LENA -
The September air carried old money and older secrets as Lena stood in Thornfield Academy's Gothic shadows. Two days in, and she still felt like she was performing in a play where everyone knew their lines but her. The mandatory scavenger hunt stretched ahead—another tradition designed to reinforce hierarchy.
"Our families expect us to partner for the hunt," Jasper said beside her, voice carrying quiet entitlement she'd grown up hearing at dinner parties and charity galas. His blazer fit like it had been tailored for this moment. "It's only natural, amor."
Natural. The word tasted like champagne at her quinceañera—expensive, expected, lacking real flavor. Lena tucked glossy black hair behind her ear. "Yes, of course. Improper partnerships would be... inconvenient."
The tour guide's voice drifted like honey over broken glass, promises about legacy and excellence. Lena had heard variations her entire life—at the country club, political fundraisers, every gathering where her father reminded everyone the Garcia name meant something.
She slid her manicured hand through Jasper's offered arm, the gesture choreographed as a waltz. Around them, other legacy students formed expected pairings: Ashfords with Vanderbilts, Cabots with their predetermined matches.
Everyone except Joey Valdez.
Ten feet away, he leaned against the massive oak, tie loose and shirt wrinkled in a way that looked deliberate. Where Jasper was pressed and polished, Joey looked like he'd rolled out of someone else's bed. His dark hair fell longer than dress code allowed, fingers playing with a silver Zippo.
Click. Snap. Click. Snap.
The metallic sound cut through the tour guide's monologue like a knife through silk.
"Elena Garcia and Jasper Valdez," the guide announced, consulting her clipboard with forced cheer. "Another wonderful legacy pairing! Remember, tradition requires you and your partner to stay together through the entire hunt."
Lena smiled the smile she'd perfected in dance classes—pleasant, appropriate, empty. "We wouldn't dream of breaking tradition."
Lena adjusted her blazer hem as she and Jasper moved past the chapel steps, eyes skimming the courtyard like a queen surveying her kingdom—or competition. Annabelle Wilson trailed behind Justin Court, jaw set like stone while he grinned with lazy entitlement. To their left, Piper Abbott walked with Omar Carter, fingers grazing his arm though her gaze drifted toward George Morrison, who lingered near Saint Helena's statue like he was waiting for someone worth stalking. Whitney Stephens scribbled in a leather notebook while Ryder Williams read their clue aloud, the two veering off the designated path with bloodhound focus and conspiracy theorist defiance. Even Vickey Harris—combat boots and fuck-you expression—stalked toward the old bell tower with Cameron Hayes, their shared smirks cutting through autumn mist like blades.
Lena's grip tightened on Jasper's arm. Everyone else might be pretending this was tradition, just fun. But to Lena, it felt like a test. And every pairing was already choosing sides.
That's when Joey looked up.
The tour noise—guide's voice, nervous chatter, rustling clue sheets—fell away like someone had muted the world. His eyes locked on hers, dark and bright and certain of their power. His mouth curved into that dangerous smile she'd been trying not to notice for three weeks.
Click. He snapped the Zippo closed and mouthed slow enough to read: "Boring, princesa."
Heat climbed Lena's neck like spilled wine on white silk. The endearment should have insulted her. But the way it rolled off his lips, rough velvet with Spanish accent matching her own, made something deep in her chest tighten with want.
"Lena?" Jasper's voice could freeze champagne, his fingers tightening on her arm with just enough pressure to remind her where loyalties should lie. "Ignore him. Joseph's been trying to get expelled for years."
She knew that. Everyone knew that. Joey Valdez was the family disappointment; the cautionary tale whispered at benefits and board meetings. Where Jasper followed every rule with religious devotion, Joey broke them like suggestions. Where Jasper would inherit his father's pharmaceutical empire, Joey would inherit nothing but scorn.
He was everything her parents had warned her about.
So why did her heart spike every time he said her name?
The tour guide pressed embossed clue sheets into their hands with genuine enthusiasm. "Your first clue! Remember, academic integrity applies even during recreational activities."
Lena glanced down at the heavy cardstock: Where the founder's blood was spilled, beneath the watchful eyes of saints, seek the truth that history has tried to bury.
"The chapel crypt," Jasper said immediately, voice carrying confidence of someone who'd memorized every campus inch before arriving. "Elias Thornfield was murdered there in 1847. The stained glass windows depict various saints."
"Muy inteligente," Lena murmured, but her eyes drifted back to Joey. He'd straightened from his casual lean, moving with grace that reminded her of Madrid dancers—controlled power and barely leashed energy.
He plucked a clue sheet from a passing freshman without looking, attention focused entirely on the paper. Then he was walking—stalking—toward them with confidence that made people step aside without realizing why.
"Rules are suggestions for people without imagination, hermano."
He stopped close. Closer than polite society dictated. Close enough to smell his cologne—cloves and cedar, nothing like Jasper's safe scent. Close enough that when his shoulder brushed hers, it felt like electricity.
"What do you want, Joseph?" Jasper's voice could freeze champagne.
Joey's smile was sharp edges and dangerous promises. "Just leveling the playing field, hermanito." His dark eyes found Lena's again, and she felt that familiar flutter—like standing too close to her family estate's cliff edge. "Unless she's scared of a little competition."
The challenge hung between them like incense, heavy and intoxicating. Lena's fingers twirled her grandmother's pearl earring, the gesture almost imperceptible.
"I'm not scared of anything," she said, lifting her chin with pride bred into her bones.
"No?" Joey stepped closer, until she had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes. "Then prove it."
Jasper moved between them like a wall, jaw tight and shoulders squared, his usually calm demeanor cracking. "Stay away from her, Joseph. She's not one of your conquests."
"Conquests?" Joey's laugh was rough velvet over broken glass. "Is that what you think this is about?" He looked past his brother to Lena, something in his expression shifting—becoming almost gentle. "I think Elena can speak for herself. Can't you, princesa?"
The question hung loaded with possibility and danger. Lena felt generations pressing down—the Garcia name, the political dynasty, careful marriage alliances whispered about since she was twelve. Everything her family had built, everything she was supposed to protect.
Then she looked at Joey, really looked, and saw something she recognized: the same caged restlessness that kept her awake most nights, staring at dark trees beyond campus. The same hunger for something real, something not dictated by bloodlines and bank accounts.
"Perhaps we should focus on the task at hand," she said carefully, accent sliding into formal cadence her mother used during political interviews.
It wasn't yes, but it wasn't no either. Joey's smile turned knowing, like he could read the careful space between her words.
"Of course." He placed the clue directly in her open palm, fingers lingering just long enough to feel her pulse jump. "The chapel crypt it is. Though I have to wonder—which version of history are we supposed to find? The official one, or the truth?"
His touch burned like brands, like promises, like the kind of trouble that ruined reputations and broke family trees.
"We'll see," he said, just loud enough for her to hear. "If you're brave enough to stop pretending you're as perfect as they want you to be."
Then he was walking away, hands in pockets, whistling something low and haunting that made her think of flamenco guitars and late-night confessions.
"Lena." Jasper's voice was tight with barely controlled anger. "Tell me you're not considering whatever game he's playing."
She watched Joey's retreating form, the way he moved like rules were optional and consequences were other people's problems. Everything her parents taught her said he was dangerous. Everything her carefully constructed life depended on said she should walk away.
But everything that mattered—the part that wrote poetry when she couldn't sleep, that spoke Spanish alone because it felt more real than English, that sometimes stood on her balcony wondering what would happen if she just kept walking into the dark—whispered something different.
"Let's find this clue," she said finally, linking her arm through Jasper's again. "Tradition waits for no one."
As they walked toward the chapel, she could still hear Joey's Zippo in the distance, keeping time with her rebellious heart.
Behind them, autumn leaves spiraled down like confetti, or like pieces of the perfect life she was supposed to want, falling apart one dangerous moment at a time.