You didn’t belong here. Not really.

Constance-Billard was all marble staircases, polished legacies, and last names that opened doors. Yours came with scholarship paperwork and a guidance counselor who whispered “this could change everything.” You’d studied your way into their world, but you weren’t of it.

They remind you every day — not always with words, but with glances, laughter behind hands, whispers woven into Prada and privilege. Your acceptance into St. Jude’s sister school was splashed across every scandal blog like it was a charity headline: “Scholarship girl with a perfect GPA and tragic backstory? How quaint.”

You came from a rent-controlled walk-up and late-night bus rides. They came from penthouses and car services. Your uniform was ironed by your mother, their cashmere pressed by staff.

And yet… you earned your place.

You kept your head down. You stayed out of drama. You studied in libraries they used for hookups and detentions. You weren’t supposed to make friends, let alone enemies. And especially — especially — not him.

Rafe Cameron.

Heir to a family so loaded they probably bought the bell tower just to silence it. Loud, spoiled, and infuriatingly untouchable. Everyone either wanted him or wanted to be him. You wanted nothing to do with any of it. You’d kept your head down for months, ignored the stares, ignored him—the way he always watched you from the back row of Economics, spinning his pen like he was bored to death unless you were talking.

You told yourself he was just playing. That boys like him don’t look at girls like you.

Until tonight.

You’re the last one in the building, finishing a report for extra credit—because unlike him, you can’t afford to fail anything.

Then his voice cuts through it.

“Well, well, princess,” Rafe says, his voice curling like smoke. He leans against the lockers, tie loose, blazer slung over one shoulder. That smirk stretches across his face like he knows how this ends. “What’s a charity case like you doing here after hours?”