Chapter Three
MILA
Islowed just short of Blackwood Academy’s doors, pressing my palm against the brick as if steadying myself for what waited inside. For a moment, the thought of turning back felt almost reasonable. No Blackwood and no Luke, no eyes dissecting every step I took.
The urge passed, and I straightened. I let my expression settle into something calm, the version of myself I wore so they didn’t see the real me—the side that longed for things to go back to how they were between Luke and me before everything went to hell.
My hand drifted to my throat before I caught myself.
The bare skin there felt more exposed than the crowd I hadn’t even faced yet.
Brave didn’t mean reckless. It meant walking through those doors even with fear and dread crawling through me. I smoothed my shirt and stepped forward even if every cell in me knew Luke King didn’t hand out second chances.
The moment I entered Blackwood Academy’s halls, I felt it—that electric snap in the air, the prick of a thousand eyes carving into my spine. Whispers slithered down the hallways, curling around corners. Some curious. Most venomous.
I used to rule this world at Luke’s side. Now I was its fallen queen, ripe for punishment and ridicule.
With my head high, I took measured steps, my spine locked tight even as my stomach twisted itself into knots. The weight of judgment pressed heavy, unspoken accusations stitched into every sidelong glance.
I made it through the first four periods without running into Luke, or his crew, or Avery—or worse, Elise Dunn, heiress to Dunn Industries, and her cackling clique.
Small mercies. Blackwood royalty had scattered themselves across different schedules and electives, which meant I could breathe. A little.
I took note of the new hierarchy since I’d been here last. Elise had climbed the ranks in my absence.
I’d seen it unfold over social media—each carefully curated post, every tagged party photo, her proximity to the guys, as though it were a throne she was born to inherit.
Elise didn’t just want the crown. She wanted to make sure no one remembered who wore it before her.
I didn’t expect peace. I wasn’t stupid. I just hoped to buy time.
That illusion shattered the second I stepped into the cafeteria. The energy shifted. Forks paused mid-air. Conversations stalled mid-laugh. It was as if the entire room exhaled at once—then held its breath.
There they were. The elite. Lined along the back wall, gods surveying their court.
Luke’s crew sprawled along the table, a painting come to life: Theo leaned back, grin too predatory, Jax stone-faced and calculating, Chase halfway through a joke no one dared interrupt.
And Elise. Poised just close enough to their table to stake her claim, as if she belonged—like she owned it.
She spotted me and smiled, a blade unsheathed. Then leaned into one of her minions, her straight, black hair curtaining her round face, highlighting her doe eyes, and whispered something behind a manicured hand. A second later, the entire table erupted in laughter, jagged and rehearsed.
I didn’t have to hear the words to know they were about me. Screw her. I grabbed a tray and moved like I didn’t notice. Found the farthest table from the chaos and sat with my back to the wall, where I could see everything.
Then his eyes found mine. Luke. The second our gazes collided, something inside me clenched and frayed.
His stare was heat and fury and history rolled into one brutal punch to the chest. Attraction and longing for what we once were rolled through me.
And for a breath, it was as if nothing had changed. Like we were still us.
His expression hardened. He looked past me, and I was once again invisible. And still, I felt it—the moment he stood. The scrape of his chair, the shift in energy as his team clocked him moving and mirrored him, shadows at his back. He cut across the cafeteria with one singular focus. Me.
I didn’t move. Wouldn’t. My gaze tracked him—every inch of his frame sharper than I remembered.
He’d grown broader, thicker through the shoulders.
The cut of his jaw was more defined now, honed by a year of pressure and pain.
And I knew him well enough to spot the twitch—right there, beneath the corner of his jaw.
A tell. He was spiraling. And I was the reason.
He stopped in front of me, crowding my space, the rest of his crew settling, a pack behind him. The room went dead silent, all eyes shifting to whatever this was.
Luke’s voice was a low hum, smooth and deadly. “Didn’t think you had the guts to show your face here.”
His voice sliced through me, and I caught myself cataloguing the angle of his jaw.
My fingers tightened around the edge of the tray.
I forced my shoulders loose. Calm. This was a game.
And I’d learned to play with the best. I met his gaze, steady and unflinching.
“Looks as if someone’s still nursing a grudge. ”
The shift was subtle—just a flicker of darkness in his eyes. But it was enough. I hit a nerve. Good.
He stepped closer, voice dropping just for me. “You don’t belong here,” he murmured, breath fanning across my cheek. “And I’ll make sure everyone knows it.”
Cedar and spice. The scent clung to my memory, bittersweet and cruel, dragging old warmth through new wounds.
I blinked up at him, slow. “Try me.”
For a second, we just stared. Neither of us blinking. Neither of us moving. Then he scoffed and turned, his team following like well-trained dogs, peeling away just as the tension in the room snapped back into place.
My appetite had vanished. I dumped the tray and left, not looking back, even though I felt his gaze burn down my spine the whole way out.
I didn’t slow down until I reached my locker. The metal clanged when I twisted the combo and yanked it open. My fingers shook, just a little. Just enough to piss me off.
He was harder now, colder, and sharper around the edges like someone had sanded down whatever softness he used to let me see. I hated wondering if I was the one who did that to him.
Then—out of nowhere—a body fell against the lockers.
“Girl, I heard you were back. Why didn’t you call?”
Avery. Leaning against the locker next to mine like nothing had changed. Same confident smirk. Same cascade of honey-blonde waves. Same cornflower-blue eyes that missed nothing.
Relief punched the breath out of me. I hadn’t realized how badly I needed an ally until she showed up, a lifeline. “I didn’t exactly have a going-away party.” I grabbed a notebook I needed for my next class. “Didn’t think you would want anything to do with a vanishing act.”
She scoffed. “Please. This is Blackwood. You gave the school a trust fund worth of drama. I eat that shit for breakfast.” She looked me over. “You’re lucky I like ghosts.”
I smiled—small, real. “You’re the first familiar face that hasn’t tried to gut me. Why is that?”
“That’s because I’m not stupid.” She leaned in. “You’ll tell me when you’re ready, and I already witnessed the welcome wagon the guys gave you. Besides, I remember who you were.” Her voice softened. “And I remember who you were with.”
My stomach flipped. I shut my locker a little harder than necessary. “So does everyone else.”
“You dated a King.” She shrugged. “No one forgets a scandal of that magnitude. Least of all Elise.”
Of course. I exhaled. “I used to run in their circle. Now I’m barely orbiting the planet.”
Avery laughed, full and unbothered. “Coming in from the wrong side of the tracks, huh?”
Her tone was teasing, but her eyes were steady. Kind. She wasn’t mocking me. She was marking the line I’d crossed. Power was currency in Blackwood. And I’d overstepped.
“You good with that?” she asked.
“I have to be.”
She bumped her shoulder into mine. “Good. Because I hate fake people. And you coming back? You just made things a hell of a lot more fun.”
We pushed off the lockers, weaving through the crush of students. People still stared. Still whispered.
Avery leaned closer. “Word of warning. Elise is already circling.”
I’d caught that. “She never liked me.”
“She tolerated you when you were Luke’s. Then, she hadn’t stood a chance. Funny that she thinks she has one now. It makes you competition.”
I snorted. “I’m not competing.”
“Doesn’t matter. In her eyes? You walked back into her kingdom.”
I arched a brow. “And Luke?”
Avery sighed. “Still untouchable. Still angry. Still acts like he’s above it all.” She paused. “But he saw you this morning. And trust me—it shook him.”
I nodded once. The memory of that muscle jumping in his jaw came swift on the heels of her words. “Good.”
Her gaze flicked over me. “Careful. Elise might run the socials, but Luke controls the oxygen. When they both target the same person?”
“I become the battlefield.”
“Exactly.”
We stopped outside the classroom. Avery looked at me, a flicker of something serious threading through the teasing. “Don’t let her shrink you. You used to walk these halls like you owned them. You want back in? Take it. And, Mila?” Her hand briefly rested on my arm. “It’s good to have you back.”
I didn’t say thank you. I didn’t need to. Because in that moment, for the first time today, I wasn’t completely alone.
Later during the day, we ended up in the same art class, one of the few places that still felt like mine. She sat at the station beside me, muttering about how she could barely sketch a stick figure. I rolled my eyes, pulled out my sketchbook, and let the rest of the world fade.
The air in the studio always smelled of dusty graphite, earthy oil paints, and the pungent bite of turpentine.
Chalk dust clung to the floor. Sunlight poured through the tall windows, bouncing off metal stools and wide-plank hardwood.
It wasn’t fancy, but it was sacred. A place where everything else faded.
Our current project was a portrait series—faces, expressions, the little betrayals written across them.
Avery slouched two stools over with a graphite pencil in her mouth and a sketchpad she clearly hadn’t opened. She looked up as I slid into my seat and offered a two-fingered salute, her grin easy. “Let’s pretend I know what I’m doing.”
I smirked. “Fake it till you make it.”
“Fake it till they pass me so I never have to take this elective again,” she muttered, flipping her sketchpad upside down like the pencil lines might rearrange themselves.
I dropped my bag, pulled out my sketchbook, and braced myself. The spine was peeling, its edges frayed. The cover was battered, marked with smudges of charcoal and the faded remnants of a coffee stain.
I flipped through slowly.
A sparring match from the gym below the apartment we lived in last year. Muscle, sweat, rage in motion. A guy with a split lip frozen mid-swing, the blur of gloves I’d rendered with fast, loose lines. Shading where the overhead light cast harsh shadows across his spine.
Then another page—waves crashing against the shore, gulls caught mid-flight. Feet in the foreground, mine, half-submerged as a wave receded. I’d drawn the moment between stillness and pull, how the ocean always felt hungry for something from you.
“Damn,” Avery muttered, leaning over. “I’ve always envied your talent.”
I shrugged. “Drawing helps me make sense of things, that’s all.”
“Should I be concerned if my sketch of this apple looks like a lumpy kidney?” she asked, rotating her paper for me to see.
I choked on a laugh. “First of all, it’s upside down.”
She blinked. “Oh. That explains nothing, but thank you.”
I nudged her with my elbow then turned a few more pages.
Luke. Dozens of sketches of him, scattered like confessions.
Profiles. Frontal angles. Full-body shots on the ice.
I’d drawn his smirk once—crooked and smug, as if he knew something you didn’t.
His eyes more than once. The way he leaned on one foot, the way he always looked like he was moving even when he was still.
And always, his jaw. It was my favorite part to sketch. Clean, defined, and carved from intent. I’d shaded it so many times the graphite had rubbed off on the opposite page.
I paused. Then turned to a blank sheet.
This Luke was different. The softness I used to know had been carved out, replaced with angles and armor. His silence didn’t just guard him now—it warned everyone else. Even the way he looked at me felt foreign. Like I was a threat. Or worse, a regret.
Even his eyes were colder now—still blue, still beautiful, but no longer forgiving.
His hair was slightly longer at the top, his posture more rigid.
I sketched the angle of his shoulders first—broader than before.
The slope of his neck. The tension in his jawline.
I added the shadows under his cheekbones, the set of his mouth that rarely relaxed anymore.
My pencil scratched out the truth in strokes and smears.
Smudged the edge of his jaw with my thumb.
Used the side of the graphite stick to deepen the hollows of his throat.
Layered crosshatching over the collar of his shirt, remembering how he looked that morning in the cafeteria—eyes blazing, a warning flare.
I used the eraser to pull out a highlight in his lower lip. Another above his brow. I was chasing light and edge and all the things I would never be able to say.
Around me, students murmured, chairs scraped, the teacher droned on about structure and line weight. None of it mattered. I was buried in the lines of a guy who hated me, who still looked at me, unable to decide whether to destroy or protect.
I didn’t even realize I was breathing easier until I looked down and saw the page nearly finished. Even if nothing else made sense, this did. This was mine. He used to be too.
That night, at home, I checked the school’s tagged stories on Instagram.
There it was. A looped video of Luke on the ice.
Scoring the game-winning goal. The crowd exploded.
Avery was there, cheering on the sidelines.
And I—just like I’d been for the past year—was the ghost. Still watching from the edge. Still missing from the picture.