Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
DAMIEN
I pull into a student carpark and kill the engine, my tyres crushing the weeds growing through the cracked asphalt. In front of me is a weathered brick classroom, the grouting more lichen than cement.
In their online brochures, Regency High School labels these old buildings ‘heritage,’ but up close, the place just looks like a dump.
A dump that’s costing my dad a six-figure tuition, even though there’s only three months left in my senior year. Apparently, there’s no pro-rata discounts when your school exclusion record is as long as mine.
The acrid smell of vape smoke stings my nose as I lock my car, an F-PACE Jaguar SUV in Firenze red, ripe for stealing. The sagging fences don’t inspire confidence in the school’s security measures, but my eyes find one camera. Then another.
It’ll probably be fine.
I stride across the quad, scanning the students who gather in clusters, swapping stories about the weekend. Voices rise and fall in familiar patterns, and their eyes travel over me in turn—assessing, categorising—while I study their reactions.
Searching for my target.
Chelsea Impaglia sounds more like a car model than a property mogul’s daughter, but she’s the reason my dad sent me here.
I flex my bruised knuckles, dried blood caking the splits in my skin.
Not the only reason, just the main one.
A wave of derisive laughter draws my attention, and my gaze sharpens on the dark-haired girl strutting around the corner, three companions circling like guard dogs.
Her chemical curls are glossy onyx in the sunlight, and there’s not a thing out of place, from the polish on her patent-leather shoes to the contoured cheekbones and artificially plumped lips.
Every movement has the careful grace of someone who’s always being watched, and a glance around the quad confirms she is.
Blending into the shadows, away from the visible cameras, I observe her for a few minutes more, then compare her with the photographs on my phone until I’m certain she’s the one.
Her friends will have completed elaborate obstacle courses before earning their places, but I need a shortcut. Luckily, years of starting at new schools has taught me the quickest route into a queen bee’s favour.
Either beat the crap out of a current suitor who she thinks is tough or pick on an outcast who’s already a favoured target.
I tense as Chelsea’s gaze falls on a platinum blonde. Heavy-framed glasses dominate the girl’s face, dark-tinted, while static-charged hairs form a halo. A ghost in sunlight, she navigates the courtyard with the slow caution of prey.
Her appearance is vaguely familiar, probably from the hours I’ve spent on Chelsea’s socials, and it’s not just her hair that’s pale. Her hands and face are similarly bleached of colour, apart from a brown-purple bruise mottling her right cheekbone.
She looks so delicate my ribs ache.
So… pure.
Fleeting emotions cross Chelsea’s face—anguish, revulsion, devastation—more complex than her one-note appearance would suggest.
Then she sneers. “Freak.”
Her companions echo the slur in a tittering chorus, and when Chelsea mimes feeling her way, the laughter sharpens.
The blonde flips her middle finger, and a second later goes sprawling on the concrete pavers. Her dark glasses skid across the rough ground, straight towards my loafers, and I stop them under my sole.
Gotta give them credit; the girls are good. I didn’t even see the foot that tripped her.
I wait until Chelsea looks my way, then shift my weight forward. The air fills with the crunch of breaking plastic, and the thick frames give with a satisfying snap, the right-side lens cracking.
And she beams. Lowering her eyes and peering up through lashes so long they cast shadows on her contoured cheeks. My stomach lurches with revulsion.
But I’m here to make friends and influence people, not judge. I scoop the broken glasses into my hand, deliberately twisting the frames further between my fingers.
“Sorry, kid,” I say, extending the mangled remains, then freeze.
The girl’s powder-blue irises shimmer like a late winter frost, jittering back and forth in an unsettling motion. Her eyebrows and lashes match the white of her hair, almost invisible against her porcelain skin. So tiny, I could encircle her waist with my hands.
Her fingers graze mine as she snatches the glasses away, and sparks leap up my arm, sharp and unwelcome. The accidental touch cuts through my usual haze of boredom like a blade.
She cradles the cracked lens, a flash of something dangerous in those frost-pale eyes. “I’ll report you.”
“Report him for what, Ophelia?” Chelsea rolls her eyes. “We all saw it was an accident.”
She hooks a clammy hand around my biceps. Gotcha. “Don’t worry, she’s always tripping over her own feet.” The grip on my arm tightens, pulling me away. “My name’s Chelsea.”
“Damien,” I say, injecting interest into my voice. “Would you be able to help me find my first class? I’m new here.”
Her gaze travels from my casually styled dark curls to my lips, my open collar, and lingers where my shirt seams strain over my purposefully tensed biceps. When she flashes her smile again, it’s genuine.
“I’d be happy to.” Another squeeze on my arm. “You’re a senior?”
“Yeah, for the next three months.” I add a derisive laugh. “They kicked me out of my last school just for keying a teacher’s car. Can you believe it?”
The calculated hint of rebellion results in an immediate payoff, and she leans towards my chest, eyelashes fluttering. “You don’t have to worry about that kind of thing here. The cameras are to protect us, not them.”
She leads me to homeroom, her shrill voice imparting gossip. Students nudge each other and pull faces as we pass. At the English block entrance, I turn back, watching Ophelia vanish into the building opposite.
That glare? Sweet perfection.
But I wrench my gaze back to Chelsea. Despite what my father thinks, I can control myself when it suits.
Ophelia’s trapped in this teen prison, same as me. I’ll see her again.
And next time, I’ll break more than her glasses.
I tap the boy’s number into my phone. “Jameson,” he reminds me, and I add ‘essays’ to the surname field.
“Thanks, you’re a lifesaver.”
He grins. “Bit premature, but I appreciate it. Got a list of your subjects?”
I find the confirmation on my phone, forwarding it while Chelsea surveys us both, biting her lower lip. “He’s great. The eight hundred words he did on Erewhon last year were like… university level. The teacher gushed.”
In the four hours since meeting Chelsea, she’s namedropped two dealers (one weed, one pills), a ‘tutor’ who’ll sign me out of classes without an alert going to my dad and a solid lead for the final English exam, ten weeks before we sit it.
All for a reasonable cost.
Jameson is the first tangible, but I’m happy she’ll produce the rest in time. Drip-feeding me to keep her leverage, same as I would.
He sucks air over his teeth, mouth pulling down. “Can’t do music. That’s fifty percent aural exam, fifty percent original work.” He shrugs. “Writing songs isn’t in my repertoire.”
My jaw hardens at the news. I haven’t studied music outside of piano lessons as a kid. Never done economics either, but at least Jameson has that covered.
Seems Regency High just slotted me anywhere they had space, and with my father insisting I attend, I can’t really complain.
“But the rest are fine?”
“Yeah. Five hundred per paper plus a dollar per word.” He grimaces as if the cost is out of reach when to me, it’s a bargain.
“Thanks. I’ll start sending you stuff once I work out what’s assigned.”
“Do you want to go to the mall after school?” Chelsea asks in a tone that suggests I should feel privileged. Her perfectly manicured nails tap against her phone case, impatient for my answer.
“The mall?” I echo, dragging out the question with just enough scepticism to make her pause.
“Yeah.” A flash of vulnerability shows before her expression hardens. “I just need to pick up—”
“Got a shrink appointment,” I lie, and she swoons. Nothing like addressing a mental health problem to get the juices flowing. “But I could do a movie tomorrow if you want. Pick you up at eight?”
“I’d love that!” Her fingers dig into my forearm, leaving half-moon imprints. “What d’you want to see?”
I trace her jawline with my knuckle, leaning close enough to count her fake lashes. “Why don’t you decide for us?”
Something cold flickers through me, then dissolves into nothingness as I press my lips against hers. Just the bland connection of skin on skin—I could be kissing my arm—but her eyes sparkle when I pull away.
The bell rings shortly after. Fourth period is English, then I head to my music class, taking a seat at the back.
I’m staring at my phone when a sixth sense makes my neck prickle. Ophelia walks into the room, heading for the desk beside mine.
She pauses, nostrils flaring—so close I can feel the heat off her skin—then veers away, sitting across the room. Snubbing me.
My interest spikes.
I ditch my screen for the pretty flush of her cheeks, just a few shades lighter than her lips.
Thick tape is holding the broken arm of her glasses together, and behind the shaded lenses, her white eyelashes are long.
The subtlety of her colouring intriguing among a sea of winged eyeliner and riotous glitter.
Chemical calm washes across my jagged brain. Dopamine, serotonin? One of the feel-good ones.
She sets out a pad of large manuscript paper, notes already penned in the top staves, and a school-issue iPad with its pencil. I let her get comfortable, then, when the teacher walks into the room, scoot across and take the seat next to hers.
Ophelia tenses, gripping the edge of her desk, knuckles like stone.
Under my breath, “Your move, Snowflake,” but she doesn’t rise from her seat.