CHAPTER ONE - ELENA

The roar of laughter erupted like a thunderclap in Blackwood Academy’s cafeteria, rippling through the air and bouncing off the marble floors. It was the kind of laughter that fed off humiliation, the kind that kept the hierarchy intact.

I leaned back in my chair, lazily swirling the tip of my straw in my sparkling water, my expression a perfect mask of disinterest. But inside? I was waiting for it. The inevitable moment when Noah Carter would scramble to his feet, cheeks burning, head down—just another nobody who knew better than to challenge the order of things.

But he didn’t.

He just… sat there.

Noah Carter—the school’s charity case, the lone scholarship kid in a sea of privilege—was sprawled out on the floor, his pathetic excuse of a lunch scattered around him like a crime scene. A sad little sandwich, an apple rolling aimlessly across the tiles.

My lips curled into a slow, satisfied smirk. Too easy. A well-placed foot, a barely-there trip, and gravity had taken care of the rest.

"Oops," I drawled, tilting my head as I feigned innocence. "Didn’t see you there, Carter."

Laughter. Loud, raucous, feeding off my performance like a live audience at a Broadway show. My friends—every single one of them handpicked for their ability to fawn and flatter—cackled beside me, their amusement as artificial as their designer handbags.

I expected him to react like they all did. To stammer out an apology for simply existing. To grab his things in a hurry, to shrink under my gaze, to disappear into the background where he belonged.

But then he looked at me.

Really looked at me.

Dark, stormy eyes—steady, unreadable—met mine, and for the first time in a long time, something flickered inside me. Something uncomfortable.

No anger. No embarrassment. No desperation to please.

Just silence.

The kind of silence that unsettled, that clawed at the edges of confidence.

Noah Carter didn’t move like a man who had just been humiliated. He moved like a man who didn’t care. And that? That was new.

Slowly, without a word, he reached for his sandwich, dusted off his clothes, and walked away.

Just like that.

The laughter died—cut off so abruptly it was almost jarring. The cafeteria, once alive with energy, settled into a thick, suffocating silence. I felt it, the shift. The weight of eyes turning from him to me.

He hadn’t broken. He hadn’t even bent.

Later that afternoon, I found myself in the library, supposedly researching 18th-century French literature. In reality, my gaze kept wandering across the vast, silent room, drawn to a lone figure tucked away in a distant corner.

Noah.

He was surrounded by books, brow furrowed in concentration, utterly oblivious to my presence or the whispers that followed him wherever he went. He was lost in a world that had nothing to do with Blackwood Academy, with me, or with the intricate social structure that ruled my life.

And that infuriated me.

I was the center of attention. The sun around which everyone else revolved. His indifference was an insult, a challenge. A subtle act of defiance I couldn’t ignore.

I had to do something.

****

Over lunch the next day, I planned my next move with my girls. It had to be something memorable, something that would finally elicit the reaction I wanted.

"I’ll spill something on him," I said, twirling a strand of my hair between my fingers. "Accidentally, of course."

Tiffany giggled. "Oh, Elena, you're evil."

I simply smiled, a predatory glint in my eyes. Evil? No. I preferred to think of myself as... efficient.

The opportunity came sooner than expected. As Noah approached our table with his lunch tray, I rose, pretending to greet another student. With perfect timing, I turned and bumped into him, sending his tray flying.

A steaming bowl of tomato soup landed right on his chest.

A collective gasp rippled through the cafeteria. Every pair of eyes locked onto him, waiting for the inevitable: anger, humiliation, a desperate attempt to hide his mortification. I could already taste victory.

The soup dripped down his shirt, staining it a vivid red. But Noah didn’t react. He stood still, his face unreadable.

I smiled, feigning concern. "Oh my god, Noah, I am so, so sorry!" I gasped. "I’m such a klutz! Let me help you clean that up."

I reached out, ready to make a show of wiping the mess off his shirt. But before I could touch him, his eyes met mine, cold, unyielding.

"Save your pity," he said, his voice quiet but razor-sharp.

My hand froze mid-air. The smile on my lips faltered.

Noah didn’t wait for a response. He turned and walked away, leaving behind a stunned silence.

I stood there, my heart hammering, a strange mix of anger, confusion, and something else twisting in my gut.

The whispers started again, but this time, they weren’t about him.

They were about me.

****

That night, I lay in bed beneath my silken sheets, staring at the ceiling. The memory of Noah’s expression, his calm voice cutting through the air, replayed over and over in my mind.

I had underestimated him.

He wasn’t like the others. He wasn’t afraid. He wasn’t seeking approval or validation. He was... different.

And that, more than anything, terrified me.

A shiver ran down my spine.

This wasn’t over.

Not by a long shot.