POV: Desi Whitmore

The whispers followed me through the corridors of Eastmoor Hall like persistent ghosts.

I held my head high as I made my way to breakfast, my chin lifted in the kind of defiant posture my mother had taught me for navigating diplomatic receptions where enemies smiled while plotting your downfall. But this wasn't international politics—this was high school, which somehow felt both less important and infinitely more vicious.

"Did you see the way she was clinging to ...