I rolled out of bed at my usual 6:00 a.m., adrenaline coursing through my veins like cheap espresso. Today was the first day of my journey at Rosewood.
Rosewood wasn't a normal school. It was a fortress. A VIP lounge for the ultra-elite, catering to the top 0.1% of the wealth pyramid. People called it a breeding ground for trust-fund babies—a place where legacy and money bought immunity from the real world. And they weren't wrong.
I didn't walk through those gates with a fat bank account or a famous last name. I got here on grit, hustle, and a merit scholarship—a golden ticket for kids like me whose families were far from loaded. Getting that spot felt like winning the lottery, only the prize wasn't cash; it was a future.
The rich kids bought their way in. They dropped a check and strolled through the halls secure in the knowledge that the world owed them everything. I was here to make a different mark. Study hard, make my mom proud, and pave a path built on actual work. No handouts from a father who didn't care, no trust funds—just me. That was the plan.
Let's do this.
Growing up, my family was no stranger to rough times. My dad had a love affair with the bottle that lasted longer than his marriage to reality. Nights at our house weren't about peace and quiet; they were about him stumbling home at dawn, turning the living room into a minefield. Arguments erupted. Plates shattered. My mom took the worst of it, staying only because we needed the money to keep a roof over my and my little sister Emma's heads.
Then one night, he tried to take his temper out on me. That was the final straw. My mom packed us up and walked out.
Leaving behind years of twisted stability took serious guts, and she never looked back. She went straight back to working as a nurse—a career she'd put on hold when she married him—and rebuilt our lives from scratch. Seeing her reclaim her independence lit a fire in me. Every step I took now was to prove her sacrifices weren't for nothing.
With the morning sun casting a soft glow over the city, I stepped onto Rosewood's sprawling grounds for the first time. Sleek glass-and-steel buildings gleamed in the early light, looking more like a tech billionaire's headquarters than a campus. It felt like stepping into another world—one I was determined to conquer.
When I reached my homeroom, a friendly instructor led me through a maze of polished corridors to my first class. The second I stepped inside, though, my confidence hit a brick wall. Every pair of designer-framed eyes locked onto me, sizing me up like I was an uninvited guest at a charity gala.
I took a deep breath, ready to introduce myself, when someone beat me to it.
"Hey, where are you from?" a guy in the front row called out, flashing a grin that looked rehearsed in a mirror.
"I used to attend St George," I started, only to be cut off by his amused chuckle.
"Cute. No, seriously—which prep school? Swiss boarding? Parents own a shipping company?" he asked with a smirk.
"Nowhere special," I said, keeping my voice even. "Regular family. Regular school."
The entire vibe in the room shifted instantly. His smile vanished, replaced by cool indifference. He raised a hand to get the teacher's attention.
"Sir, I think I'll start prepping for midterms now," he announced, turning his back on me completely.
I stood there blinking, blindsided by how fast I'd been dismissed. Just like that, I'd tripped over an invisible social wire.
"Alright, everyone, settle in," the professor said, gesturing toward me. "Quick welcome to our newest transfer, Grace. Grab a seat in the back, and let's dive into today's lecture."
I walked to the back row under a wave of whispered glances. I knew that look. It was the same cold, calculated judgment my father used whenever he wanted to make me feel small. Here, bank accounts were the only currency that mattered, and I was officially bankrupt.
By English class, my luck hadn't improved. The teacher assigned a reading from the course textbook—which I had left sitting on my kitchen table at home. Calling my mom at the hospital was out of the question, and buying a spare copy at the bookstore would wipe out my cash for the month.
Just as I was mentally calculating how fast I could speed-read over someone's shoulder, a heavy hand pressed down on my desk.
I turned around and found myself staring straight into the intense gaze of a guy who looked like he'd walked off a movie set.
He had the kind of quiet presence that commanded attention without trying. His dark hair was styled back, sharp and controlled, framing dark eyes that missed nothing. His expression was carved out of stone—cool, unreadable, and clearly allergic to small talk. He looked like the kind of guy who stayed calm in a crisis, and definitely not someone you messed with on a whim.
Without a single word, he slid his own textbook across to my desk.
I blinked, caught off guard by the silent rescue, and gave him a quick nod of thanks.
The second the bell rang after the lecture—before I could even hand his book back—he returned and dropped an entire stack of books onto my desk. The heavy thud echoed through the clearing classroom.
"What's going on?" I asked, staring at the pile in confusion. Every single book on my syllabus was sitting right in front of me—textbooks, workbooks, even neatly tabbed notes.
"I don't need them, so take them," he replied coolly, his voice entirely flat.
"Why are you giving me all these?" I asked, eyeing the stack like it might explode.
He didn't flinch. His eyes locked onto mine, cold and unyielding.
"Because you're poor."
His voice carried across the room, sharp and utterly devoid of tact.
A ripple of muffled laughter swept through the classroom as a few girls started whispering behind their hands. Heat rushed to my face—a volatile mix of anger and pure embarrassment. I clenched my fists on the edge of my desk, debating whether throwing a hardcover calculus textbook at his head was worth losing my scholarship on day one.
"I don't—" I started, but he cut me off with a dismissive flick of his hand.
"Get rid of them if you want; I don't care," he muttered, turning on his heel with a scowl that made him look like a brooding soap-opera villain.
His jaw was tight, and a petty urge to crack that untouchable, overly dramatic facade surged straight to my brain. Who just dumps a hundred dollars' worth of textbooks on a stranger like trash? I didn't want his charity, and I definitely wasn't letting him have the last word.
"Hey!" I called out, louder than I intended.
He paused near the door, though he didn't bother turning around.
"Hey! I'll pay you back tomorrow," I announced to his back. "I don't take handouts."
Slowly, he turned his head, fixing me with a piercing stare. One corner of his mouth curved into a slow, arrogant smirk.
"My name is Sinister. Don't yell 'hey' at me like I'm a stray dog," he said, his voice low and measured. "Since it's your first day, I'll let it slide. Watch yourself, Grace."
With that, he walked out, leaving the entire classroom staring at me.
Sinister. Seriously? Did his parents pick his name out of a comic book, or did he legally change it to match his attitude?
The next day, Sinister acted like I didn't exist—which was fine by me, except I still had twenty crumpled dollars burning a hole in my pocket. Determined to clear my debt and preserve my dignity, I tracked him down during lunch.
I finally spotted him leaning against the brick wall behind the east courtyard, casually smoking a cigarette next to a guy who was slightly shorter than him. Unlike Sinister's sharp, untouchable intensity, his friend had an effortless, laid-back charm—dark, wavy hair that looked artfully tousled and warm, observant eyes that missed nothing.
I marched over, holding out the cash like a peace offering I resented making. Rich or not, the guy had zero manners—not even bothering to put out his cigarette when someone walked up.
"Here," I said, holding the bills out.
Sinister glanced down at my hand with zero interest. "For me? I don't need it."
"It's not about whether you need it," I shot back, irritation creeping into my voice. "I owe you. The campus bookstore was sold out yesterday, so take the cash and we're even."
He tilted his head, studying me for a beat before a slow smirk spread across his face. "Keep your twenty bucks. Buy me lunch instead."
I blinked, completely thrown. "What?"
"Instead of cash, sit with me at lunch. Debt cleared."
I hesitated, trying to figure out the angle. Was this some rich-kid prank? Before I could talk myself out of it, pride won—if sitting through one awkward meal got him off my back permanently, fine. I gave a stiff nod, and we headed toward the cafeteria with his friend trailing closely behind.
Stepping inside the cafeteria felt like walking into a five-star hotel lobby. Everything was gleaming glass, polished floors, and students eating food that definitely didn't come from a standard school kitchen.
Sinister gestured toward a corner booth before saying something low to his friend, then walked off toward the serving line. His friend lingered by the table for a second, studying me with an amused, curious expression before sliding into the seat across from me.
"You're Grace, right?" he asked, his voice smooth and friendly, as if we'd known each other for years.
"Yeah," I said cautiously.
"I'm Liam. My dad works for Sinister's family—RR Companies," he said with an easy grin, leaning forward on his elbows. "Full disclosure, you're the first person he's voluntarily spoken to this semester, so congrats, I guess."
"Lucky me," I muttered dryly. "So you two are best friends?"
"Something like that," Liam said, his smirk widening just as Sinister returned and set a loaded lunch tray down on the table with a sharp clink.
"What are you talking about?" Sinister asked, his eyes narrowing slightly as he looked between us.
"Just welcoming our new classmate," Liam replied smoothly.
Sinister grunted and slid the tray directly in front of me.
I stared down at the food, then looked up at him, bewildered. "I thought I was buying your lunch."
Sinister leaned back, folding his arms across his chest. "Please. Have you seen the prices in here? Your twenty dollars wouldn't cover the appetizer."
Heat flared in my cheeks. "I didn't ask you to pay for me," I said, reaching into my pocket and slapping the bills onto the table anyway. "I'm not hungry. Keep the change."
I started to stand up, ready to make a dignified exit, when Sinister's hand shot out—not grabbing me, just pressing firmly onto the edge of the tray to block my path.
"Sit down, Grace," he said, his voice dropping an octave, stubborn and commanding. Nearby tables went quiet, eyes darting toward us.
"Excuse me?" I shot back, planting my hands on my hips. "Last I checked, you don't own me."
He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table, a maddeningly smug glint in his dark eyes. "No, I don't. Which is why you're going to sit down and eat the lunch I already paid for, instead of wasting food just to protect your ego."
"My ego is doing just fine," I snapped. "I have places to be."
"Oh yeah? Where?" he challenged, tilting his head with a smirk that dared me to lie. "You don't know anyone here yet."
I opened my mouth to argue, realized he was right, and hated him even more for it. Beside him, Liam was openly failing to hide a grin behind his hand.
With a dramatic sigh, I dropped back into the booth, grabbed the fork, and stabbed a piece of pasta like it had personally offended me. "Happy now?"
Sinister leaned back, looking entirely too pleased with himself. "Thrilled."
I returned to class after lunch with my pride slightly bruised and my jaw tight. It was nearly impossible to focus on the afternoon lecture—my brain kept replaying his smug smirk and the effortless way he'd cornered me into staying at that table. Worse, I knew I'd eventually fall for that exact brand of arrogance if I wasn't careful.
Not happening. I needed to prove to myself that I was more than the balance in my bank account, and that his wealth—and his infuriatingly good looks—wouldn't distract me.
When the final bell rang, I packed my bag slowly, letting the crowd thin out before heading for the door. I took a deep breath, straightened my shoulders, and reminded myself why I was here.
Sinister could flaunt his money and play his rich-boy mind games all he wanted. I had actual dreams to chase—and nothing, especially not him, was going to get in my way.