The hallways of Bellrose High were a maze of polished floors and pristine walls, their gleaming surfaces reflecting the sterile perfection of a place built to mold the elite. Rows of shimmering trophies lined glass cases like silent, golden sentinels, relics of victories earned by students whose names were etched into the school's legacy. The faint scent of disinfectant mixed with expensive perfumes and colognes hung in the air, sterile yet suffocating.
Elena Aster's footsteps echoed louder than she wanted, each click of her designer shoes a sharp reminder that she didn't belong here—not really. The sound bounced off the marble floors, rhythmic and out of place, like an unwelcome guest at a funeral. She adjusted the stiff collar of her tailored uniform, fingers brushing against fabric too crisp against her skin, as if it were a costume stitched for someone else. Much like everything else in her life these days.
The stares were the worst part—fleeting yet heavy, lingering even when she avoided eye contact. She felt them like phantom touches on her skin, prickling at the nape of her neck. Their curiosity was a weight she carried down the hall, an invisible chain that grew heavier with each step. Whispers floated around her, subtle yet sharp, threading through the spaces between lockers and lockers like smoke.
"That's the new girl."
"She's from some rich family, right?"
"Probably thinks she's better than us."
Elena's jaw tightened, the words needling into her skin like tiny barbs. They spoke like they knew her, like they'd read the chapters of her life she couldn't even remember. The cruel irony was that she didn't even know herself. The fragments of who she was before—before the accident, before Damian's house, before Bellrose—were just that: fragments. Scattered pieces she couldn't fit back together.
She drifted through the hallway, clutching her books like a shield pressed tight against her chest. The glossy covers felt cool beneath her fingertips, grounding her in a reality she didn't quite understand. The whispers weren't just about her wealth; they were about her being new, different, and worst of all—unknown. Bellrose High had its hierarchy carved in stone, etched into invisible walls that separated the insiders from the outcasts. And Elena was a foreign piece that didn't fit.
Then there was Lydia.
She appeared beside Elena like a sudden burst of energy, all bright smiles and nervous chatter. Her presence was loud in the quiet corridor, a contrast to Elena's muted existence. Lydia's honey-blonde hair bounced with every enthusiastic step, her backpack slung over one shoulder, decorated with pins and keychains that jingled softly.
"Don't worry about them," Lydia chirped, her voice too cheerful to be genuine. She linked her arm with Elena's, a gesture too familiar for someone she'd met just yesterday. "They're just jealous. You're, like, effortlessly cool."
Elena managed a tight smile, though the words felt hollow, like echoes in an empty room. Effortlessly cool? She didn't even know who she was beneath the layers of luxury, privilege, and… amnesia. The girl in the mirror every morning was a stranger wrapped in expensive fabric, her reflection a puzzle with too many missing pieces.
As they passed a row of lockers, Elena's gaze snagged on a boy leaning lazily against the wall, his dark hoodie defying the school's strict dress code. Jaxon Rivers. He was a sharp contrast to the polished environment—an ink stain on pristine white paper. His arms were crossed over his chest, sleeves pushed up to reveal faint scars on his forearms, faded like old memories. His eyes, dark and indifferent, were half-lidded with boredom, as if the world around him was nothing more than background noise.
Unlike the others, he didn't stare. He didn't whisper.
He just… existed.
For some reason, that indifference stung more than the whispers.
Elena looked away first.
---
The bell rang, its shrill chime slicing through her thoughts like a blade. Honors Literature was supposed to be her refuge—just books, words, and essays. Safe, predictable things. But as she stepped into the classroom, she realized the battlefield wasn't limited to hallways. It was here too, hidden behind sharp glances and muffled laughter.
The room smelled faintly of old paper and whiteboard markers, desks arranged in neat rows under flickering fluorescent lights. Mrs. Calloway, their stern-faced teacher, adjusted her glasses and launched into instructions for a group project. The words blurred around Elena until one sentence snapped her back to attention.
"Pair up."
A simple command, but the silence that followed was deafening. Students shifted uncomfortably, avoiding her gaze, eyes darting anywhere but in her direction. No one volunteered to be her partner. The space around her felt like quicksand—awkward, heavy, pulling her under.
Mrs. Calloway's patience thinned visibly. She scanned the roster, her finger landing on a name. "Elena, you'll work with… Jaxon Rivers."
Elena's heart sank. Of course.
Jaxon didn't move right away. When he finally dragged himself from his chair, his sigh was loud enough to draw chuckles from the class. He slouched into the seat beside her with the grace of someone who didn't care, tossing his notebook on the desk with a careless thud.
"Great," he muttered under his breath, not bothering to mask his disdain. "Guess I'm stuck with the princess."
Elena's spine stiffened. Heat crawled up her neck. "I'm not a princess."
He shot her a sideways glance, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Sure. And I'm the king of England."
She clenched her jaw, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. Instead, she focused on the assignment in front of her, her pen scribbling notes she barely processed. But his presence was like static—buzzing under her skin, impossible to ignore.
"People like you always think the world owes them something," Jaxon said quietly, not even looking at her.
Elena's pen froze mid-sentence. She turned, her gaze sharp enough to cut glass. "You don't know anything about me."
"Maybe not," he replied coolly, eyes still on his notebook. "But I know fake when I see it."
The words hit harder than she expected, sliding beneath her skin like splinters. Because wasn't he right? She did feel fake—a girl with no past, no memories, wearing someone else's life like an ill-fitting costume. Her grip on the pen tightened until her knuckles turned white, the ink smudging where her hand trembled slightly.
She didn't respond. Silence was the only armor she had left.
---
Lunchtime at Bellrose High was a spectacle—a curated chaos of cliques and conversations. The cafeteria wasn't just a place to eat; it was a stage. Glass walls framed the space, letting in sunlight that reflected off sleek tables and overpriced snacks lined up like luxury items. The room buzzed with life, fragmented into territories: athletes in one corner, student council in another, art kids by the windows, each group carved out by invisible social lines.
Elena sat with Lydia, whose chatter filled the silence like a poorly tuned radio. She nodded politely, but her mind drifted elsewhere, her gaze sweeping the cafeteria. Everyone seemed to fit seamlessly into their roles—laughing, teasing, living.
She felt like an extra in someone else's movie.
A sudden, sharp pain pierced her temple. It was blinding, sharp enough to make her drop her fork with a metallic clang. Then came a flash—screeching tires, shattered glass, a scream swallowed by darkness. The cafeteria noise faded under the pounding of her heart.
Elena's breath hitched. She gripped the edge of the table, her knuckles white. The memory—or whatever it was—vanished as quickly as it appeared, leaving her heart racing in its wake.
Lydia frowned, her voice distant. "You okay? You spaced out."
Elena forced a smile, her pulse still thundering in her ears. "Yeah. Just… tired."
But inside, her mind spiraled. What was that? It felt real—too real. Like a crack in the carefully constructed wall Damian had built around her memories.
---
After school, Elena needed air.
She slipped away from Lydia's constant chatter, her steps quickening as she made her way to the back of the campus where the noise faded into silence. The late afternoon sun stretched long shadows across the cracked pavement, the golden light making everything feel both beautiful and fragile.
She wandered aimlessly, her thoughts a tangled mess, until raised voices broke through the quiet. Sharp. Tense.
Curiosity tugged at her like a thread she couldn't resist. She crept closer, her footsteps light, hiding behind the corner of an old brick building.
Jaxon stood a few feet away, his posture tense, jaw clenched. Facing him was an older man—rough around the edges, his stance aggressive, voice slurred slightly like alcohol lingered on his breath.
"You think you're better than me now, huh? Just because you go to you're better at sports huh?" the man spat, stepping closer, fists clenched at his sides.
Jaxon didn't flinch. His expression darkened, his voice low and steady. "Leave me alone, Mark. I'm not your problem."
But the man wasn't done. He shoved Jaxon hard, sending him stumbling back against a rusted car. The metallic clang echoed in the empty lot.
Elena gasped before she could stop herself, the sound sharp in the tense air.
Jaxon's head snapped toward her. His eyes met hers—dark, furious, not with fear but with something else. Shame? Embarrassment? She couldn't tell.
His voice was sharp, slicing through the distance between them.
"What the hell are you doing here?"
Elena froze, caught between the instinct to run and the undeniable pull to understand what she'd just witnessed.