Hate Me Later (Weststar Academy)

Next week in hell （chapter 1）

Chapter One

S O P H I A

At least that was what every movie, every book, and every ridiculously optimistic coming of age story seemed determined to promise.

The new girl arrived at a new school, awkwardly bumped into someone in the hallway, and somehow ended up with a loyal group of friends before the first week was over.

By lunch she already had people to sit with, by Friday she had been invited to at least one party, and by the end of the month she was living the kind of life that looked perfect on social media.

Reality, however, seems to have a much darker sense of humor.

It is already my second week at Weststar Elite Academy, and the most meaningful social interaction I have managed to collect so far involves a football flying directly at my head and a horrified boy apologizing no fewer than four times before disappearing entirely. Not that I have been counting.

Okay. Technically I have. Four times exactly.

I lean against my locker and let my gaze drift across the crowded hallway.

Students move around me in expensive uniforms that somehow look tailored rather than mass produced, designer shoes clicking against polished marble floors.

Laughter echoes through the corridor as conversations blend into a constant hum of confidence and familiarity.

Everyone seems to know exactly where they belong.

Everyone except me.

A familiar knot tightens in my stomach.

It isn't that people have been openly rude. Most of them barely acknowledge my existence at all, which somehow feels worse. At least when somebody dislikes you, they notice you. Here, I feel invisible.

The truth is, I don't belong here. Not in the way the others do.

Most students at Weststar come from families whose last names open doors before they even step into a room.

Families with businesses, fortunes, and influence that everyone recognizes.

I come from a small town, raised in a tiny apartment by two loving parents who died in a car accident.

Now, I live with my aunt. Every time I walk through these hallways, I am painfully aware of the sacrifices she is making just so I can be here.

She barely knew me, yet she opened her home to me when I had nowhere else to go.

The thought settles heavily in my chest.

I push it away before it can take hold. If I allow myself to think about that night for too long, I will never make it through the day.

Instead, I focus on something far less emotional.

My locker key.

More specifically, the fact that it has apparently vanished. Frowning, I begin digging through my bag.

Sketchbook. Pens. Tissues. A packet of gum I don't remember buying.

But still no key.

"I know you're in here somewhere," I mutter.

After several more seconds of increasingly desperate searching, my fingers finally brush against the familiar piece of metal.

But my Relief lasting approximately half a second.

Because at that exact moment, my copy of Pride and Prejudice decides it has had enough of being carried around and slips from my grasp.

"No, no, no..."

Too late. It hits the floor with a loud crack and slides several feet across the hallway as though it has developed a desperate need for freedom.

For a second, I simply stare at it. Then, muttering something under my breath that would disappoint every English teacher I have ever had, I crouch down and reach for it.

When a sharp click stops me. Less than an inch from my hand, a stiletto heel lands on the marble floor.

"Watch it." A sharp hig pitche voic shouts .

I look up.

The girl standing over me looks like she has stepped straight out of a luxury fashion campaign.

Dark hair pulled into a sleek high ponytail, not a single strand daring to escape.

Sharp features, flawless makeup that enhances rather than conceals, long lashes framing warm brown eyes that study me with thinly veiled annoyance.

Delicate gold earrings catch the light every time she moves her head, matched by a bracelet around one wrist subtle enough to appear effortless, expensive enough to cost more than my entire wardrobe.

Everything about her is polished. Controlled and simple Perfect.

She isn't looking at me rather staring at the tip of her shoe with an expression suggesting something truly catastrophic has just occurred.

I follow her gaze automatically, expecting a scratch, a stain or some other visible damage that would justify the outrage radiating from her face.

But ther is nothing. Her shoe looks perfectly fine .

"Sorry," I say anyway as I reach for the book, deciding that apologizing is probably easier than whatever this conversation is about to become.

"It was an accident." Only then does she look at me ,a slow and deliberate examination that travels from my face to my uniform and back again, as though she is determining whether I am being sincere or simply incapable of understanding the magnitude of my crime.

One perfectly sculpted eyebrow lifts.

"Sorry?" she repeats in a mocking voice.

The word sounds strangely unnatural coming from her mouth, as though it belongs to a language she rarely speaks.

"Yes," I reply, tightening my grip on the book. "As in I didn't mean to do it."

She extends one leg slightly.

"These are limited edition Valentinos."

I blink.

"...Okay?"

Something in her expression darkens, and for the first time I suspect I have failed a test I hadn't even known I was taking.

"They cost twelve hundred dollars."My gaze drifts toward the shoes before returning to her face.

"Well...I'm sorry to hear that "

The silence that follows settles over the hallway like a storm cloud. Around us, students have begun slowing, curiosity pulling them closer. Conversations soften and to my supries Heads turn. A small audience is forming

Just Great.

Exactly what I need after spending two weeks trying to avoid attention.

"That's not the point," she says, her voice clipped.

"Then what is the point?"

For the briefest moment, genuine disbelief flashes across her face. Not the reaction of someone who has been insulted, but of someone who has never been questioned before.

Neither of us speaks for several seconds. The hallway seems to hold its breath.

Eventually I straighten to my full height and slip my book back into my bag, refusing to break eye contact. She is slightly taller than me, but not enough to matter, and although my pulse has started beating faster, I am not about to let her see that.

"From where I'm standing," I say, keeping my voice steady, "your shoes are perfectly fine, my book survived the fall, and both of us could still continue having a completely normal day."

Something shifts in her expression. Real surprise. Apparently people don't usually talk back to her. The thought almost makes me smile.

Almost.

Unfortunately, she notices anyway. The slightest twitch at the corner of my mouth is enough.

Without warning she reaches past me and slams my locker shut with enough force that the metal door crashes through the hallway like a gunshot.

I jerk my hand back instinctively, my heart launching into my throat as the locker rattles violently on its hinges.

Every pair of eyes in the corridor finds us.

For a moment, neither of us moves. She stares at me as though she can't quite decide whether I am unbelievably brave or unbelievably stupid, while I stand there wondering how a conversation about a perfectly undamaged shoe has escalated into what feels suspiciously like a public power struggle.

Then she folds her arms.Wich makes me almost smile , who does she think she is?

"Do you know who I am?"

The question is almost unsettling. Not asked with arrogance at least not in the obvious sense. If anything, she sounds genuinely confused, as though the answer should have been self evident the moment she opened her mouth.

"No," I say honestly. And pause. "And You know what? I don't care."

For the first time since this conversation started, her composure cracks.

A strange sense of satisfaction settles inside my chest. Maybe it is childish. Maybe it is reckless. But after two weeks of feeling invisible, it is surprisingly satisfying to discover that somebody at Weststar is capable of being bothered by my existence.

Before she can respond, I adjust the strap of my bag and step around her.

With a wide, satisfied grin, I walk away.

I can practically feel her glare burning into my back, but I won't look back.

If I do, she'll tempt me into continuing, and I already have enough problems without declaring war on the school's fashion dictator.

The thought follows me all the way down the hallway.

By the time I finally check my phone, I am not even surprised to discover I am late.

The further I move through the building, the more the atmosphere begins to shift.

The constant noise of the main hallways fades behind me until it becomes little more than a distant murmur, replaced by a quieter energy that settles over this part of the Academy like a held breath.

Framed paintings line the walls on either side of the corridor, illuminated by carefully placed lights that turn every piece into its own small exhibition.

Some of the artwork explodes with color, while others are composed entirely of charcoal and shadow, yet all of them carry the unmistakable feeling that somebody has poured a piece of themselves into their creation.

Without realizing it, I slow down.

And for the first time that morning, the tight knot beneath my ribs loosens slightly.

Art has always done that to me ,has always possessed the strange ability to quiet the noise in my head, to create a space where expectations and grief and fear can't quite reach.

Art doesn't care how much money your family has.

It doesn't care whether your last name opens doors or whether your clothes come from expensive boutiques.

A blank page doesn't judge. It simply waits patiently for somebody willing to fill it with something meaningful.