LENA –
The Garcia town car idled at Thornfield Academy's wrought-iron gates, its black lacquered body gleaming like an oil spill. Behind smoked glass, Lena Garcia sat motionless—spine straight as a verdict, dark eyes pinned to the crest welded into iron: a horse rearing against a rising sun.
Her father's voice from that morning clung like expensive cigar smoke: "Remember who you are, mija. Los Garcia no decepcionan." He hadn't even looked up when he said it, more intent on fastening his platinum cufflinks.
She exhaled through lips glossed to mirror-shine. Polished. Silent. Impeccable. The Garcia heir, bred not just to inherit power but to wear it gracefully.
"Señorita Garcia?"
The driver's voice slipped through the open door, soft as silk yet weighted by practiced deference. Miguel had ferried her family through fundraisers, funerals, and photo ops—yet still clung to Miss like she already wore her father's legacy.
She stepped out, heels biting into gravel with a sound sharp as splintering porcelain. September air wrapped around her, scented with old wax, clipped ivy, and money so old it smelled like dust.
Thornfield's campus unfurled around her like a stage set for elegant decay. Parents wept discreetly into linen monograms, while fresh-money families craned for glimpses of power. Among them, legacy students glided like young predators—born knowing the kingdom was already theirs.
She smoothed her blazer's lapel, black wool tailored to look effortless. "Gravitas before charm, Elena," her mother had whispered, pinning the crest just above her heart. "They must see the legacy before they see the girl."
"Lena."
The voice coiled around her like velvet drawn tight. Jasper Valdez stood waiting, posture flawless as a family crest, hair so precise it felt carved rather than combed. His presence pressed close: comforting as a prayer, suffocating as a closed coffin.
"They paired us as orientation partners," he said, extending his arm. Warmth in his tone, but rationed—controlled, like everything else about him. "I suspect your father had a word with the dean."
"Of course he did." The laugh slipped out, airy and gilded at the edges, but brittle where it touched bone. She threaded her gloved hand through his arm, each movement choreographed by decades of expectation.
They moved toward registration, picture-perfect: Garcia and Valdez, dark hair catching light like polished onyx, steps matching as if choreographed. Jasper murmured about schedules and clubs, his voice a muted hum beneath the louder message: Look at us.
But something shifted at the edge of her vision—a ripple of untamed heat against Thornfield's chilled perfection.
Joey Valdez sprawled against an ancient oak, uniform undone in calculated defiance. Where Jasper was careful architecture, Joey was raw ruin: dark hair falling messily across smoldering eyes that dared you to get too close. That mouth curved into a smirk slow as smoke.
For one traitorous heartbeat, something flared hot under her ribs.
Beside her, Jasper went still, muscle tightening under her hand. "Figures, My brother never did care for the rules."
The words sounded casual but carried quiet steel. The heir and the spare—forever bound by blood and opposition.
"He's not worth your attention, amor," Jasper added softly. The endearment was gentle, but it landed like another link in the chain.
Maybe Joey wasn't worth it. But still, her gaze lingered—drawn by something raw, alive, feral.
"Miss Garcia."
The words fell like a guillotine. Dean Blackwood approached, every step deliberate, his charcoal suit cut with military precision. Silver hair glinted under the late sun; wire-rimmed glasses turned his gaze into a cold mirror.
His smile showed teeth, not warmth. "Welcome to Thornfield. Your grandmother speaks of you often. She is quite… invested in your development."
That pause before development scraped against her nerves like steel on bone.
"Of course, sir." The words slipped out polished and crisp, porcelain hiding fracture lines. Her manicured nails pressed crescents into her palm.
Blackwood's gaze swept over her—clinical, dissecting, measuring what might bend and what might break. "The Honor Society packet awaits you in your room. I trust you'll find it… instructive."
The word settled heavy as a locked door.
"Thank you, Dean Blackwood," she replied, the Garcia mask flawless.
He inclined his head, satisfied, then turned away. His cologne lingered: sharp, cold, expensive.
Joey pushed off the oak, strolling closer as if the earth itself re-angled to let him pass. The crowd parted—not from respect, something older, darker, magnetic.
"Still letting them keep you on that leash, princesa?" His voice spilled lazy heat, every syllable a taunt wrapped around a promise. The Spanish curled around her name, intimate and incendiary at once.
Jasper's grip on her arm turned iron. "Show respect, Joey. Lena is—"
"Elena can speak for herself." Joey's gaze cut straight through Jasper, landing on her with unsettling calm. "Can't you, Elena?"
Not Lena. Elena. The name felt heavier in his mouth, weighted with bloodline and rebellion. It made her stand taller, made something buried and burning flicker awake.
For a breath, she tasted it: the wild relief of stepping off script, of letting the rage and desire speak instead of duty.
But the mask slid back on, seamless and cold.
"I'm exactly where I choose to be," she said, voice honed to a fine, cutting edge.
His answering smile was slow, feral—a blade unsheathed just enough to catch the light. "For now," he murmured, pitched only for her. "But not forever, princesa. Even golden cages crack."
Then he was gone, tie defiantly loose, dark hair catching the wind like a whispered dare.
Jasper stood close enough that she could feel his heat, his steady presence wrapping around her like a promise. Safe. But safe had begun to taste like nothing at all.
"Don't listen to him," he murmured, voice soft but carrying an undertow of steel. "Joey makes ruin sound like freedom."
She nodded—because that was what the Garcia heir did: agree, smooth the ripples, stay inside the lines. But her eyes couldn't help trailing after Joey, the careless slant of his shoulders, the smirk still ghosting his lips.
At Thornfield Academy, where bloodlines crowned kings and secrets sharpened knives, rebellion wasn't just forbidden.
It was the only thing that tasted real.