Dante's POV
The second I stepped into the classroom, eyes turned. Of course they did. They always did. People either hated me, feared me, or wanted to be me. It was a hierarchy I'd meticulously crafted, a carefully constructed fortress around the raw, ugly truth of who I was. And then there were the ones like Bella—who clung to me like she owned me, a dazzling, pliable accessory confirming my dominion.
Her arm curled possessively around mine, her perfume, an cloying explosion of vanilla and jasmine, thick and sweet like she was trying to smother my senses, to drown out any other thought, any other presence in the room. "Baby, sit with me in the back," she purred, her voice a low thrum against my ear, her polished nails trailing a possessive path along my shoulder. "I missed you so much last night, you have no idea."
I didn't answer. Didn't need to. She knew how this worked—a silent, intricate dance of power and perceived desire. I gave her attention when it suited me, a rare, fleeting commodity, and in return, she played her part with practiced ease. Perfect arm candy, perfect distraction from the suffocating emptiness that often gnawed at me, a constant, dull ache beneath the surface.
But my eyes, traitorous things, refused to be confined to Bella's performative adoration. They drifted, a magnet pulled by an unseen force, across the chaotic hum of the room. To her.
Cassie.
She sat near the window, second row, her posture hunched, trying to disappear into her seat like she could somehow fold herself into the shadows cast by the morning light. That pathetic, oversized hoodie of hers was pulled up just enough to shroud part of her face, but I caught the quick, involuntary flicker of her absurdly long lashes, the almost imperceptible tensing of her shoulders when Bella, with an exaggerated sigh of contentment, leaned in and pressed a lingering, overly wet kiss to my cheek.
Good. She saw.
She needed to. Needed to understand that her quiet defiance, her pathetic attempts at invisibility, were nothing against the force of my world.
I don't know what it was about her—something about the way she walked, a quiet defiance in her gait, the way she talked, her voice a soft murmur that somehow cut through the usual noise, and especially the way she looked at me. Not with fear, not with adoration, not even with the typical teenage disgust. It was… different. Like I was filth, yes, but not in a judgmental way. More like I was a particularly persistent stain she wished she could just scrub away. Like I hadn't already seen the world for what it was: cold, corrupt, fake, a sprawling cesspool of greed and manipulation. She acted like she wasn't one of them, like she didn't want anything from me. But I knew better. I always knew better. Everyone wanted something.
Her and that whore mother of hers—they came to my house with nothing but wide, innocent eyes and greedy, grasping mouths. Gold-diggers. Leeches. Parasites latching onto wealth they hadn't earned, a fortune built on the bones of men like my father. The thought curdled in my gut, a bitter taste rising to my tongue.
"Dante," Bella whined, her grip on my arm tightening, her voice sharp with impatience as she tugged me toward the last vacant bench, away from the silent accusation of Cassie's back. "Stop staring at her. She's such a loser. Seriously, why do you even acknowledge her existence?"
I chuckled, a low, dry sound that barely masked the storm raging inside me. The casual cruelty in Bella's voice was familiar, comforting in its predictability. "She's nothing, Bella. Less than nothing. Just… a persistent fly."
But why did my chest tighten when I said it? Why did the word 'nothing' feel like a hollow lie, even to my own ears? It was a strange, unsettling sensation, a dissonance I couldn't reconcile.
The teacher strolled in late—Mr. Reynolds, young, probably in his late twenties, with perpetually rumpled clothes and an air of quiet resignation. Dull, oblivious, easily manipulated. He started rambling about economics, something about market systems and demand curves, the abstract concepts a dull drone against the relentless buzz in my head. I couldn't focus. Not with her sitting in front of me, her long, dark braid, thick and glossy like a raven's wing, swinging slightly every time she adjusted in her seat, a silent, rhythmic pendulum ticking away at my composure.
"Dante," Bella whispered in my ear, her voice a sultry caress, her hand sliding under the desk, seeking out my thigh, her fingers tracing slow, deliberate circles. "Want me to come over tonight? We could… finish what we started." Her gaze was heavy, expectant, brimming with an almost desperate need for my validation.
I didn't answer. My mind was somewhere else entirely, trapped in a replay loop of last night.
Her scream. Not a scream of terror, but of pure, unadulterated fury, a raw sound that had ripped through the carefully maintained quiet of my house. The way her tiny fists had pounded my chest, surprisingly strong, surprisingly relentless, fueled by a rage that mirrored my own. That fire in her eyes, a defiant blaze, when I'd pinned her to the wall, her slight body pressed against the cold plaster, and called her worthless. A gold-digging whore, just like her mother.
And yet she hadn't cried. Not in front of me. She waited. Waited until she thought I left, until the heavy thud of my bedroom door echoed through the silent house, before the muffled sobs had started, a faint, heartbreaking sound that had somehow seeped through the thick walls and burrowed into my skull.
I hated that. Hated that she didn't break. Hated that she didn't crumble before me, openly, visibly, giving me the satisfaction of absolute dominion. It was an insult, a challenge. A chink in my carefully crafted armor.
What the hell was wrong with me? Why did her lack of tears infuriate me more than any open rebellion?
"You're not even listening to me, are you?" Bella pouted, her voice rising in a petulant whine, pressing herself closer, her scent overwhelming.
I glanced at her, really looked at her, and for the first time, I felt… bored. Profoundly, unequivocally bored. Like she was just noise in a room full of a silence I desperately wanted to dive into. A silence that wore ripped jeans and an oversized hoodie, a silence that kept her chin up even when her entire world was caving in around her.
Suddenly, Cassidy stood up. Mr. Reynolds had called on her, his voice barely audible above the low hum of student chatter.
She cleared her throat, a soft, almost hesitant sound, but her voice, when it came, was clear, steady, surprisingly strong. "The demand curve shifts when external factors influence consumer interest… not just price. For example, a change in consumer income or tastes can shift the entire curve, not just move along it."
Everyone stared. A ripple of surprise went through the room. Even the jocks in the back, usually oblivious to anything beyond their own shallow conversations, looked up. Including me. My gaze locked onto her, scrutinizing every minute detail of her composure.
And god help me—something deep in my gut twisted. That voice. That unexpected display of intellect, spoken with such quiet confidence. That fire, banked but undeniably present.
Mr. Reynolds, a faint blush creeping up his neck, nodded slowly, his expression a mix of surprise and grudging admiration. "Correct. Excellent point, Miss Hart. Very astute."
Cassidy sat again, her movements fluid and controlled, eyes forward, not even sparing me a glance. Her indifference was a deliberate shield, a blatant dismissal.
She was trying to pretend I didn't exist. Trying to erase me from her world.
And I hated it. Hated that she had the power, however small, to make me feel invisible, to make me feel like I was the one trying to disappear.
I leaned closer to Bella, my hand finding her waist, pulling her flush against me. I kissed her neck, then her jaw, not for pleasure—the taste of her perfume was cloying, the feel of her skin numb beneath my lips—but for revenge. Revenge on a girl who hadn't even touched me, hadn't even looked at me, but who somehow had my blood boiling, my carefully constructed composure unraveling at the seams.
"After this," I whispered against Bella's skin, my voice rough with a manufactured intensity, "we're going to the rooftop. Just you and me."
Her eyes lit up, shining with a desperate triumph, believing she had finally captured my full attention.
But even as I said it, even as her soft sighs filled my ears, I knew it wouldn't be her I'd be thinking about when I closed my eyes later. It wouldn't be her face that haunted the edges of my vision, or her voice that echoed in the quiet corners of my mind.
It would be Cassidy.
The girl I swore I hated. The girl who wouldn't shatter.
And that, more than anything, made me want to break her all the more. To chip away at that infuriating resilience, to find the cracks, to watch her finally crumble beneath my gaze. Only then, perhaps, would this unsettling obsession finally cease.