to the diner? Why follow me home? What does Ethan Blackwell really want?
I press my palms to my eyes, but the memory of his gaze lingers, sharp and unshakable. For the first time, I can't tell if Ethan is playing a game with me… or if I've somehow become the game.
Either way, I already know— I'm far deeper than I planned.