She’s not prettier, not exactly. But she looks taller. Older. Like she’s been through hell and clawed her way back out. Like she’s not afraid to be herself anymore.
Dakota’s eyes are shining. “Holy shit, Isobel.”
I smile. “Yeah,” I say quietly. “She’s not so bad.”
22 NEW HAIR, WHO THIS?
By Monday morning, the buzz is already alive in the air before I even set foot inside Blackmoore’s grand hall.
It starts the second I walk out the dorms. A low hum of whispers, stares that stick longer than usual, heads turning in small clusters like a wave rolling across the courtyard.
For once, I’m not hiding behind oversized hoodies or a tangled bun. I scan over myself in the mirror. My hair down, bold, wavy, and freshly black with streaks of silver that shimmer in the light when I move. A new cut frames my face just enough to bring out the sharpness in my cheekbones and the steel behind my storm-blue eyes. The color contrast also making them pop. There’s a touch of makeup — subtle, smoky — not to impress anyone, just enough to stand out.
I walk the halls head held high, shoulders square.
The dining hall is already full when I walk in. Same murmurs. Same stares. But this time, they feel different. Not pity. Not mockery.
Curiosity. Power.
I head toward the same table where Dakota and her friends are waiting. They shower me with compliments. I smile.
And then they walk in.
Blackmoore’s golden four, dragging everyone’s attention with them like gravity. But for once, they’re not the center of it.
I am.
I don’t even have to look up to know they see me. It’s in the sudden stop of movement, the hitch in footsteps.
Then Luca’s voice, smooth and amused, cuts through the space.
“Well, well. Who let the storm in?”
I glance up just enough to catch him staring. There's a pause. His eyes flick over me and he whistles low under his breath. “Didn’t know Blackmoore had models now.”
“I didn’t do it for you,” I say, buttering a piece of toast.
“Good,” he replies, mouth tugging into a grin. “But damn if it doesn’t look good on you anyway.”
Tex gives me one of those unreadable looks from across the table, clearly still recalibrating. Something’s shifted and he’s not sure if he likes it or if he respects it too much to admit it.
Noah tips his head. “Bold move,” he says. “But it suits you.”
Then there’s Jace.
Standing behind them, arms crossed, expression unreadable. Those ice-blue eyes locked on mine, trying to dissect me. For a beat too long, he just stares.
“New look. Same dirty mouth.” he says.
He turns away, sliding into his seat without another word. I smile to myself, just slightly. Because they can all feel it. Something’s changing.
And they don’t know what to do about it.
“Hey,” a voice says, warm, a little nervous. “Isobel, right?”
I turn. He’s cute — in that boy-next-door way, all golden skin and floppy blond hair, a dimple starting to show when he smiles. He’s not wearing the uniform blazer, just the button-down, sleeves rolled to his elbows.
“Yeah,” I say, cautiously.
