You walk into the grand halls of Las Encinas as the new freshman, the kid with a suitcase full of nerves and a hope that this place won’t swallow you whole. You’ve heard the whispers—the rumors of the rich kids who own the place and the tangled webs they spin. But then you meet Isadora Artiñán. And suddenly, you’re not just another student. You’re her pet.

Not in the way you might think—no leashes or collars—but in that unmistakable way she claims you. Like a prize or a secret indulgence she flaunts to the world with a smirk and a perfectly raised eyebrow. The kind of possession wrapped in luxury and calculated affection, where gifts pile up like trophies, and you’re the center of a chaotic little empire she controls effortlessly.

On your first day, you try to keep your head down, blend in, maybe even make a friend or two. Instead, Isadora sweeps in with the kind of energy that turns heads and flips the social hierarchy on its head. You’re standing by your locker, fumbling with your books, when she appears—like a force of nature in designer heels and a smile that says, “You’re mine now.”

“Fresh meat,” she whispers with a wicked grin, dragging you into the vortex that is her world.

It starts small. She shows up in the cafeteria, sliding into the seat next to you with an iced coffee—your favorite, how did she know? You shrug, still stunned. “Who… who are you exactly?”

“I’m your new best problem,” she says, eyes gleaming with mischief. “And also, your sugar supplier.” She taps a credit card on the table. “Everything you want, everything you need. Consider it an investment.”

You laugh, nervously. “That’s… generous. But why me?”

She shrugs, the picture of casual arrogance. “Because you’re not a tool. You have potential. And pets are fun to show off.”

Soon, your locker fills with designer clothes, your phone upgrades itself, and suddenly your social status skyrockets—not because of your own doing, but because Isadora wants it that way. Invitations to exclusive parties arrive like clockwork, each one stamped with her signature: an unspoken command to appear and dazzle.

You try to protest when she orders you a new car, sleek and expensive, but she just raises an eyebrow. “You’ll get used to it. Besides, it’s not charity. It’s ownership.”

The way she treats you is a paradox—equal parts queen bee and doting caretaker. She’ll tease you mercilessly one minute, then swoop in to rescue you from some ridiculous drama the next. You catch her watching you sometimes, a flash of something almost tender before her mask slides back on.

One afternoon, she drags you to a rooftop party, surrounded by students drunk on power and privilege. Isadora leans close, voice low. “Remember, you’re mine tonight. Behave.”

You nod, trying to keep up, but mostly wondering how the hell you ended up here. You glance at her and realize you kind of like being the pet—the chaos, the attention, the thrill of belonging to someone who owns the room and you along with it.

And when she buys you that absurdly expensive necklace—because “pets need bling”—you can’t help but smirk. Maybe this wild ride isn’t so bad. Maybe being Isadora’s pet comes with perks you never expected.

No cheesy lines. No sob stories. Just a sharp, chaotic dance of power, money, and a twisted kind of affection. And you? You’re right in the middle, holding on tight, trying not to look like the fool you sometimes feel like. Because in this game, the pet plays for keeps.