The air smelled like rain and fresh beginnings—
the kind Elara Whitmore didn't want.
Clouds hung low over Westbridge Academy, heavy and gray, making the ivy-covered buildings look like something out of an old British drama. Students streamed through the iron gates in perfectly pressed uniforms, laughing, talking, alive. Too alive.
Her aunt Celeste squeezed her shoulder before she stepped out of the sleek black car.
"You'll be okay, sweetheart," her aunt murmured, smoothing a wrinkle on Elara's blazer that wasn't there. "New school, new start."
New start.
Right.
As if anyone could restart after losing everything that mattered.
Elara forced a nod. She adjusted the strap of her backpack—her old one, faded and stitched from years of use, the only thing that felt like hers—and stepped through the gates.
It took exactly three seconds for the stares to begin.
Whispers drifted behind her like shadows.
"Who's she?"
"New girl?"
"Not in uniform code."
"Why does she look so… plain?"
Elara clenched her jaw.
Great. Day one and I'm already a zoo exhibit.
She kept walking, focusing on the worn cobblestone path under her feet instead of the judgmental eyes around her. Westbridge was huge—old bricks, tall towers, windows lined with black iron frames. The kind of school that smelled of tradition, money, and secrets.
She was halfway to the front office when a shoulder slammed into her hard enough to knock the breath out of her.
Her books spilled across the ground in a messy arc.
Elara stumbled back, gripping her backpack. "What the—?"
A tall boy stood in front of her, looking down like she had offended him simply by existing. Coal-dark hair. Cut jawline. Eyes colder than the November air.
Timothy.
Leader of 8U.
Even as a stranger, Elara recognized him from the whispers she'd heard since stepping out of the car.
He didn't apologize. He barely blinked.
"Watch where you walk, New Girl," he said, voice smooth, controlled, cold—like he had practiced being intimidating.
Another boy stepped beside him—James. Dirty blond hair, smirk sharp enough to cut glass.
James yawned dramatically. "Maybe she wants attention, Tim. Girls do that."
Elara inhaled slowly, steadying herself. "I wasn't even near you."
James's smirk grew. "Feisty."
Timothy tilted his head slightly, studying her like she was an equation he had to solve. "You talk back. Bold choice."
"I'm not talking back," she said. "I'm just not letting you lie."
Students passing by slowed down, pretending they weren't listening. Westbridge thrived on drama, and the new girl challenging 8U was prime entertainment.
Before things could escalate, someone shoved through the growing circle.
A girl with fiery red hair and freckles stepped between them, arms crossed.
"You two seriously have nothing better to do?" she said sharply. "It's eight in the morning. Leave her alone."
James raised his brows, amused. Timothy didn't move.
The girl glared harder. "Move."
Timothy's jaw tightened—a twitch of annoyance—but he stepped aside. James clicked his tongue and followed, throwing Elara one last smirk as they walked off.
Elara exhaled shakily.
The redhead turned to her, expression softening. "Are you okay? They're jerks."
"I'm fine," Elara said, though her cheeks burned with embarrassment. "Thank you."
The girl offered a hand. "I'm Lou. Don't mind them. They're idiots with too much free time and too much influence."
Elara shook her hand, grateful. "Elara."
"Pretty name." Lou crouched to help pick up the scattered books. "You're new here, right?"
"Just moved in with my aunt."
Lou winced sympathetically. "That explains the lost-puppy look."
"I'm not—" Elara stopped. "Okay, maybe a little."
Lou laughed and tucked a strand of red hair behind her ear. As they gathered the last book, Elara noticed something out of the corner of her eye.
Someone was watching her.
A boy.
Standing a few feet behind where Timothy and James had been.
He had messy dark hair that fell into gentle eyes—eyes that didn't belong to a bully. He held a violin case in one hand, fingers resting lightly on the handle like he was used to carrying something delicate.
Their eyes met for a second.
He quickly looked away.
"Who's that?" Elara whispered.
Lou followed her gaze. "Dean. He's… well, he's in 8U, but he's different. Quiet. Talented. He plays violin like someone put magic in his hands."
"He doesn't look like he fits with them."
"He doesn't," Lou agreed. "But sometimes people stick with the wrong crowd for the right reasons."
Before Elara could ask what that meant, another boy appeared beside Dean—this one with bright eyes and soft curls. He gave Elara a small wave.
"That's Shawn." Lou waved back casually. "He's sweet. One of the only decent ones in that group."
Elara took in the odd contrast:
Timothy and James, dark and dangerous.
Dean and Shawn, soft edges in a sharp world.
"Why do they hang out together?" she asked.
Lou grinned. "Welcome to Westbridge. Nothing makes sense here."
She looped her arm through Elara's like they'd known each other for years. "Come on. I'll walk you to class. First days are always chaos, and you don't want to get lost. The building literally has hallways that lead to more hallways."
Elara chuckled under her breath. "Sounds promising."
They started walking, but Elara couldn't help glancing back one more time.
And there he was.
Timothy.
Standing perfectly still in the middle of the hall.
Watching her.
His expression unreadable—somewhere between curiosity and contempt. Like she was a puzzle he wasn't sure he wanted to solve… or destroy.
A chill slid down her spine.
Lou followed her gaze and sighed. "Ignore him. Timothy Hale bothers people for sport."
But ignoring him felt impossible.
Because in that moment, in that cold stare, Elara felt it.
This year wasn't going to be normal.
Not even close.