Clara
I remembered that night like it was yesterday.
The memory hit me so hard that for a second, the present blurred—the towering gates of St. Armand Academy, the expensive cars, the boy standing in front of me. All of it faded as my mind dragged me back to a different place.
I had been working the evening shift at Hatfield's Pizza Joint, one of my many part-time jobs. The place smelled like melted cheese and grease, the floors perpetually sticky no matter how much we mopped. It wasn't glamorous, but it paid—sometimes.
That night had been slow. Too slow.
I was wiping down the counter when an order came in—large. Very large. Multiple boxes with extra toppings, rush delivery.
I glanced at the receipt and froze.
Graves Industry.
My eyes lit up instantly.
They were known for tipping well. Really well. The kind of tips that could cover groceries for days or replace worn-out shoes.
My exhaustion vanished as excitement bubbled in my chest.
I packed the boxes carefully, stacking them into the insulated carriers. That was when reality slapped me in the face.
The delivery bike.
One look at it told me everything I needed to know. The chain was loose, the tire barely holding air, and the engine made a sound that screamed impending disaster.
There was no way I was riding that thing all the way to Graves Industry.
So I did something reckless.
I waited until my manager disappeared into the back, then slipped quietly into his office. My heart pounded as I opened the drawers, fingers shaking until I found what I was looking for.
The van key.
I hesitated for exactly two seconds before grabbing it.
I told myself I'd be quick. I would be careful. No scratches. No dents.
I loaded the pizzas into the delivery van and drove off before I could change my mind.
Graves Industry was even more intimidating up close—cold glass walls, and security that looked like they could snap me in half if I breathed wrong. I parked the van and stepped out, adjusting my cap and grabbing the boxes.
That was when something slammed onto the roof of the van.
The sound was loud. And from the impact, it was heavy.
I froze.
My heart jumped into my throat as I dropped the pizzas and stumbled back, eyes wide as I stared up at the dented metal.
"What the—"
I climbed onto the curb, fear crawling up my spine, and peeked over the edge of the van.
It wasn't debris.
And it definitely wasn't an equipment that had been let loose from the sky.
It was actually a person.
A boy.
He was in a uniform, so I guessed he was around my age.
He was sprawled across the roof like he had fallen straight from heaven.
I gasped, rushing forward. "Oh my God—are you..."
My voice trailed off.
I didn't know what to do or say.
Even though I had informed the security, from his pulse, I knew he wasn't breathing. He was dead.
But a few minutes after the medic came, they said he was breathing faintly.
I didn't think I would get to see him again.
Right now—standing in front of me at the school gate—here he was staring back at me.
He studied my face for a second, then raised a brow.
"Do you know me?" he asked flatly.
I opened my mouth, panic and confusion tangling my words. "Well, um... I'm the girl who—"
Before I could finish, his hand dropped from my arm and I hit the floor hard.
What the heck!
He stepped back, already losing interest.
"On second thought, I don't care," he said coolly.
And then he turned around and walked away—leaving me on the floor.
What an asshole!
From the fact that he caught me, I actually thought he was nice. But he wasn't.
He was a jerk just like what I was told about the students in St. Armand.
Angry, I stood up and wiped dust off my uniform.
I sucked in a sharp breath and forced myself to move.
St. Armand Academy wasn't going to pause just because I'd been humiliated at the gate.
I adjusted my bag on my shoulder and headed inside. The place was already buzzing—students laughing, lockers slamming, voices full of confidence and familiarity.
I kept my head down and followed the map I'd memorized, but when I reached the corridor marked Administration, I hesitated.
That's when I remembered.
My schedule.
I turned and walked toward the staff room instead, nerves creeping up my spine. I didn't have to ask where it was since I had been there before. The door was slightly open, warm light spilling into the hallway. I raised my hand to knock—but stopped when I heard voices.
"…can't believe he's back," a woman said quietly.
I froze.
Back?
"I know," another voice replied, tired. "After everything that happened, I thought the Graves family would keep him out of this place."
My fingers curled around my bag strap as I stood there, half-hidden by the wall.
"Ethan Graves," the first teacher said, lowering her voice. "That boy went through hell."
My chest tightened.
Graves.
That name did a lot to me than I wanted.
"He was hospitalized for the whole summer," the second teacher continued. "T, therapy, private instruction… coming back here won't be easy."
"I just hope," the first added softly, "that he won't be bullied anymore. Not after last time."
A pause followed, heavy with unspoken meaning.
I swallowed hard and knocked before I could think better of it.
The voices stopped instantly.
"Yes?" one of them called.
I pushed the door open, pasting on what I hoped was a polite smile. "Hi, um… I'm Clara. I was told to pick up my class schedule."
One of the teachers nodded and stepped toward a desk, rifling through a stack of papers. "New transfer, right?"
"Yes, ma'am."
She handed me a printed sheet. "Here you go. Lockers are assigned alphabetically, and your first class is Literature—Room 3A."
"Thank you," I said quickly, gripping the paper like it might disappear.
As I turned to leave, the name echoed again in my mind.
Ethan Graves.