I stood in front of Mr. Dawson's desk, my fists tucked deep into my pockets, trying to keep my voice even. Calm. Collected. Like a Worthington should be.
"I'm not going to Oxford," I said flatly.
He didn't even look up. Kept scribbling whatever notes he had in front of him like I hadn't just dropped a bomb in the room.
"My father has his plans," I continued, more forcefully. "But I have mine."
That got his attention. Slowly, he raised his head and studied me over his glasses. Cool. Detached. Like always.
"You want Harvard."
"I'm applying," I said. "And I need a recommendation."
He didn't answer. Just sat there, watching me like I was some riddle he'd already solved.
"I have the scores. The coursework. AP Lit, AP Gov, all the rest. My resume's full, Mr. Dawson. All I'm missing is the letter."
Still, nothing.
"I spoke with your father yesterday," he said at last. "He was quite... vocal about your future."
I clenched my jaw. Of course he was.
"I'm not going to live the rest of my life in a suit pretending Oxford was ever my dream."
Mr. Dawson leaned back slowly. "So you're here to ask me to go against your father's word."
"No," I said. "I'm asking you to judge me for me. Not for my name. Not for his reputation. For my work. For what I've done."
A faint, knowing smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. "You almost sound like you care."
"I do."
He was quiet again. I hated how he always made you feel like you had to fight for every breath of approval.
"If I gave you what you want every time you walked in here," he said coolly, "you wouldn't be learning anything at all."
I crossed my arms. "So what, you want me to beg?"
"I want you to earn it."
His words hung in the air.
"You want me to recommend you to Harvard?" he said, standing now, moving toward one of his shelves. "Fine. Then prove to me you're not just another rich boy playing rebel. I have a project."
I raised an eyebrow. "A project?"
He pulled out a worn copy of Othello and dropped it on the desk. "You'll choose a tragedy from classic literature. Something with weight. Pride. Downfall. Pain. Then, you'll reinterpret it. Adapt it into a modern setting. Explore the themes, rewrite the characters, and present it in a new form."
"You're serious."
"As a heart attack."
My jaw twitched. "This sounds more like grad school than high school."
"Harvard won't care," he said with a shrug. "And neither do I."
I looked down at the book. The edges were frayed, like it had been read a thousand times.
"There's more," he added. "You won't be doing this alone."
I glanced up, wary. "You're assigning a partner?"
"Already chosen."
"Who is it?" I asked.
He smiled then, and I didn't like it. It was the kind of smile teachers had when they knew they were about to ruin your week.
"You'll find out tomorrow."
I exhaled sharply through my nose, frustration prickling up my spine. This was ridiculous. But backing out now would mean handing my father a win—and that wasn't happening.
I looked him straight in the eyes. "I'll do it. All of it. And when I do, you'll write the letter?"
"If I believe in what I see," he said simply.
I nodded once, turned, and walked out.
Whoever the partner was, I could deal. I always did.
But I swear, if it was someone who'd slow me down, I'd lose it.
---
--Avaline--
Mondays always felt a little... heavier than the rest.
Not loud or dramatic, just quietly difficult. The kind of day that settled over you like a slow fog—soft and dull and hard to shake. I didn't feel completely tired, just a little off, like I hadn't quite caught up to the world spinning around me.
The halls were filled with sleepy footsteps and soft yawns, people moving like they'd left half of themselves back in bed. I clutched my books a little tighter, keeping to the quieter corners, as I always did. It was easier that way—less noise, less attention, less chance of stumbling over my own words.
But today wasn't one I could tiptoe through.
Today, I had to speak to Mr. Dawson.
I stood outside his classroom, my fingers pressed gently to the strap of my bag, and took a slow breath before knocking. My heart was fluttering—like it always did before something important.
A firm voice called out, "Come in."
I stepped inside, careful and quiet, closing the door behind me as though I didn't want to disturb the air.
Mr. Dawson sat behind his desk, a stack of papers in front of him, spectacles low on his nose. He didn't look up.
"Miss Beaufort," he said. "I assume this is about the recommendation letter?"
"Yes, sir," I answered softly.
He lifted his gaze, sharp and unreadable. "You're late."
I lowered my eyes a little. "I'm sorry, sir."
He studied me for a long moment. His face was always so hard to read—calm, but never kind. Not unkind either. Just... still. Like stone.
"I've already filled my quota," he said. "Most students came to me early. Proactive. Prepared."
I felt my cheeks warm. "I didn't mean to wait so long. I just—I was hoping you might still consider me."
He leaned back in his chair, tapping his pen against the desk. "You're applying to Princeton."
I nodded. "Yes, sir."
"And this is for a scholarship?"
"Yes, sir."
His silence stretched for several heartbeats.
"I don't write letters simply because someone asks," he said at last. "I write them when they've been earned."
I looked up, just a little. "Then... how can I earn it?"
He paused—then, almost thoughtfully, said, "I have a project. It's not easy."
My hands tightened slightly around the strap of my bag. "I'll do it."
"You don't even know what it is."
"I'll still do it," I said, more gently than firmly. Just true.
He nodded once, slowly.
"You'll take a classical tragedy," he said. "Any major work from literature. You'll study it, then reimagine it in a modern setting. Not just summarize—transform it. Understand its heart, then give it a new life. A narrative that reflects today's world while honoring the original."
I blinked, quiet for a second. "So... it's creative?"
"Creative. Analytical. Interpretive. All of it."
"I understand," I said, though the edges of the idea made my thoughts spin a little.
"You won't be working alone," he added after a pause. "You'll have a partner."
My breath caught. "Oh."
"Already chosen."
I didn't ask who. I had a feeling he wouldn't tell me anyway.
"When will I find out?"
"Tomorrow."
I hesitated, then asked softly, "And if I do it well?"
"Then I'll write your letter," he replied, eyes already on his papers again. "But only if you show me something worth recommending."
I nodded. "Thank you, sir."
He gave a small nod in return, already busy with the next paper.
I stepped out of the classroom, the door clicking gently behind me, and let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding.
A new project. A mysterious partner. A chance.
But even as I walked away, a quiet worry stayed with me
--Alexander--
The sun was out, not in the nice, comforting way—more like let me burn your skull off while you pretend you're enjoying life. I kicked my feet up on the chair in front of me, leaned back with my hands locked behind my head, and stared out at the empty soccer field. The bleachers were mostly deserted. That's why I liked this spot—no cafeteria noise, no dumb freshmen pretending they ruled the world.
Theo dropped beside me, backpack half-zipped, and cracked open his soda like we were on vacation.
"So…" he started, squinting at me with that look that meant he was fishing for drama. "How'd it go with Mr. Dawson?"
I smirked, eyes still on the field. "Oh, you know. Our dear Mr. Dawson looked like he hadn't seen a teenager since the Cold War. Man's got more dust than a forgotten library."
Theo snorted so loud, the birds probably took flight. "You did not just say that."
"I did." I shrugged. "Man talks like we're in a Shakespeare play. Told me he'd consider the recommendation if I did a 'reflective academic project'—whatever the hell that means."
Theo raised a brow. "That's good, right?"
"Oh, yeah, fantastic," I drawled. "All I have to do is work on some shitty project with a complete stranger. Some brilliant plan to prove I can 'work outside of my comfort zone.' Like, congratulations, Dad. Oxaford's, gonna love this character development arc."
Theo burst out laughing again. "You're such a brat."
"If it's some annoying partner that breathes wrong, trust me—I will absolutely lose it," I added, rubbing my temple for dramatic effect.
"Man, I can already picture it. Day one, and you're filing a restraining order." Theo chuckled, then subtly nudged me. "Yo—don't look now, but guess who's struttin' this way?"
I followed his gaze. Of course. Liana Carlton, the human glitter bomb. Every time I even breathed in her direction, she latched on like a leech with a Prada bag.
She smiled at us like we were a full-course meal. Theo gave her a slight nod, being polite and all. I didn't even twitch a muscle.
"God," I muttered under my breath. "That girl's got the cling of a wet sticker. Does she have a map? 'Cause she's clearly lost—right in my personal space."
Theo lost it again, howling as he almost spilled soda on himself. "You're so mean!"
"She's not my type."
"What, human isn't your type?" he teased.
"Desperate isn't," I shot back.
He wheezed. "Alright, alright, you win. Still—better than being you. I mean, at least I don't get rejected—"
"—Except by Emma Collins," I cut in smoothly.
Theo choked on his drink. "Low blow."
"She said you looked like a sad golden retriever that lost his chew toy."
"You're a menace."
I grinned wickedly. "Nah, I just remember things."
Theo turned a little red, then tried to flip the script. "At least I'm not scared to make a move. You think I can't bag a girl? Bro, give me two weeks, I'll have—Sofia."
I blinked. My jaw clenched. "Sofia?"
He gave me a cocky grin, but I saw the panic flicker behind his eyes. "Yeah, man. Sofia Worthington. I mean, your sister's kinda—"
"You're fucking crazy."
His face dropped. "Okay—okay! Chill. I'm kidding. Dude. Joke. Relax."
I glared at him for a second longer just to let it burn before looking away. "Not funny."
"Yeah, yeah." He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to laugh it off. "Total joke. Not touching that one again."
"Good," I muttered.
We sat in silence for a second. Wind kicked dust up around our shoes. Somewhere behind us, the bell rang faintly for the next class.
Theo nudged me again, softer this time. "Still gonna do the project?"
I sighed. "Yeah. Not for Dawson. For me."
He nodded. "Still Harvard?"
"Always Harvard."
And we didn't say much after that.
----
---Theo---
Man, I really thought I was gonna die the other day. Like—not metaphorically. I mean actual death, courtesy of Alexander Worthington's death glare, which, for the record, should be classified as a weapon.
All I did was make a joke. A light, harmless, offhand comment about Sofia. Something like, "Hey, if you think I can't bag a girl? Bro, just give me two weeks and I'll have Sofia ." You know, dumb banter.
Next thing I know, he's staring at me like I just kicked his dog and insulted his ancestors.
And I get it. I do. Me and Alex? We've got histories. Not proud ones either. Girls, parties, no-strings situations—let's just say we weren't exactly poster boys for commitment. We were the type who knew how to charm a girl out of her clothes and forget her name the next morning. It was a game. A pattern. And we were good at it.
So yeah, I don't blame him for not wanting me anywhere near his sister. Hell, if I had a sister, I wouldn't let a guy like Alex within ten feet of her. And yeah, I just said that. I know how it sounds. But it's different when it's your sister. When it's someone who actually matters.
And that's the thing—Sofia matters. Not just to him. To me too. Which is... terrifying.
But still. Mental note to self: never joke about the Worthington's sisters in front of Alex again unless I've got a head start and a good will written up.
----Alexander---- ( later that day)
He better be joking.
Theo—my best friend—had the nerve, the unfiltered, bat-shit audacity to look me dead in the face and say, "Bro, give me two weeks, I'll have—sofia."
I should've put him through a wall.
The only reason I didn't was because I short-circuited. He said it like it was a joke, like he didn't know exactly what it would trigger in me. Like we didn't both have a record that read like a cautionary tale: casual hookups, girls we didn't call back, drunken nights and foggy mornings. We were the same kind of reckless. The kind girls warned their friends about.
And that is why someone like Theo doesn't get near Sofia. Or Helen, for that matter. They're my sisters. My blood. And even if they can handle themselves—and God knows they can—there's a line.
Theo knows that. He knows that.
I didn't say anything, just clenched my jaw and walked. But if he'd pushed even a word more? I might've actually lost it.
The BMW was already waiting at the curb, the Worthington crest shining on the door like a silent warning to the world. The driver nodded without looking me in the eye. I slid in, head pounding with unspoken rage.
"Move," Helen muttered as she got in behind me, shoving my shoulder until I shifted.
"Rude," I muttered.
"You're rude," Sofia chimed in, climbing in last with all the grace of someone who'd been raised on silk sheets and expensive ballet lessons. She looked too good for someone who spent the day in school. "You look like someone ran over your ego."
"Shut up," I said.
"Anyway," Helen cut in, tossing her long brown hair over her shoulder, "we've got tea."
"Actual tea," Sofia added, smug. "So there's this girl in our French class—Marianne? She's been trying to be friends with us."
"So?" I leaned against the car door, half-tuned in.
"So," Helen said, "we found out she's not into us. She's into you."
Sofia snorted. "She told Camille she thinks you're 'mysterious and emotionally detached.'"
I blinked. "She say that like it's a good thing?"
"She probably thinks you write poetry and cry in the shower or something," Helen grinned.
I shook my head. "She sounds delusional."
"She's been asking us questions about you. Like, favorite color, music, what kind of cologne you wear—"
"Which is weird, considering you don't wear cologne," Sofia added.
"I shower. That's enough."
They kept laughing, bickering over who Marianne had been following around more, and I let them. Their voices dulled the edge in my skull, and for a second, I forgot how close I'd come to homicide over Theo's dumbass mouth.
When we pulled into the estate, the staff was lined up like always. Formal. Polished. Like expensive props.
"Welcome back, Master Alexander," one of them said.
I didn't even look at them. "Spare me the fake smiles."
I could feel their discomfort, their half-second of hesitation before they bowed slightly and stepped aside. They respected me. Or feared me. Either way, I didn't give a damn. They were paid to care, and I didn't trust anyone who was paid to give a shit.
Upstairs, I stripped out of my uniform, let it fall where it landed, and tossed myself onto the bed. My sketchbook was waiting—black leather, cracked at the corners. I opened it and let my hand move. Lines first. Then shapes. Somewhere in the mess, a girl's face started to take form.
It wasn't Emily.
She had softer eyes. Lips that looked like they wanted to speak but never did. The kind of face that made you pause and listen.
I slammed the book shut.
A knock came at the door. "Master Alexander, dinner is ready."
I didn't even look up. "Tell dinner to go to hell."
They paused. Then walked away.
Shower. Burning hot. Skin red by the time I stepped out. I dried off, wrapped a towel around my waist, and grabbed my phone.
One notification.
Theo: I'm sorry, man.
I stared at it, jaw tightening. My thumb hovered over the screen, but I didn't reply.
I tossed the phone across the bed and muttered, "You better be."