Prologue
The bell rang through the classroom, releasing a collective sigh, like the air let out of an overinflated balloon.
The first day after summer break always feels like the morning after a sleepless night—you’re here, but your soul is still drifting somewhere in July’s haze, sunburned and sandy. The sun keeps blazing like it’s refusing to admit summer is over, and no one wants to accept the fact that it’s back to schedules and homework, not beaches and cocktails. Everyone’s thoughts still linger at the shoreline, tangled in salty spray and heavy sunsets, where time stretches lazily like a wave rolling in.
I packed my books in silence, slowly, as if trying not to scare off the fragile aftertaste of freedom.
Then my friend shattered the quiet with a loud, theatrical sigh of indignation.
“She’s such a damn witch—first day and already hitting us with tests,” Chloe muttered, wrinkling her sun-kissed nose like she’d just smelled something particularly unfair. “Says it’s a review to make sure we didn’t forget everything over the summer.”
She slung her bag over her shoulder like she was marching off to war instead of another class.
“Well, it’s not like she spent the summer in Monte Carlo like you did,” I said with a dry little smile.
Chloe rolled her eyes like it was the most tired topic on earth and linked her arm with mine, dragging me out of the stuffy classroom into the sunlight.
“I would’ve stayed another week just to not be here,” she sighed, undoing a few more buttons on her uniform blouse. Instantly, her neckline became a magnet for the passing boys. “Don’t get me wrong—I’m glad to see you. But it would’ve been way better if you’d come to me, and we could’ve partied there.”
She wasn’t wrong—we hadn’t seen each other all summer. In early June, Chloe and her family jetted off to the Seychelles, where the ocean is the color of unspoken wishes and the sand is softer than any words.
For a reclusive creature like me, it would’ve been way better than playing house at my stepfather’s banquets in San Francisco, pretending to be part of a perfect little picture.
I felt like a stranger among clinking champagne glasses, painted-on smiles, and golden phrases polished for display.
It’s been years, and I still haven’t quite adjusted to the shift in reality. I no longer live with my mom in a tiny rental where the fridge grumbles with hunger and breakfast is always a nearly expired yogurt. Now the table is laid with delicate slices of pink salmon, shaped like a smile I can’t seem to return.
My school isn’t public anymore, where the air smells like chalk dust and the biology teacher’s cheap perfume.
This is Hinkson Academy—a private school with manicured lawns, posh cafeterias, and restrooms pristine enough for photo shoots. A place where every day is a performance, and you better look flawless.
I hang out with people who don’t know who I used to be. They’ve never heard of Deborah Hills—the girl with the battered backpack and eyes too old for her age.
The girl raised in the shadow of fists and screaming.In an apartment where the walls trembled from arguments and my mother wiped blood from her lips without a word.
Now I’m Deborah Bailey. Now I’m the girl from the brochure—straight posture, polished name, and the kind of smile that sounds like money.
No more torn tights. No more mattress on the floor. No more reality you’re ashamed to show. Now I’m part of another life.
My mom made it out—and she dragged me with her, far from the fear. Now I’m the daughter of a powerful businessman. On paper. In looks. In legend.
If it weren’t for all of that, I wouldn’t be standing here on the school steps with Chloe, in a uniform that costs more than our old apartment.
We stepped into the sun, and the school opened up like a miniature city—perfectly trimmed lawns, glistening lunch benches that looked more like props than furniture. Cars lined the parking lot, each one straight out of a music video. In this world, value is measured not by heart, but horsepower. The more expensive your ride, the higher you rank in the school’s food chain.
My stepfather tried to slot me into that pecking order too—by offering a luxury car.
But I said no. Point-blank, no. I didn’t want to be part of the glossy masquerade. That’s why, every day, I get picked up by a private driver. Not just me — there are two of us. Me and my stepsister.
Kate had just strutted past, popping a pink bubble of gum like a firework.
“Get a move on. I’m waiting,” she tossed over her shoulder without slowing down.
She’s still in middle school, but already talks like the world owes her candy. We’re not sisters-sisters, if you know what I mean. But we’ve figured each other out.
I never tried to force anything. From the moment Mom and I stepped into their perfect house, Kate looked me up and down like we were a glitch in her picture-perfect life. A tiny storm in glitter lip gloss and a sandpaper attitude.
Mom won her over fast — she’s always been a natural with kids, like she has a radar for bruised hearts.
Me? It took a couple of raw conversations for Kate to get it:
I’m not a threat.
I’m not stealing her dad.
I’m not here for love or legacy. I’m just... here.
So we made an unspoken pact. I don’t push — she doesn’t bite.
“We’re celebrating the first day back. Club night,” Chloe announced with a sparkle in her voice, linking her arm through mine and leading us down the steps like we were walking into the next chapter of some iconic teen drama.
“I know a place. They’ll let us in, no problem.”
She flicked her keys and the roof of her new convertible slid back like magic. The thing shined like it had never seen a speck of dust. Her dad gifted it to her not long ago — his way of saying, “Sure, be independent. But do it on leather seats.”
“And where’s my baby girl heading?” The voice came lazy, cocky, smirking. Like the air itself whispered it.
Jacob Acker.
He appeared the way he always did — suddenly, like a shadow chasing sunlight. He grabbed Chloe by the waist, pressed her against the car hood, and kissed her like they weren’t in the middle of the freaking parking lot. He lived for an audience.
And Chloe? She loved the spotlight.
I crossed my arms and turned away.
“Save the make-out session. Some of us just ate.”
“Well, if it isn’t Grumpy Debbie.” Jacob peeled his lips off Chloe and shot me a grin sharp enough to slice. “What, the sun still hasn’t melted that ice around your soul?”
I never liked Jacob Acker. Sure, he’s hot. Athletic. Charismatic in that smug quarterback way. Star of the football team. Poster boy of Hinkson. But under all that shine… something always felt off. Too smooth. Too staged. And I don’t trust polish — I know what it hides.
He never did anything wrong per se, but I’m watching. Because sooner or later, masks slip. They always do.
Next to him, Chloe glowed — radiant, untouchable, cheerleader-perfect.
They’d started dating after some wild party last year. From the moment she claimed him, the girls knew Jacob was taken.
“We’re just trying to make this stupid day suck less.”
“Mmm, you talked Debbie into it, huh?” He dragged out my name like it was a joke. Not Deborah. Not Deb. Just that sing-songy Debbie — like I was five and wearing pigtails.
I knew exactly how he saw me: the quiet girl. The rule-follower. Not the type to party, chase boys, or chug vodka from someone else’s flask in a club bathroom.
“She doesn’t have a choice. Right, Deborah?” Chloe pouted like a Disney villain in lip gloss.
“I have to pick up Kate,” I muttered, stepping away. “If I don’t, she’ll stage a three-act tragedy.”
“Still the same Deborah Bailey,” Jacob called after me as I clicked away in my heels. “Defrost a little, Ice Queen!”
I stopped. Spun around on my heel.
Chloe was already hitting his chest with mock outrage, laughing. And Jacob—he was soaking it in. He always knew how to get a reaction. And he knew I wouldn’t let it slide.
“Screw you, Acker.” I flipped him off.
Then turned back again, the corners of my mouth tugging into a barely-there smirk. I knew how to play the game—I just didn’t bother unless it was worth it. But when needed? I could sting too.
I was almost at my ride when my eyes caught on a black motorcycle, parked off to the side. And next to it—him.
Still as midnight before a storm. Leaning against the handlebars like it was a stage and he was the final act.
Adam Berkutov.
A name people said with either a hush or a shiver.
He had just pulled into his usual spot—the one no one dared to take. Not by accident. Not as a joke. That space was off-limits, like the ground itself knew who it belonged to.
He pulled off his helmet, running a hand through his thick, dark hair—and it was like the world quieted a notch. His eyes, sharp and shadowed, narrowed—not just looking at me, but looking through me. Layer by layer.
Adam Berkutov.
The black sheep of Hinkson High.
The kind of legend made of whispers and half-truths. Captain of the football team—not that he seemed to care who was under him or against him. He moved through the halls like they belonged to him. He was one of us—yet entirely apart.
No real friends. Didn’t chase cliques, didn’t trade empty hallway greetings, didn’t laugh at lunch tables.
Detached. Untamed.
Like a wolf that long ago chose solitude over a pack.
And somehow—still respected. Or maybe the better word: feared.
Because no one really knew what lived behind those eyes. Because fear doesn’t have a shape—just that edge-of-your-seat feeling like something’s about to snap.
I’d seen him once. After hours.
I needed air—space—so I went out back behind the school where no one ever goes.
I was searching for silence. Instead, I found the sound of fists.
He was beating some guy. No yelling. No words. Just brutal, mechanical force. His knuckles dripped blood, his hand slamming again and again into the kid’s face, pinning him to the brick wall like he wanted to erase him.
It wasn’t rage. It was something deeper. Something that breathed.
And then—he saw me.
Those eyes… they landed on mine, full of something dark and burning.
Not pleading.
Not apologizing.
Warning me: leave.
And I did.
Not because I was scared. But because I wasn’t the kind of girl who tattled to principals and played hero.
That’s not why I’m here. And definitely not for Adam Berkutov’s attention.
I’m here on borrowed status. A guest star in a rich kid’s dreamscape. Accepted, but not one of them.
And now—here he was again.
First time since that night.
I froze.
We locked eyes. Not by accident. Not in passing. Direct. Then, suddenly, he looked away.
Just like that.
Like the moment was enough.
He slipped his helmet back on. Started the engine. And without a word, rolled off the lot.
But just before he disappeared—
The mirrors tilted, just slightly.
Toward me.
Like even through that black visor… He was still watching.
What the hell...
