[Rosella's POV]
I should've known peace was a myth at Saint Augustine's.
Because the second I let my guard down — just for a moment — something always yanked me back into the fire.
This time, the fire wore a black blazer and had the gall to smirk like the universe owed him.
"Rosella."
I turned slowly, already exhausted. "What now, Carter? Come to critique my breathing pattern?"
Damien leaned against the wall beside the lockers, arms folded like he had all the time in the world to play Obnoxious Rich Guy No. 1. He didn't answer immediately. Just stared.
"Why do you let them talk to you like that?"
"Let who?"
"Veronica. Everyone."
I blinked. "What do you mean, 'let'? You think I have a choice?"
"You always have a choice."
I scoffed. "Easy to say when your last name opens doors mine doesn't even have the code to."
That hit him. I saw it in the twitch of his jaw. The silence stretched long enough to grow roots between us.
Then he said, quieter, "That day in Lit... when you called Prospero a fraud? That wasn't about Shakespeare, was it?"
My stomach clenched.
Oh no. No no no. We're not digging into the trauma closet today.
"Don't flatter yourself, Carter," I said. "I just have strong opinions about literary men with control issues."
But his gaze didn't waver. "What did he do?"
"Who?"
"The man who made you fight like this."
And just like that —
Walls. Back. Up.
I shoved my books into my locker with more force than necessary. "You think this is some tragic origin story? I'm not here for your sympathy or curiosity."
"Didn't say I was curious," he said, still maddeningly calm. "But you're bleeding, Rose. Just hiding the wounds with wit."
That... hurt.
Because it was true.
I hated that he saw it.
---
Later, I went to the art room. It was always quiet during sixth period, and Ms. Lavelle didn't care if students used it to "mentally decompose," as she put it.
I sat near the window and stared out over the quad.
Boys played rugby like they were auditioning for war. Girls walked in tight groups like power squads from some CW show. And me? I was just trying not to be swallowed whole.
My phone buzzed. A text.
Unknown Number:
> You're cute when you're mad.
I frowned. Another buzz.
Unknown Number:
> Don't worry. I'm watching your back. Someone has to.
Chills ran down my spine. That wasn't sweet. It was creepy.
I replied:
> Who is this?
No answer.
---
By evening, paranoia was sitting heavy on my shoulders. I double-checked the dorm locks. Drew my curtains. Told myself I was overreacting.
Until I stepped out to grab a snack and he was waiting there.
Damien.
Again.
He straightened as I approached. "You okay?"
I raised a brow. "You stalking me or just really committed to this weird guardian angel thing?"
He didn't smile. That's what got me.
He always smiled.
"I'm serious," he said. "That note in your locker? The texts? You think they're just dumb pranks?"
I stiffened. "How do you know about the texts?"
His eyes darkened. "I have ways."
Right. Rich-boy code for I know everyone and everything before it happens.
"What do you want from me, Damien?"
He stepped closer, just enough that I had to tilt my head to keep eye contact.
"I want you to understand this school has layers," he said. "And you're walking straight into its mouth."
"I'm not scared of it."
"You should be."
"You are." I jabbed a finger into his chest. "You walk around like you own the place, but you're just another prisoner in designer chains."
He didn't answer. But something flickered behind his eyes — like I'd hit a nerve he didn't know he had.
Then he did the last thing I expected.
He handed me a card.
Black. Unmarked. Just a symbol in gold foil — a crown made of thorns.
"What is this?" I asked.
His voice dropped. "An invitation."
"To what? Your next costume party?"
"To the real game. The one that decides who actually runs this school."
I stared at the card.
Crown of thorns.
And suddenly, Saint Augustine's didn't feel like a school anymore.
It felt like a battlefield with manicured lawns.