Chapter 4
Chapter Four
JADE
“Keep your head down. Get through the year. Don’t blow this.”
I repeated that mantra like a prayer as I walked deeper into the polished halls of Royal Oaks Prep for what felt like the hundredth time—but was really only the second.
It had been a week since the bonfire. Today was the first day of official school.
I rode my bike down old dirt paths, avoiding main roads and then stashed it between wild rose hedges and rocks.
Everyone else rolled up in Bentleys or self driving Teslas…
I was just a scholarship girl on a bike. But it did have a bell… lol.
A week since the kiss.
A week since Leo Holt spun my entire existence into a headline and walked off like I was a footnote.
And I’d done exactly what I promised myself I would: I disappeared.
No eye contact. No TikTok. No Instagram. I wouldn’t even look when Shani tried to show me clips from the party—grainy, fire-lit footage of me wrapped in him, framed like a scene from a drama I hadn’t auditioned for.
“Nope,” I said every time, waving her phone away like it burned.
“You’re seriously going to pretend that didn’t happen?” she’d asked, arching a brow. “Because the rest of the school is obsessed. Including your boyfriend.”
“Stop calling him that,” I hissed.
“Fine. Your stalker, then.”
I’d rolled my eyes, but she wasn’t wrong.
Apparently, King Leo had been asking around—quietly, carefully, but not subtly.
Trying to figure out who I was, where I came from.
Shani said he even tried to sneak into the admissions office database, which was locked down tighter than Fort Knox thanks to how many politician kids and blue-blood legacies walked these halls.
“Don’t stress,” she’d said. “The system’s airtight. He won’t find you.”
I wasn’t so sure.
And I wasn’t sure which terrified me more: that he’d figure out who I really was…
Or that he wouldn’t.
My loafers clicked too crisply on the marble floors.
They always did. This place wasn’t built for girls like me.
It was built for names that lived on plaques and family trusts, for kids with perfect posture and six generations of framed diplomas.
For people who didn’t have to reinvent themselves because their image had never been damaged in the first place.
I got in on scholarship, a whispered favor, and more conditions than a user agreement.
One mistake.
That’s all it would take.
And Leo Holt? He was that mistake wrapped in golden skin and careless smirks.
I made it through AP Lit. Ms. Chalmers didn’t blink twice at me when I said Heathcliff was a narcissist, not a romantic. I even earned a nod. Pre-calc came next—quiet, efficient, uneventful. History after that. Leo sat two rows over, sprawled in his chair like it owed him rent.
He didn’t look at me.
Not once.
I told myself I was relieved. That this was good. Safe.
But a sick part of me hated it. The same part that replayed the way he’d stepped into my space, smirked like he saw straight through me, and kissed me like he didn’t care who was watching.
By lunch, I felt like I’d made it. No whispers in the hall. No prank flyers on my locker. No dramatic stares.
Unscathed.
Until I stepped into the quad.
It was breathtaking in that old money way—manicured hedges trimmed into intricate labyrinths, the kind that belonged in English gardens or royal estates.
A stone fountain sat at the center like it had opinions, trickling water that probably cost more to maintain than I’d spent on my entire wardrobe.
Everything smelled expensive—iced lavender tea, lemon balm, sunscreen that came in minimalist packaging with French names.
I kept to the edge, unpacking my lunch like it was armor. Turkey sandwich, apple, sparkling water. Basic. Safe. Normal.
Shani appeared out of nowhere, tray in hand, combat boots stomping over pristine flagstone like she gave zero damns. “Mind if I sit?”
“Please do,” I said, already grateful.
We didn’t talk about him. Not at first. We talked bathrooms and teachers and which seniors were already failing French. But I could feel him like static—somewhere in the background, laughing too loud, spinning a basketball one-handed like he hadn’t made me a public spectacle a week ago.
I didn’t look.
I didn’t react.
Because I knew the rules.
Girls like me don’t throw punches at kings. We don’t get a second scandal. We don’t get grace.
So I bit down on the ache in my chest, swallowed it whole, and when Shani leaned in and said, “Library after lunch?” I smiled like it was easy.
“I’d like that.”
Let Leo keep his throne.
I had a different kind of survival in mind.
I dressed like I had something to prove.
Not to Leo. Not to the girls whispering behind their reusable iced matcha cups. But to myself.
I didn’t have a personal shopper or a stylist-on-speed-dial.
No closet full of pressed uniforms or custom-tailored sweaters.
What I did have was a small stack of consignment-store wins, a mini straightening brush that hissed more than it heated, and a very clear understanding that in a place like Royal Oaks, appearances were currency.
Today, I wore a pleated skirt—burgundy, knee-length, the fabric crisp from careful pressing and prayers.
My blouse was pale ivory with a sharp collar, tucked in neatly, and I’d added a pair of dark knee-high socks that made my legs look longer than they were.
My loafers weren’t designer, but I’d buffed them to a shine like they might pass in low light.
I’d even blow-dried my hair.
Used a smoothing serum Aunt Susan kept in her cabinet for “special occasions,” which she handed over with a wink and the kind of hug that made me feel like I had someone in my corner even when the world didn't.
The end result? Sleek enough to pass inspection.
No, I hadn’t had a full back-to-school spa day. No lash lifts, no pre-semester peels or French manicures done by someone named Cecile. But I looked polished.
Put together.
Controlled.
Like someone who belonged.
And that mattered.
Because if I couldn’t stop the whispers, the rumors, the tension that buzzed like radio static every time I walked through the quad, then at least I could look untouchable.
Even if inside, I was unraveling thread by thread. I finished my lunch and turned my back to the quad. I didn’t even look like wild summer girl Leo had kissed. Maybe just maybe I could skate by the rest of the day.
I should’ve known better.
Last period of the day, and all I wanted was to disappear quietly into the back row and ride out the clock.
But fate—aka Ms. Travers—had other ideas.
“New semester project. Groups of three,” she said, clapping her hands like she was announcing free iPhones. “Government systems. Historical policy failures. Pick your poison.”
Around me, chairs screeched. Laptops opened. Whispers ignited like wildfire.
Shani shot me an apologetic glance as she got swept up by her AP track friends. I glanced toward the window, wondering if I could fake a stomach flu and be gone before anyone noticed.
No such luck.
“Hey, Bryan,” a voice drawled behind me. “You’re with us.”
I turned slowly, pulse already thudding.
Leo Holt.
He slid into the desk next to mine with the kind of slow, casual confidence that made it impossible not to look. As usual, he wore it all—bored amusement, athletic arrogance, just enough danger to make you second-guess everything.
And trailing behind him, of course, was his second shadow.
Tristan Vale.
Dark curls, lazy grin, rich-kid chaos energy wrapped in designer threads. He dropped into the seat across from me, winking once before cracking open his notebook like it was for show.
I opened my mouth to speak—maybe protest, maybe just breathe—but then she arrived.
Caroline Winslow.
A legacy. A terror in heels. Draped in soft cashmere and sharp judgment. She approached our table like she’d already decided where everyone belonged—and where I didn’t.
“Oh, perfect,” she said, eyes flicking to Leo. “I was just telling Liv to switch so I could be with you and Tris.”
Her gaze flicked to me like I was lint on her sweater.
“I’m sure the new girl can join one of the study hall groups,” she added sweetly. “You know, where she’ll be more… comfortable.”
Tristan smirked, but didn’t say a word.
Leo didn’t even blink.
He just stretched back in his chair, arms crossed, and said, “Nah. We’re good.”
Caroline blinked. Once. “What?”
Leo tilted his head slightly, voice cool. “She’s in our group.”
“She who?” Caroline demanded, like saying my name might rot her teeth.
Leo looked right at her. “Jade.”
He said it clean. Clear. Final.
The silence that followed could’ve sliced glass.
Caroline’s jaw ticked. “Seriously, Leo? You’re ditching me for her?”
“She’s already at the table,” he said simply. “And last I checked, you weren’t.”
She turned on me then, sharp and slow, her smile gone. “Well. I guess even charity cases get lucky sometimes.”
Something inside me tightened. But before I could fire back, Leo spoke again.
“Careful, Caroline.” His voice was velvet-wrapped steel. “You’re starting to sound like a sore loser.”
Her eyes flashed. But she didn’t push it. No one did when Leo gave a command like that—not even her.
She huffed, flipped her hair, and stormed off to a nearby table, where a few other shellacked blondes glared at me like I’d committed treason.
I swallowed and slowly turned toward Leo.
“Didn’t realize you were holding open auditions for your fan club,” I murmured.
He smirked, eyes gleaming. “Thought I’d try something new.”
And just like that, we were a group.
Me. Leo. Tristan.
The king, the jester, and the scholarship girl.
… heaven help me.
I didn’t want to sit next to him.
But Leo Holt had that effect. He didn’t wait for you to want. He just was. In your space. In your daydreams. In your nightmares, if you weren’t careful.