DIAMOND

I quickly let go of the old man, laughing awkwardly, walking away, but someone held my hand. I turned"Going somewhere humanitarian? " I swallowed, putting on the biggest big girl smile I could muster facing him. I tit my head to face him. He had a smirk on his gorgeous face, and I knew instantly I was going to regret this.

I put a side note head on my "Mind your own business, diamond ", I said with gridded teeth. Next time, I won't get caught in this; I mean, who could actually blame I was trying to help guess the table turned, and I am the one embarrassed, not like he was embarrassed in the first place. I looked down at where he held my wrist before staring at those ocean-blue eyes that could get you lost in them, pulling you in.

"Well, the drama is over. Can I go ?" I tried to free myself but his grip on my wrist tightened .damn it

Now I am dommed how am I going to explain this to mom. She is a punctual type, always thirty minutes early to work, well can't be more different. I can't imagine myself arriving five minutes early. She has to work extra hard since my dad died a few years ago. I still feel guilty about his death, he was always getting phone calls from school about my misbehaviour. I thought I was living the life of a typical high school kid, bullying others, getting out of detentions early but never dealing drugs. I can't even finish a can of beer without getting tipsy. I didn't realize the damage I did until he was rushed to the hospital with the doctor, who diagnosed him with a heart attack after my best friend and I beat a teacher to a pump for falling her in class. I can still hear his dying words lingering in my mind ."stay away from trouble, and don't give your mom any trouble " With that, he died with a smile on his face. My mom cried for months. It scared me. She slipped from the shadow of her old self while mourning husband. She tried to give me a smiley face anytime I passed her; she was trying to ease my guilt, but it did nothing to ease the guilt I was feeling inside. I eventually stopped my bad habits and still hung out with my old friends, but that cost me a lot, I guess.

"Humanitarian are you lost ?"I heard a familiar deep voice dragging back to reality.

Shoot. I zoned out, and he raised a brow at me, like I was a confused creature, before releasing my hand. I unconsciously trace my hand where his fingers were once tracing the marks he left. Damn, he grabbed too hard now my wrist is red. The old man tried to get away from the guard, which caught his attention, and I quickly used that as an excuse to escape. I could hear a dry chuckle behind and I didn't stop to look at who it was. I know it's MR. Attitude

God, at all costs, please don't let us cross paths; I already have a lot to deal with on my plate.

.............

If castles had an attitude problem, this school would be it.

It didn’t just stand there—it loomed, towering over the hill with its ancient stone walls and ivy climbing up like desperate social climbers. The iron gates were tall enough to keep out peasants, wild animals, and apparently, any last shred of my dignity. Everything about it screamed old money, and not the flashy kind you see on reality TV. No, this was the real deal. The type of money that wore holes in cashmere sweaters and thought flashing wealth was "tacky."

I stood at the curb, squinting up at it like some clueless tourist about to be eaten alive.

A black car—sleek enough to make a Ferrari look insecure—rolled to a stop in front of the main steps.

Cue the angels singing.

The doors opened and out stepped three girls, moving with the kind of practiced grace you usually only see in perfume commercials.

They didn’t walk.

They glided.

Like the sidewalk was a conveyor belt installed just for them.

The one in the middle—because of course there’s always a middle one—was a blonde, the kind you could tell had never once picked the wrong shade of foundation in her life. Her hair wasn’t just blonde; it was weaponized. It caught the morning light like it had a direct contract with the sun. She wore a skirt that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe and moved like she had a wind machine following her around. The other two flanked her like well-trained bodyguards, equally gorgeous, equally terrifying.

I stared, slack-jawed, as the trio ascended the marble steps like it was the Met Gala, not a Monday morning.

Then I made the mistake of looking down at myself.

My brain short-circuited for a second.

Red socks.

Heels.

I had made the executive decision this morning to pair my favorite beat-up black heels with bright red socks because "fashion is about confidence," or whatever garbage I told myself before coffee.

Standing there now, I looked like a rejected circus performer who’d been mugged by a Pinterest board.

Perfect.

Just perfect.

I tugged at the hem of my jacket like that would somehow erase the crime scene happening below my ankles. Spoiler alert: it did not.

Somewhere deep inside me, the sensible part—the one that sometimes wins arguments about dessert—suggested I should turn around, get back on the bus, and flee to a less judgmental zip code.

But no.

I squared my shoulders, fixed a smile on my face that felt about as natural as a taxidermy squirrel, and marched forward toward the gates.

It’s fine, Diamond.

It’s just school.

How bad could it be?

The gates creaked open with a slow, ominous groan that sounded suspiciously like you’re gonna regret this.

And honestly?

They weren’t wrong.

I wrestled my crumpled map out of my bag and stared at it like it had just insulted my intelligence.

Which, honestly, it had.

There were X’s and Y’s all over the place, and unless I’d accidentally signed up for a math competition, I had no idea what letters had to do with getting to class. I flipped it upside down, squinting at it like it was one of those magic eye puzzles everyone pretended to see.

“Are you lost?”

A voice floated over my paper shield—female, amused, and far too entertained for my liking.

Lowering the map, I found myself face-to-face with a blonde who looked at me the way you'd look at a pigeon trying to open a bag of chips. Beautiful, composed, and carrying the faintest whiff of pity.

“Um.”

I cleared my throat, summoning my inner British aristocrat even though I was about one sentence away from a full-blown meltdown.

“I may be slightly disoriented at this angle,” I said, trying—and failing—to sound like I hadn't spent the last five minutes turning a map into modern art. “But a bit of guidance would be... delightful.”

Even as the words left my mouth, I wanted to yeet myself into the nearest trash can.

What the hell was that? I thought, internally kicking myself. Apparently, when flustered, I morph into a BBC period drama character.

The blonde arched a perfect eyebrow but said nothing. Instead, she plucked the map from my hands with the efficiency of someone used to rescuing lost souls.

“We’re in the same class for first period,” she said after a few seconds of critical analysis. Probably trying to decipher if I was salvageable.

Relief flooded me so hard I nearly sagged in place.

I snatched the map back with a mumbled thanks and stuffed it deep into my bag like I could also bury my shame with it.

A loud brrrring echoed through the air—the school bell, shrill and aggressive, like it was personally offended by my presence.

“Second period?” I guessed, clinging to hope with the desperation of a drowning man.

“Oh no, honey. First.” She slung her bag over her shoulder with the kind of casual flair that said I know what I’m doing, and you clearly don't.

“Right. First. Totally what I meant.” I nodded too hard, like a bobblehead that had seen things.

She smiled politely. The kind of smile you reserve for toddlers trying to tie their shoes.

"Yeah, school opens at nine for students who want to prep for class, but actual lessons start at ten," she explained, probably noticing the way my brain short-circuited.

I mouthed a slow, mortified Ohhhhh like a tourist being told they’d been standing in the wrong line for an hour.

Cool.

Good to know I wasn’t late.

Just tragically incompetent.

I gave myself a mental high five, which must have shown on my face, because the blonde let out a small laugh—an actual laugh. Points for me.

I trailed behind her as we navigated the labyrinth of hallways, feeling the weight of judgmental stares clinging to me like static.

You would’ve thought I showed up in a chicken costume the way these rich kids were looking at me.

After approximately thirty years of wandering, we finally stopped outside a door.

Inside, students were either slouched at their desks glued to their phones or practicing their Academy Award-winning performances on TikTok.

“Come on, sit near me,” the blonde said, grabbing my wrist and hauling me toward the back like I was a particularly dumb stray she’d decided to adopt.

There were three empty seats. I picked one without thinking.

“NO—not there!” she hissed, yanking me back so fast I almost dislocated a shoulder.

Apparently, I had committed some sort of war crime.

“That’s Lewis’s seat.”

“...Who’s Lewis?” I asked, immediately regretting it by the way the entire class turned to stare at me like I’d just asked, Who’s Beyoncé?

She gasped.

Audibly.

Hand-to-mouth, pearl-clutching gasped.

“You don't know THE Lewis?” she repeated, eyes wide, as if I had just told her the Earth was flat.

“Should I?” I deadpanned, scanning the room for some kind of pamphlet titled Important People You Need to Worship Here.

Cue collective disgusted murmurs.

I was now Officially A Problem.

“Nerd alert!” someone crowed from the front, followed by a snickering chorus.

Adorable.

I was two seconds away from flipping a desk.

The blonde leaned in and whispered, “I’m Sophie, by the way,” looking genuinely apologetic.

“Diamond,” I replied, managing a smile as I collapsed into the seat next to hers.

At least someone in this place had a soul.

Just as I was beginning to feel like I might survive this, the classroom door swung open again.

In walked a woman who honestly looked more like she should be striding down a Paris runway than teaching teenagers.

Pencil dress. Smoky eye. Brown lipstick. Legs for days.

She wasn’t a teacher.

She was a statement.

“I could admire that physique all day,” a boy whispered loudly enough for his friend—and half the room—to hear.

Gross.

But also, fair.

Before I could fully decide if I wanted to gag or slowly clap, the door opened again.

A guy walked in.

One look at him, and the blood drained from my face.

This could not be happening.

Of all the rotten cosmic jokes the universe could pull, it chose THIS?