Chapter 1
A mask is something people always wear. Like clothes, I happen to brew in one every day. It isn’t just painted on—it seeps into my bones, molds the way I smile, sharpens the way I speak. It’s my personality, my character.
But most importantly, it’s survival.
Grandpa Harry taught me that young, whispering lessons into my ear as if they were secrets worth dying for: “Don’t show them your true colors. It provokes weakness.”
Weakness. The word was acid in his mouth, and I drank it anyway. Dad lives by it. Jameson breathes it. And me? I’ve been practicing. Practicing every day, until slipping into a mask feels as effortless as slipping into a silk dress.
Oh, and I’m getting better.
“Everleigh!!”
My name shatters the thought like glass. Lilly’s voice carries across the quad, unapologetic and commanding, as if the entire campus is her stage. And in some ways, it is.
I turn toward her.
She’s impossible to miss—golden hair haloed by sunlight, lips painted in a shade too bold for a Monday morning, hands on her hips like she’s daring anyone to look away. Grumpy at heart, sunshine in appearance. That’s Lilly. The girl who claims she hates attention yet burns brighter than everyone else combined.
Silvia, on the other hand, is her foil. She’s perched on the edge of a stone bench, dark curls pinned back neatly, latte balanced like it’s a ritual. Her book—always a book—peeks out of her tote, the worn spine a testament to her loyalty. Calm. Steady. Rational. If Lilly is the fire, Silvia is the water, cooling her down before she burns everything to ash.
Together, they’re home. Familiar. My constants in a world that thrives on shifting power.
“Finally,” Lilly groans when I reach them, her dramatic sigh pulling a few curious stares our way. “Tell her she can’t just bury herself in poetry forever. A Ravenwood party is tradition.”
“Not tradition,” Silvia corrects, her voice soft but firm. “More like ritual sacrifice.” Her lips twitch upward, a smile she tries to hide but fails.
I laugh, shaking my head. “You two are impossible.”
Before they can argue again, two figures approach from the edge of the quad. Carter and Sharon.
Even without looking, I know who’s who.
Carter moves with easy confidence, his grin already wide as if the world itself is his audience. He’s built for the spotlight—loud, effortless, the kind of guy who thrives at the center of every party. Which makes sense, considering he throws most of them.
Sharon, though, is his reflection in shadow. Taller somehow, sharper in presence though quieter in voice. He doesn’t smile much. His dark hair falls carelessly over his forehead, his gaze heavy enough to make people falter. While Carter radiates golden warmth, Sharon is cold marble—untouchable, unreadable.
“Ladies,” Carter announces grandly, dropping his gym bag onto the bench. “Have no fear, salvation has arrived.”
“More like chaos,” Silvia mutters, but there’s fondness in her tone.
Carter’s grin widens, excitement sparking in his eyes. “So—you all are coming tonight, right? Party at my place. Parents are gone for the week, fridge is stocked, and the pool’s heated. No excuses.”
Before Silvia can object, Lilly practically squeals, “Finally! Someone gets it. Silvia, you can’t say no now. It’s not just a party—it’s Carter’s party.”
“Which is exactly the problem,” Silvia deadpans, sipping her latte. “His parties are chaos.”
“Chaos is fun,” Lilly fires back, eyes glittering. “You should try it sometime instead of hiding behind your sonnets.”
Carter throws an arm dramatically around Lilly’s shoulders. “See? At least one of you appreciates my genius.”
Sharon, leaning against the bench like he owns the shadows, adds quietly, “It’s tradition.” His voice is low, almost unreadable, but it carries.
Carter grins. “Damn right it is. But this isn’t just about tonight—it’s about the finals.”
My chest tightens. I know what’s coming.
“Jameson’s about to make history,” Carter says, almost reverently. “We’re up against the most awaited rivals—Stormhall. Everyone’s talking about it. It’s the match of the year.”
Sharon nods once, sharp. “The whole school will be there.”
“Damn right,” my cousin grins. “And tonight’s the pregame warm-up. Drinks, music, celebration—Fox family style. You’re not skipping this one, Everleigh. No way.”
Silvia sighs, Lilly smirks, and I can already feel the weight of the night pressing in on me.
A party. A tradition. A ritual. And maybe, just maybe, the beginning of something I can’t mask forever.
The word finals stuck with me long after Carter’s grin faded into the background noise of the quad.
He made it sound like war, like Jameson was already carrying the weight of Ravenwood on his shoulders. Maybe he was. Football at this school wasn’t just football—it was currency. Reputation. Legacy. And for Jameson, legacy was practically tattooed on his skin.
Fox blood doesn’t just run deep; it stains.
I adjusted the strap of my bag, weaving through the throng of students spilling across the quad. Their voices blurred into one constant hum—chants of Ravenwood pride, half-joking bets on the score, names I didn’t care to memorize. Jameson’s came up over and over again, sharp and heavy in the air.
I should’ve been used to it by now. Growing up with him meant living in someone else’s spotlight, like a planet orbiting a sun. Bright, untouchable. But somehow, it still pressed on me, that endless Fox expectation to shine in ways I never asked for.
And yet… my world wasn’t the field.
It was the canvas. The sketchbook buried in my bag. The paint-stained fingers that still lingered no matter how much I scrubbed.
I pushed through the glass doors of the fine arts building, instantly exhaling. Ravenwood’s architecture was all sharp stone and towering arches, intimidating and majestic. But in here? The ceilings opened wider, light filtered through tall windows, and the smell of turpentine clung to the air. My kind of sanctuary.
I slipped into the lecture hall, a space half-finished projects and scattered easels claimed as their own. Students were already setting up—stretching canvases, flipping open sketchbooks, balancing coffee on precarious stools.
Art. This was mine. The only place I didn’t need a mask, didn’t need to measure up to Jameson or Dad or anyone else.
I took my seat, pulling my sketchbook out like it was a shield.
And for a moment, the chatter of football and Ravenwood pride dimmed, leaving only me, the blank page, and the quiet promise that maybe here… I could breathe.
