"And remember," Etienne adds, catching up to walk beside me with his hands in his pockets and his tone carrying the casual confidence of someone announcing a fact, "she is waiting for that Dior Blue Dior Oblique Jacquard that just came out. Proper upgrade."
Rafe looks back, confusion replacing the disgust.
"The what what?"
Cal sighs, falling into step beside Etienne.
"You are literally from a rich as fuck family and do not know brands for shit. Dior. It is a designer. One of the biggest in the world. How do you not know this?"
Rafe huffs with the dismissiveness of someone who has never once had to consider the brand of anything he owns.
"I do not give a fuck about brands. Just give me whatever fits and will last three business days."
"Three business days?" I repeat, appalled. "You go through bags every three business days?"
Cal nods with weary confirmation.
"He does. Because he throws his shit everywhere since it is replaceable to him. Bags, jackets, equipment. If it breaks, hejust buys another one. I have watched this man go through four backpacks in a single semester."
"Four?" Sage mutters under her breath. "I would kill for that kind of disposable income."
"See?" Rafe holds my bag up again, waving it like a piece of evidence in a courtroom. "I cannot even throw this thing away because it will totally tear by the..."
He does not finish the sentence.
Because the bag finishes it for him.
The remaining safety pins give up their fight simultaneously, surrendering to gravity and time and the relentless abuse of being swung around by a six-foot-two Alpha who treats other people's belongings with the delicacy of a wrecking ball.
The fabric splits with a sound that can only be described as a death rattle.
And my books hit the floor.
All of them.
Textbooks, notebooks, folders, pens, and one very crumpled schedule scatter across the hallway tile like shrapnel from an explosion. My entire academic life, sprawled across the polished floor of Valenridge Academy for every passing student to witness.
The hallway goes quiet.
Not completely quiet, but quiet enough that I can hear Sage inhale sharply, Jace mutter "oh shit" under his breath, and Cal groan with the exhaustion of someone who has witnessed Rafe destroy too many things to be surprised anymore.
"Look what you just did," Cal says flatly, staring at the carnage.
Rafe stands there, holding the remains of my bag in one hand. Just the strap and a sad flap of canvas, both safety pins now on the floor. The rest of it is in pieces around his feet.
"This is not even my fault," he says, but his voice has lost its usual sharp edge. Something flickers across his face that might be guilt, though I would sooner believe in unicorns than admit Rafe Beaumont is capable of feeling remorse.
"It is absolutely your fault!" Sage jabs a finger at him. "You grabbed it! You swung it! You murdered an innocent bag in cold blood!"
"It was already dying!" Rafe shoots back. "That thing was on life support! I just pulled the plug!"
"Euthanasia without consent is still a crime, Beaumont!"
"It is a BAG!"
While Sage and Rafe devolve into a shouting match that is attracting a growing audience of amused students, I crouch down and start gathering my books.
Do not cry. Do not you dare cry. It is just a bag. It is fabric and thread and pins that were never meant to hold this much together for this long. It does not define you. Its destruction does not change who you are or what you are capable of.
