With This Mask

Chapter 1

chapter one

The weight of my world is in these books, heavy in my arms as I weave through the sea of students. New semester, new battles. Senior year at Westcroft University can’t expire fast enough, and today is only the first day.

I spot Josh first, his lean frame draped over the back of a bench like he owns it. Isabella's laughter rings out, a melody in the chaos. I push harder against the current of bodies, anxious to see them after a summer without my best friends.

"Hey!" My voice slices through the hum of conversation as I reach them. My stack of books thumps onto the bench between us.

"Damn, Salem, you planning to build a fortress?" Josh grins, flicking a glance at my literary load.

"More like conquer one," I shoot back as I eye the beautiful facade of our school. “I cannot believe we all made it to senior year.”

Isabella pulls me into a hug that smells like summer and optimism. "I missed you, babe! How was your summer?"

"Missed you too." I squeeze her back, the comfort of her presence a balm to the first-day-back jitters in my belly. “It was fine. Mom was happy to have me home for a little while. And the wedding was nice. Danny is a sweet guy.”

"If you need guidance on navigating stepdad’s, I’m your expert,” Josh offers with a slightly annoyed tone. “But the real question is, did you hit the books hard, or did you actually do something fun for a change?"

"Fun's a relative term." I roll my eyes. "Studied, worked, plotted world domination. The usual."

"Figures." Josh chuckles, but he’s hardly paying attention. He watches as Angel Mahome walks by, his tongue practically hanging out of his mouth.

"Give it up, Josh,” Isabella rolls her eyes. “Angel would sooner tip you for parking her car than go out with you.”

“Why do you have to be like that?” he barks at her, annoyed.

“Someone has to reality check your dreamer’s ass,” she says as she stands, winking at him. “Come on, Salem, we've got a year to crush." Isabella links her arm with mine, pulling us into motion.

"Looks like they've finished the library upgrade," I note, craning my neck to admire the ivy-draped facade. It's straight out of a brochure, with its tall, arched windows and promise of quiet corners filled with knowledge.

"Probably added another wing just for the rich kid’s parents’ egos," Josh quips as he rushes to catch up with us, his gaze following mine.

Westcroft is notorious. It isn’t large, not like most universities. Located upstate, it’s tucked against the backdrop of mountains and trees, and the only reason this town exists is because of the school. Only the elite attend Westcroft University. Sons and daughters of presidents. CEO heirs. Billionaire’s kids who had to buy their way into a school that impresses the masses after graduation. The cost of tuition is insane. But it’s one of the top five schools in the country for business.

I’ve dreamed about coming to Westcroft since I was in elementary school and it was the setting for some movie. Growing up so damn poor, it was all I could think about. Getting an education that would grant me an income that would make it so I wouldn’t have to total the groceries going into my cart, just to be sure there was enough money. The day I got my acceptance letter was the best damn day of my life.

The day my scholarship came through was the second.

I breathe in deep, the scent of freshly mown grass mingling with the retreating warmth of summer air. There's a tang of excitement too, electric and alive. This campus is a battlefield of brains, and I'm armed to the teeth. I won't just survive here; I'll thrive. I have to. Because the alternative is staying stuck in the same cycle of poverty that has been my family legacy for generations now.

"Here comes the royal parade," Josh mutters under his breath.

I look up and my stomach sinks. This may be college. We may all be in our early twenties now. But it doesn’t make it all that different from high school sometimes. There is still one class of students, and then the other.

They walk through the campus like they own it, because they do. Each one’s families has donated money in huge sums. Some of the buildings are named after them. And every one of them is dressed in outfits that cost more than my entire wardrobe.

Fuck, I hate that they’re so damn beautiful too. Money can buy you just about anything, apparently, even good looks. "Behold, the natural habitat of the trust fund baby."

Isabella’s chuckle is a soft chime beside me. “Don’t let them get to you, Salem.”

"Too late for that," I say, narrowing my eyes as the pack of polished perfection saunters by. They're a blur of designer labels and smug smiles, orbiting their own sun of self-importance. Most of them didn’t even have to earn their position at this incredible school. Their parents just had to write a check, and congrats! You’re accepted!

"Look at them," I whisper, more to myself than to Josh or Izzy. "Strutting around like they own the place."

"Because they basically do," Josh says, his voice low and edged like a blade. He stands a little taller, shoulders squared against the invisible lines that divide us from them.

"Let them strut," Isabella says, squeezing my hand. "At least we're here on our own merit."

"Damn straight." My jaw sets firm, resolve steeling my spine.

A snicker slices through the chatter, sharp and mean. "If it isn't the charity case brigade." The voice drips privilege like a designer cologne that reeks of disdain.

My grip on my textbooks tightens, knuckles whitening. He stands there, sneer in place, surrounded by his clones—a king among jesters. Chaz Markersfield. None of them are nice, but he’s the worst idiot of them all. He’s cruel and loud, and everything I hate. And he’s flanked by those who are just like him—Charles Whitmore. Alec Vanderholt. Ava Bradley. Angel Mahome. My heart pounds a war drum rhythm against my ribs. I lock eyes with Chaz, ready to tear into his arrogance.

"Excuse me?" I shoot back, voice steady, though my blood's boiling hot. "Care to say that louder?"

Josh is beside me in an instant, his presence a solid wall. His green eyes flash fire. "Why don't you crawl back to your country club, huh? Or is mummy's teat running dry and you actually have to show your face at school?"

The rich kid's face flushes red, his posse chuckling awkwardly. Victory flares in my chest. Josh's words are a slap across their smug faces.

“Fuck off, trailer trash," the spoiled brat scoffs, and he peels off, the rest of his posse following after him.

"Assholes," I mutter, shaking my head.

"Let them talk, Josh says, his hand briefly squeezing my shoulder.

A chuckle bubbles from Isabella, her eyes twinkling with mischief. "I swear, those guys strut like they've got golden sticks up their asses."

I can't help it—I laugh, the sound cutting through my lingering irritation. There's something about Izzy's frankness that makes it impossible to stay mad around her.

"Made of money, and still can't buy a clue," I quip, shaking my head.

"Or class," Josh adds, and we snicker.

"Come on, losers," Isabella grins, hooking an arm through mine and then Josh's. "We've got minds to sharpen and classes to conquer."

The hallways are a sea of bodies, everyone rushing in different directions like colored currents in a river. We're salmon swimming upstream—scholarship kids fighting the current. My heart's racing but I'm here, we're here, and damn if we won't make it to the finish line.

"Remember when this place seemed like another planet?" Josh murmurs as we maneuver through the crowd.

"Feels like home now," I say, more to myself than to them.

It's crazy to think about how out of place I felt when I first arrived at this school. I’d attended low income public schools my whole life. My mentors were burned out teachers who had dealt with and seen too much shit, all while being severely underpaid. I’d only succeeded in school because I cared so damn much. So, walking into Westcroft, an elite university, I was overwhelmed to say the least.

But somehow, amidst the sea of privilege, I managed to find my feet. I fought tooth and nail to prove myself, and I fucking won. I’ve got two years at the top of my class under my belt. It would be three, but fucking Alec Vanderholt is always, always right at my heels. But I'm passionate about my classes, eager to learn and grow. The idea of getting my degree in online marketing fills me with a sense of determination and purpose.

I remember the first day, standing there at the entrance, the overwhelming scent of wealth and entitlement wafting through the air. I felt like a fish out of water, gasping for breath in this alien environment. My heart was pounding, my hands shaking as I clutched my textbooks, half-afraid that they'd be snatched away and used as kindling in a bonfire of the underprivileged.

But Josh and Isabella, my fellow scholarship students, were there to ground me, to remind me that we were here on our own merit.

The classroom door looms ahead, and I take a deep breath, inhaling the scent of polished wood and old books—a perfume of potential. The nerves hit, sharp and sudden, but there's excitement too, electric under my skin.

"Here we go," I whisper, more a promise than a statement.

"Kick ass, Salem," Josh says, giving me a fist bump.

"Take notes, boys and girls," I shoot back, a smirk tugging at my lips.

The lecture hall looms—grand, imposing, a coliseum where minds clash and egos bruise. My hand wraps around the cool metal handle, and I pull. The hum of pre-class chatter wraps around me like a second skin, but it's one I shed easily. The room is packed, so, hustling in, I take the first available seat I come across.

“That was saved, but by all means, help yourself.”

My blood goes cold at the voice I hear from beside me.

Slowly, I turn, and meet eye to eye with Alec fucking Vanderholt.

Our gazes lock, brief as a bullet. His blue eyes are an ocean I've got no business swimming in—deep, dangerous, dragging you under if you're not careful. Every inch of him screams wealth and privilege. All the way from his polished shoes, to his perfectly fitted clothes, to his sharp as ice jawline, to his old-money blond hair. His family practically owns this town, and everyone knows it. He might not be the loudest or the cruelest of the rich kids, but it is well known he is by far the wealthiest.

"Ready to take notes, or just here to stare?" he asks as he looks back forward, just as the professor walks in and begins settling himself at the front of the room.

"Both," I throw back sarcastically. "Multitasking's my middle name."

"Thought it was 'Charity,'" he retorts, a corner of his mouth twitching at the cruelty.

"How did you ever guess?” I ask in feigned shock. But it’s immediately followed by an eye roll.

The door clicks shut behind us as the last of the students scramble inside. The professor—a wiry man with a hawkish gaze—flips open his textbook with a practiced snap. He’s all business, no bullshit, and I respect that.

"Good afternoon," he booms, voice bouncing off the walls. "If you check the online classroom, you will find the outline and the grading curve. Your reading list can be found there as well. Now that we’ve covered the mundane bullshit, let's dive in."

A smile pulls in the corner of my mouth. He might be frank, but I appreciate his direct approach.

I yank out my laptop, cheap but serviceable, from my bag. My fingers hover over the keys. I live for this—the crackle of fresh knowledge, the thrill of discovery. My heart beats to the rhythm of turning pages and scribbling notes.

"Today, we dissect the complexities of human behavior and how it translates into buying and spending habits," the professor announces, and the words strike a chord in me. It's why I’m here—to peel back layers, to understand what makes people tick.

The sound of Alec’s tapping on the keys of his own, much more expensive laptop, draw my eyes to his hands. Damn, why does he have such nice hands? There are veins. Thick ones. And a scar across one knuckle. And they aren’t soft hands.

I instantly straighten in my seat. What the fuck was that? Since when have I cared what a man’s hands look like?

Yet, I can’t help it when my eyes dart over again, taking note of the vein that strains against his skin as it climbs up to his wrist.

"Let's begin with the Milgram experiment," the professor continues, and it’s a jolt to my system. Power. Authority. Blind obedience. Fucking fascinating.

"Who here can tell me the significance of this study?" he probes, scanning the room. Silence hangs heavy until a hand casually rises up beside me.

"Mr. Vanderholt?"

"Shows how far people will go when they're following orders. Even if it means hurting someone else," Alec says, and his voice carries weight. A glint of something dark passes over his features—as if he has some kind of personal experience.

"Correct." The professor nods, writing key terms on the whiteboard with swift strokes. "Quite disturbing, isn't it?"

"Disturbing, yes. But not surprising," I call out, unable to help myself. I refuse to let Alec start this year out being the star pupil. Every head swivels in my direction. Including the professors.

"Explain," the professor prompts, intrigued.

"People love to shirk responsibility. Hiding behind orders is just an excuse to do what they secretly want." My words hang between us, challenging, a gauntlet laid bare.

"Interesting perspective," the professor muses. "Keep that critical mindset."

I smile, though I try to suppress it, and will my body not to blush at his compliments.

"Bet you get off on being contrary," Alec whispers loud enough for only me to hear, when the professor turns his back.

"Only when it pisses off entitled pricks," I whisper back, not missing a beat.

"At least the professor already knows my name,” Alec says, the privilege dripping from his words. “He’ll forget you before class is even over.”

"Not likely,” I snap back, needing to put this asshole in his place. “Good luck finding anyone in this room with a higher GPA than mine.”

“You’ve obviously never been granted a view of my transcripts,” he retorts with a smug smile. “I may be a truster, but I got into Westcroft all on my own. So, climb off your high horse.”

“Is there something you’d like to share with the class?” the professors voice suddenly is sharp and directed. He’s staring straight at Alec and I.

“No, professor,” Alec says smoothly. “Miss Winters simply needed some help understanding the parameters of life here at Westcroft.”

“How very kind of you, Mr. Vanderholt. But unless you’d like to take over the class so I can head to the strip club early, keep your mouth shut,” he says, not an ounce of bullshit or shame to his tone.

The whole classroom snickers at his blunt confession of his afternoon plans. I want to high five him for putting Alec in his place.

But one little fact keeps me from fully reveling in the moment. How the hell does Alec Vanderholt know my name?