It was breathtaking in thatold moneyway—manicured hedges trimmed into intricate labyrinths, the kind that belonged in English gardens or royal estates. A stone fountain sat at the center like it had opinions, trickling water that probably cost more to maintain than I’d spent on my entire wardrobe.
Everything smelled expensive—iced lavender tea, lemon balm, sunscreen that came in minimalist packaging with French names.
I kept to the edge, unpacking my lunch like it was armor. Turkey sandwich, apple, sparkling water. Basic. Safe. Normal.
Shani appeared out of nowhere, tray in hand, combat boots stomping over pristine flagstone like she gave zero damns. “Mind if I sit?”
“Please do,” I said, already grateful.
We didn’t talk abouthim.Not at first. We talked bathrooms and teachers and which seniors were already failing French. But I could feel him like static—somewhere in the background, laughing too loud, spinning a basketball one-handed like he hadn’t made me a public spectacle a week ago.
I didn’t look.
I didn’t react.
Because I knew the rules.
Girls like me don’t throw punches at kings. We don’t get a second scandal. We don’t get grace.
So I bit down on the ache in my chest, swallowed it whole, and when Shani leaned in and said, “Library after lunch?” I smiled like it was easy.
“I’d like that.”
Let Leo keep his throne.
I had a different kind of survival in mind.
I dressed like I had something to prove.
Not to Leo. Not to the girls whispering behind their reusable iced matcha cups. But to myself.
I didn’t have a personal shopper or a stylist-on-speed-dial. No closet full of pressed uniforms or custom-tailored sweaters. What I did have was a small stack of consignment-store wins, a mini straightening brush that hissed more than it heated, and a very clear understanding that in a place like Royal Oaks, appearances were currency.
Today, I wore a pleated skirt—burgundy, knee-length, the fabric crisp from careful pressing and prayers. My blouse was pale ivory with a sharp collar, tucked in neatly, and I’d added a pair of dark knee-high socks that made my legs look longer than they were. My loafers weren’t designer, but I’d buffed them to a shine like they might pass in low light.
I’d even blow-dried my hair.
Used a smoothing serum Aunt Susan kept in her cabinet for “special occasions,” which she handed over with a wink and the kind of hug that made me feel like I had someone in my corner even when the world didn't.
The end result? Sleek enough to pass inspection.
No, I hadn’t had a full back-to-school spa day. No lashlifts, no pre-semester peels or French manicures done by someone named Cecile. But I looked polished.
Put together.
Controlled.
Like someone who belonged.
And that mattered.
Because if I couldn’t stop the whispers, the rumors, the tension that buzzed like radio static every time I walked through the quad, then at least I couldlookuntouchable.
Even if inside, I was unraveling thread by thread. I finished my lunch and turned my back to the quad. I didn’t even look like wild summer girl Leo had kissed. Maybe just maybe I could skate by the rest of the day.
I should’ve known better.
Last period of the day, and all I wanted was to disappear quietly into the back row and ride out the clock.
