Day two and I was already done.
Done with this school.
Done with this lecture hall that smelled like books and broken dreams.
Done with Professor "I-don't-smile-for-brats" and his personal vendetta against breathing with joy.
He was lecturing about Machiavelli, naturally.
I was doodling a crown on my notebook with a diamond-encrusted pen. One I didn't need but liked to twirl dramatically.
"You're late again," Theo Arden said without looking up from his notes.
"Fashionably," I replied, sliding into my seat. "You're welcome."
Some idiot chuckled behind me. I shot them a look. They stopped.
Theo's gaze finally lifted. Pinning. Cool. Calculated.
"Miss—Sid," he corrected himself, voice like cold metal. "You've now interrupted twice in two days. Should I expect consistency or just chaos?"
I smiled sweetly. "Chaos is consistent. At least mine comes in couture."
Silence.
Then—he walked over. Slowly. Deliberately.
Bent slightly, one hand braced on my desk, the other setting down a small, rectangular slip of white.
Detention.
Issued like a challenge. Signed like a signature kill.
"For what?" I asked, eyebrows raised.
He straightened. "For mistaking this class for a runway."
I let the smile fall off my face like a silk glove.
"Careful, Professor," I said, voice like velvet over glass. "You keep staring at me like that, someone might think you care."
He didn't flinch.
Just walked back to the board, white chalk in hand, control in his spine.
But his grip?
A little tighter.
His writing?
A little sharper.
And me?
I tucked the slip into my bag like a souvenir.
Let the games begin.
I gave him a sly smirk