CHAPTER ONE - ELENA

The roar of laughter echoed throughout Blackwood Academy's cafeteria, bouncing off the high ceilings and sleek marble floors. I sat at my usual spot, at the center table, surveying the scene with practiced amusement. My manicured fingers toyed with the tip of my sparkling water; my expression was one of casual disregard.

Noah Carter was the reason for the laughter. He lay sprawled across the floor, his meager lunch, a sad-looking sandwich, and an apple scattered around him like fallen leaves. A satisfied smirk tugged at my perfectly glossed lips. It had been simple, really. A well-placed foot, a barely audible trip, and gravity had taken care of the rest.

Blackwood Academy. The name alone dripped with prestige, history, and, most importantly, money. Its hallowed halls served as a breeding ground for the elite, a finishing school for future CEOs, politicians, and socialites. And I, Elena Kensington, daughter of renowned businessman Richard Kensington, was its undisputed queen.

Noah Carter, on the other hand, was an outlier. A scholarship student who stood out like a stain on the otherwise spotless fabric of Blackwood's carefully curated student body. He was a reminder that, even within these gilded walls, the real world still existed, complete with its messy inequalities. Quiet, unassuming, always tucked away in the library or hunched over his books in the corner of the classroom, he seemed determined to remain invisible.

I found that irritating.

"Oops," I drawled, my voice dripping with mock sincerity. "I'm so sorry, Carter. I didn’t see you there."

My friends, a carefully selected group of hypocrites and social climbers, burst into laughter again. I basked in their adoration, in the power I wielded over these lesser beings. It was a game, really. A sport. To see how far I could push people before they cracked under the pressure, before they begged for forgiveness and scrambled to make things right.

I expected Noah to do the same. To stumble to his feet, cheeks burning, stammering some feeble excuse in an attempt to appease me.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he just looked up at me.

His eyes, dark, like the sea after a storm, held none of the emotions I expected. No anger. No embarrassment. No humiliation. Just a quiet, unsettling silence.

For the first time in a long time, I felt something flicker in my chest. Unease.

Slowly, carefully, Noah gathered his scattered belongings. He picked up the mangled remains of his sandwich, brushed off his trousers, and walked away. Not a word. Not a single glance at the jeering crowd.

The laughter died. Silence settled over the cafeteria like a thick fog. I felt the weight of eyes on me, the shift in the room’s energy. He hadn’t broken. He hadn’t even bent. He had simply ignored me, and somehow, that was far more unsettling than if he had retaliated.

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.