(Jayla's POV)
The silence in the dining room was deafening.
The table was already set—silver cutlery gleaming, pancakes stacked, strawberries sliced into a perfect little pyramid, a carafe of freshly squeezed orange juice sweating under the light. Everything was flawless. Except the two people who were supposed to sit at the ends of this picture-perfect table weren't here.
Again.
I sat in the middle, phone in one hand, fork in the other, poking at a pancake I had no appetite for. The empty chairs on either side of me felt like ghosts, and I hated how used to this I'd become.
Parents who built an empire but couldn't spare fifteen minutes for breakfast. Cute, right?
I took a bite anyway, chewing mechanically while scrolling through Instagram. Selfies, vacations, fake "I woke up like this" posts. Same recycled crap. My own grid was fire, obviously. Glossy lips, killer outfits, the kind of pictures that made people stop scrolling. People wanted my life. I wanted… something else.
The butler—Mr. Thompson, who had been with us longer than I'd been alive—poked his head in. "The driver's ready, Miss Jayla."
I sighed dramatically, wiping my mouth with a napkin and standing. "Of course he is. Because God forbid anyone in this house actually spends time together."
He gave me a look that was half sympathy, half exhaustion. Poor man had probably heard every sarcastic remark I'd thrown out over the years. I slung my bag over my shoulder and strutted out, heels clicking against marble. If my parents wouldn't show up for me, fine. I'd show up for myself. Always had, always would.
The sleek black car waited out front, polished like it belonged in a commercial. I slid into the backseat, sunglasses on even though it was barely 8 a.m.
"Morning, Miss Jayla," the driver said.
"Morning," I replied, already scrolling through my phone again. My followers didn't sleep, and neither did I.
By the time we pulled into the school lot, the mask was firmly in place—confident, untouchable, queen bee energy. I stepped out like the asphalt was my runway. Heads turned, of course. They always did.
"Jayla!"
Two of my girls rushed over—Kendra, with her bubblegum pink nails and endless energy, and Tasha, who never met a secret she couldn't keep for five minutes.
"You look insane today," Kendra gushed, tugging at the sleeve of my cropped blazer.
"As in good insane or Britney-2007 insane?" I deadpanned, slipping my phone into my bag.
"Obviously good insane," she said, rolling her eyes.
Tasha linked her arm through mine. "So… spill. Any update on your mystery texts?"
I smirked. If only she knew. But no way was I letting that secret slip—not even to them. Especially not to them. "Patience, darling. Not everything is for public consumption."
We strutted down the hallway together, laughter echoing, the kind of entrance that reminded everyone who ran this place. But the high didn't last. Because then I saw him.
Jordan.
Leaning against a locker, hoodie up, headphones dangling, pretending like the world didn't exist. Pretending like I didn't exist.
My stomach tightened, but my face stayed flawless. No way was I giving him that satisfaction. "One sec," I told the girls, peeling off.
I walked up to him, heels tapping deliberately against the floor. He glanced at me, then looked away, like I was air.
"Really?" I snapped. "You can't even say hi now?"
He shrugged, shoving his hands in his pockets. "You only talk to me when you need something."
The words landed sharper than I expected. For a second, I faltered. Then the sarcasm kicked back in. "Oh please. Don't act like you're some neglected saint. We used to be friends. Keyword: used to. You made it weird."
He laughed bitterly. "I made it weird? You stopped talking to me the second you got new friends. The second being seen with me wasn't… convenient anymore."
Heat crawled up my neck. That wasn't the story I told myself. In my version, he was the one who pulled away first. But hearing it out loud, in his voice, stung.
"Whatever," I said, flipping my hair. "If you're done playing the victim, take this picture for me." I held out my phone.
He looked at it, then at me. "Exactly my point."
Before I could snap back, the warning bell rang. He pushed off the locker and walked away without another word, leaving me standing there with my perfect outfit and my not-so-perfect mood.
"Jaylaaa!" Kendra called, waving from down the hall.
I forced a smile and jogged back to them, tucking the phone away. My throne wasn't going to wobble over one boy. Even if that boy had once been… more.
The day blurred after that—classes, whispers, the usual cycle of being adored and envied. But under it all, I couldn't shake the hollow ache from this morning, from Jordan, from everything. By the last bell, I was running on fumes.
And then, like fate knew exactly what I needed, there he was.
Mr. Carter.
Standing at the end of the hall, shirt sleeves rolled up, tie loosened just enough to look unintentional but perfect. His eyes found mine immediately, like they'd been waiting.
"Jayla," he said softly when I reached him, his voice low, smooth. "You look distracted."
I gave him a small, teasing smile. "What gave it away? My flawless concentration in math class?"
He chuckled, the sound warm and dangerous all at once. "You always have something on your mind."
We slipped into his classroom—empty now, the late sun spilling across desks. The air felt heavier, quieter. I dropped my bag onto a chair, leaned against a desk, arms crossed like I wasn't already melting inside.
"It's nothing," I lied.
His eyes lingered on me, reading every crack in the mask. "Jayla… you don't have to pretend with me."
That did it. The armor cracked. I sighed, looking away. "My parents. They can't even show up for breakfast. It's like I'm… invisible. Unless they want to post me on some gala invite, of course."
He stepped closer, close enough that the space between us vibrated. "You're not invisible." His voice was steady, grounding. "Not to me."
My chest tightened. I hated how much I needed to hear that. How good it felt.
"Careful, Mr. Carter," I said, trying for playful but it came out softer. "That sounds suspiciously like… comfort."
He smiled faintly, his hand brushing the edge of the desk near mine, not touching but close. Too close. "Maybe you deserve comfort."
The air snapped, sharp and electric. My breath caught. For a moment, it was just us—the queen bee who had everything but felt nothing, and the teacher who saw too much.
I tilted my head, smirk returning just enough to cover the storm inside me. "You know this is wrong."
He held my gaze, unwavering. "Doesn't feel wrong."
The silence stretched, charged. I could feel the heat radiating off him, the pull like gravity. My heart hammered, every nerve on fire. I didn't step back. Neither did he.
It was reckless. Dangerous. Addictive.
Exactly the kind of thing I lived for.