The campus of the University of Nevada, Las Vegas buzzed like it was alive — laughter, footsteps, voices blending into the air the kind that only came from young people who believed the world still belonged to them.
Ophelia felt every gaze.
Eyes followed her as she crossed the courtyard, heels clicking against stone. Some were curious. Some appreciative. Some shamelessly hungry.
She had not expected attention — the outfit Darren had insisted she change out of was subtle — but she hadn't expected the sheer force of it. The black pencil skirt traced every line of her body, the soft beige blouse kissed her skin, and the designer bagpack slung over her shoulder screamed money she didn't have.
But it wasn't the looks from strangers that lingered.
It was his.
Even now, minutes later, she could still feel Darren's gaze like a phantom touch. The way his eyes had darkened when he saw her at the bottom of the staircase, as if he wanted to devour her and damn himself in the same breath. The weight of that look had burned through her composure, down to something she didn't want to name.
Her pulse had stumbled. Heat had coiled low in her stomach, unsettling and dangerous.
And when he told her to change—when she said no—something inside her shifted.
Not rebellion. Not victory.
Something else. Something that felt too much like power.
Now, walking through the wide, sunlit quad, she tried to shake the memory, but it clung to her like static.
And she hated that.
Hated that even now, walking under a wide blue sky, she couldn't shake him.
Focus, she told herself. You're here to start over.
Then someone collided into her shoulder.
"Oh, watch it!"
A girl stumbled back, clutching her phone to her chest. She had glossy brown hair, perfectly curled ends, and a sharp designer outfit that looked freshly lifted from a runway collection. Her perfume hit like money — sweet and strong, the kind that lingered.
"I'm so sorry," Ophelia said automatically, steadying her.
The girl blinked, her annoyance fading into surprise as she got a good look at her. Her eyes skimmed over Ophelia's outfit — the tailored skirt, the soft silk, the subtle luxury that screamed custom. The irritation on her face softened into something else.
"Oh," she said, with a small laugh. "You must be new. You look… expensive."
Ophelia wasn't sure if it was a compliment or an accusation. "I'm starting classes today," she said simply. "Do you know where the administration office is?"
The girl tilted her head, evaluating her like one might a piece of art that didn't belong in their collection. "Sure," she said finally. "I'm headed that way. I can show you."
She turned, motioning for Ophelia to follow. Her heels clacked sharply against the floor, echoing confidence and entitlement.
"I'm Anna Carroway," the girl said over her shoulder. "My family's on the board here. And you are?"
"Ophelia Smith."
Anna's smile faltered for half a second, as though the name didn't ring any bells of importance. But she recovered quickly, her tone bright and practiced. "Well, welcome to University of Nevada. You'll like it here—if you can keep up."
They passed groups of students lounging on the lawn, sipping iced coffees, laughing too loudly. A few guys openly stared as Ophelia walked by, their whispers trailing after her like shadows.
"Who is she?"
"New girl. Definitely rich."
"Or a model."
She ignored them, though her cheeks warmed.
Anna's gaze flicked toward the attention, then back at Ophelia. "You're going to cause a distraction dressed like that," she said, half-teasing, half-warning. "The students pretend they don't notice, but they do. Especially the male ones."
Ophelia's lips curved faintly. "I'll survive."
Anna gave a soft laugh that didn't reach her eyes. "We'll see."
When they reached the administration building, the air shifted — cooler, quieter. Behind the front desk sat a woman in her fifties, with tidy hair and glasses perched on her nose.
"Good morning," the woman said, glancing up. "How may I help you?"
"I'm Ophelia Smith," she said. "I received a scholarship. I missed orientation, and I was told to report here."
The administrator typed quickly, scrolling through her screen. "Ah, yes. Miss Smith." Her expression softened. "Congratulations — that's quite a competitive scholarship."
Anna's head turned slightly, her eyes narrowing.
The administrator continued, frowning. "Though I should mention, your guardian's assistant called three weeks ago to cancel your dormitory arrangement."
Ophelia nodded once, calm despite the flicker of heat in her chest. "Yes, I'm aware. Please give it to someone who needs it more."
The woman blinked, surprised. "Are you sure, dear? It's part of the scholarship package."
"I'm sure," Ophelia said quietly. "I already have a place to stay."
The administrator blinked. "That's… very kind of you."
Anna's smile froze, a flicker of something sharp crossing her face. "Wait, so you're not staying in the dorms?" she asked, tone light but probing.
"I have housing arranged off campus."
Anna's gaze sharpened — suddenly, she was reevaluating everything: the clothes, the silence, the humility that didn't match the outfit. "And you're on scholarship?"
"Yes."
For a heartbeat, something like disdain flickered through Anna's polished composure. It was subtle — the slight lift of her chin, the soft curve of her lips that wasn't quite a smile.
"Well," she said finally, "that explains a lot."
Ophelia met her gaze, unflinching. "Does it?"
Anna blinked, not expecting the quiet challenge. "I just meant— you must be really talented to win a scholarship here."
The sweetness in her tone didn't hide the condescension.
Mrs. Greene, oblivious to the tension, handed over Ophelia's updated schedule. Then smiled kindly. "Anna, would you mind showing Miss Smith around campus? You're familiar with everything."
Anna hesitated for half a second too long. "Of course," she said smoothly. "Happy to."
Ophelia could almost taste the falseness in her voice.
As they stepped back out into the sunlight, Anna's friendliness evaporated, replaced with a cool distance. Her words came clipped, efficient, the charm gone.
"That's the student lounge. Cafeteria's behind it."
When they reached the main building steps, Anna stopped. "I have to meet someone. You'll find your classes on the third floor. Try not to get lost."
She left without waiting for a reply, her perfume lingering like arrogance.
Ophelia stood there for a moment, the noise of campus washing over her.
Students brushed past — loud, laughing, free. She should have felt small among them. Instead, she felt something stronger stirring in her chest.
She wasn't from their world. She didn't have a family name, or wealth, or the luxury of being careless.
But she had purpose.
And purpose burned brighter than privilege.
She adjusted her bag and exhaled slowly, letting the morning sun warm her skin. She could still feel Darren's gaze, even from miles away — the memory of it clinging like heat.
But she wasn't his reflection here.
She was Ophelia Smith, scholarship student, dreamer, survivor.
And maybe, just maybe, this was where she'd start taking back her story.