The acrid smell of vape smoke stings my nose as I lock my car, an F-PACE Jaguar SUV in Firenze red, ripe for stealing. The sagging fences don’t inspire confidence in the school’s security measures, but my eyes find one camera. Then another.
It’ll probably be fine.
I stride across the quad, scanning the students who gather in clusters, swapping stories about the weekend. Voices rise andfall in familiar patterns, and their eyes travel over me in turn—assessing, categorising—while I study their reactions.
Searching for my target.
Chelsea Impaglia sounds more like a car model than a property mogul’s daughter, but she’s the reason my dad sent me here.
I flex my bruised knuckles, dried blood caking the splits in my skin.
Not theonlyreason, just the main one.
A wave of derisive laughter draws my attention, and my gaze sharpens on the dark-haired girl strutting around the corner, three companions circling like guard dogs.
Her chemical curls are glossy onyx in the sunlight, and there’s not a thing out of place, from the polish on her patent-leather shoes to the contoured cheekbones and artificially plumped lips. Every movement has the careful grace of someone who’s always being watched, and a glance around the quad confirms she is.
Blending into the shadows, away from the visible cameras, I observe her for a few minutes more, then compare her with the photographs on my phone until I’m certain she’s the one.
Her friends will have completed elaborate obstacle courses before earning their places, but I need a shortcut. Luckily, years of starting at new schools has taught me the quickest route into a queen bee’s favour.
Either beat the crap out of a current suitor who she thinks is tough or pick on an outcast who’s already a favoured target.
I tense as Chelsea’s gaze falls on a platinum blonde. Heavy-framed glasses dominate the girl’s face, dark-tinted, while static-charged hairs form a halo. A ghost in sunlight, she navigates the courtyard with the slow caution of prey.
Her appearance is vaguely familiar, probably from the hours I’ve spent on Chelsea’s socials, and it’s not just her hair that’spale. Her hands and face are similarly bleached of colour, apart from a brown-purple bruise mottling her right cheekbone.
She looks so delicate my ribs ache.
So…pure.
Fleeting emotions cross Chelsea’s face—anguish, revulsion, devastation—more complex than her one-note appearance would suggest.
Then she sneers. “Freak.”
Her companions echo the slur in a tittering chorus, and when Chelsea mimes feeling her way, the laughter sharpens.
The blonde flips her middle finger, and a second later goes sprawling on the concrete pavers. Her dark glasses skid across the rough ground, straight towards my loafers, and I stop them under my sole.
Gotta give them credit; the girls are good. I didn’t even see the foot that tripped her.
I wait until Chelsea looks my way, then shift my weight forward. The air fills with the crunch of breaking plastic, and the thick frames give with a satisfying snap, the right-side lens cracking.
And shebeams. Lowering her eyes and peering up through lashes so long they cast shadows on her contoured cheeks. My stomach lurches with revulsion.
But I’m here to make friends and influence people, not judge. I scoop the broken glasses into my hand, deliberately twisting the frames further between my fingers.
“Sorry, kid,” I say, extending the mangled remains, then freeze.
The girl’s powder-blue irises shimmer like a late winter frost, jittering back and forth in an unsettling motion. Her eyebrows and lashes match the white of her hair, almost invisible against her porcelain skin. So tiny, I could encircle her waist with my hands.
Her fingers graze mine as she snatches the glasses away, and sparks leap up my arm, sharp and unwelcome. The accidental touch cuts through my usual haze of boredom like a blade.
She cradles the cracked lens, a flash of something dangerous in those frost-pale eyes. “I’ll report you.”
“Report him for what, Ophelia?” Chelsea rolls her eyes. “We all saw it was an accident.”
She hooks a clammy hand around my biceps.Gotcha.“Don’t worry, she’s always tripping over her own feet.” The grip on my arm tightens, pulling me away. “My name’s Chelsea.”
