Westridge Academy – Present Day
Alexander Sterling's introduction was brief.
He stated his name—nothing more. No "Let's get along", no "Happy to be here". The applause that followed was purely for his face, particularly from the girls who had spent the last semester lamenting the lack of attractive boys in their class.
The class representative, seated near the aisle, sighed dramatically. "I should've reincarnated like this."
A snicker came from the other side. Liam Reed, a boy with a sharp tongue and sharper eyes, leaned in. "Then take a look at his shoes. I've never seen knockoffs this bad—both words misspelled."
"And that backpack," another voice chimed in. "Looks like it's been stitched together with dental floss. One wrong move and it'll turn into a basketball net."
The whispers weren't quiet.
At seventeen, teenagers lacked subtlety. The admiring glances quickly turned scrutinizing, picking apart every flaw in Alexander's appearance—the frayed edges of his uniform, the too-thin frame beneath it.
Alexander stood there, unmoved.
He was used to this.
His expression never changed—not even when Sophia Carter, sitting by the window, kicked a chair in frustration.
Only then did his gaze flicker toward her.
Sunlight streamed through the glass, bleaching his already pale eyes into something almost translucent. His pupils narrowed—predatory, calculating—like a wolf sizing up prey.
The classroom fell silent.
Even Liam, who had been the loudest, suddenly found his textbook very interesting.
The Seat Assignment
With a new student, seating arrangements were urgent.
There were only two empty spots left in Class 4-B:
Beside Sophia Carter—the princess of Westridge Academy, notorious for her temper and pickiness.
The lone desk at the back—wedged between the trash can and a mop bucket.
Their homeroom teacher, Ms. Davenport (nicknamed "The Warden" for her no-nonsense demeanor), barely glanced at Sophia before pointing to the back. "You'll sit there for now. We'll adjust next week."
Alexander picked up his bag and started forward.
Sophia's heart hammered against her ribs.
In her past life, she had been just as terrified of him. When Ms. Davenport had looked her way, she had shaken her head violently—desperate to avoid any association with the "scholarship kid with a criminal record."
But now?
Now she knew what that decision had cost him.
The bullying. The isolation. The way boys like Liam had turned his life into a living hell—dumping trash on his seat, "accidentally" spilling dirty mop water on his clothes.
If she had just been kinder back then…
Would Alexander have grown into the man who died for her?
She didn't know.
But she was determined to find out.
The Rejection
Ms. Davenport left. The class erupted into whispers.
No one expected Alexander to actually sit beside Sophia.
Princess Carter was infamous for her standards. The new guy might be handsome, but he was also poor—his entire outfit cost less than one of her hair clips.
Compared to Lucas Grant (the boy she'd been chasing all semester), Alexander was practically invisible.
Yet as he walked past her desk, Sophia pulled out the chair beside her—angling it toward him in clear invitation.
The class gasped.
Alexander didn't even pause.
His eyes skimmed over her—cold, indifferent—before he continued toward the back.
Sophia's jaw dropped.
She had just publicly humiliated herself for him!
And he ignored her?!
Desperate, she lunged—leg swinging out to block his path.
"The back desk is covered in junk. You can't sit there."
Her voice shook.
The summer uniform—a pleated gray skirt—fluttered as she moved. She barely caught it in time, but not before flashing a scandalous amount of thigh.
The boys nearby turned red.
Alexander didn't even blink.
Instead, his gaze dropped to her desk—where a mountain of contraband spilled out:
Unopened textbooks.
A curling iron.
Half-eaten cookies.
A phone hidden under a jacket.
His eyebrow arched.
Sophia wanted to melt into the floor.
"You—you can put your stuff here," she stammered, shoving everything into her bag. "There's space by the window too!"
When he still didn't move, she grabbed his sleeve.
"Just sit down!"
Alexander froze.
Her fingers were soft. Warm. Damp with nervous sweat.
It was… unbearable.
He jerked his arm back—hard.
Sophia's hand slammed into the desk edge with a thud.
The sound echoed.
Everyone stared.
Even Mia Harper, Sophia's best friend, looked stunned.
Sophia's face burned.
In her past life, she had been too scared to even look at Alexander. Now, she'd just grabbed him—like some clingy, overaffectionate puppy.
No wonder he'd recoiled.
Humiliated, she retreated to the window.
Then—
A pencil rolled off her desk, landing at her feet.
Before she could bend down, Alexander did.
He knelt—one knee on the floor—to pick it up.
His fingers brushed her ankle.
Sophia flinched.
His skin was scalding.
A second later, he was back in his seat—dropping the pencil into her lap before opening his notebook.
"Pay attention," he muttered.
Ms. Davenport was watching.
Sophia swallowed her questions.
The Note Passing
Sophia lasted fifteen minutes before boredom won.
Geometry had been incomprehensible in her past life. Now, it was worse.
Desperate for distraction, she scribbled a note to Mia:
[Did you take notes? Let me copy them after school.]
Mia's reply was hesitant:
[Mine are messy. I'll rewrite them for you on Monday.]
Sophia added a pink heart in thanks.
Mia's next note was bolder:
[You actually want to sit with the new guy?]
Sophia grinned.
[Have you seen his face up close?]
Mia snorted.
[I thought you knew him already.]
Sophia paused.
Then, carefully:
[Of course not.]
Alexander's pen stopped.
His jaw tightened.
Of course not.
As if she hadn't ruined his only source of income last night.
The Walk Home
After school, Sophia followed Alexander.
He moved fast—disappearing into the crowd before she could catch up.
Defeated, she turned back—only to freeze at the sight of a familiar Bentley idling by the curb.
The window rolled down.
Her mother—Eleanor Carter—exhaled a plume of smoke before stubbing out her cigarette.
"You were supposed to wait at the gate. We have your cello lesson in an hour."
Sophia didn't move.
Eleanor frowned.
"What's with that look? I'm not mad about last night. You came home drunk, crying some boy's name—typical teenage drama. Just remember: the only person cleaning up your messes is me."
She paused.
"Sophia? Did someone hurt—"
"Mom."
Sophia's voice cracked.
Tears spilled over.
For the first time in years, she let herself collapse into her mother's arms.