I began eating my breakfast even though my stomach was in knots. The silver spoon in my hand continued to slip through my sweaty fingers as I brought another spoonful of the cinnamon oats up to my mouth. The dining room had picked up some more chatter, and I noted a bunch of people pulling out their cell phones. I had a cell phone, but it was mostly for show, given to me by Richard before I started to attend Wellington Prep. I’d never really used it because he told me he could see everything that I did on it, so I hardly touched it. Even the mere thought of giving him even more insight to who I was caused a slight chill to blanket my skin.
Sloane laughed softly beside me as she put her phone down on the table. She shook her head and mumbled, “Jesus.”
“What?” I asked, placing my spoon beside my bowl. I couldn’t stomach another bite of my breakfast, even if it was delicious.
Sloane caught my eye briefly. “There’s a new post on Mary’s Murmurs.” Seeing my confusion, she shook her head. “Sorry, I forgot you have no clue what I’m talking about. Mary’s Murmurs is the gossip blog for St. Mary’s.” She rolled her eyes. “It’s usually all about who the Rebels are fucking or their latest bad-boy drama.”
The muscles along my face stayed nice and steady as she continued on, but I felt the heat rise to my cheeks.
“Today, it’s about Isaiah.” She laughed under her breath, and my heart slipped in my chest at the sound of his name. Why? Why did it do that?
My voice cracked at first before I cleared my throat. “Who writes on the blog? How do they know all the gossip?”
Sloane shrugged. “No one knows. The Rebels love the attention, though, so they just go with it. They’re so full of themselves.”
She said the last part in half awe and half disgust. It was like she was annoyed but also fascinated. I had to admit, I kind of was too. Not annoyed but maybe a little intrigued. I wanted to ask more about them. Why they were called the Rebels and why everyone was so drawn to them besides the obvious reason: because they were really, really attractive.
Slowly, very slowly, and discreetly, my gaze traveled over Sloane’s tray lined with an assortment of breakfast foods, to the dark wood of the dining table underneath it, to my oatmeal, and then down the long dining table, past all my new classmates. I locked onto the chair at the very end—the one fit for a king.
I gasped, my breath hitching in the back of my throat.
Sloane’s voice hissed in my ear, but I hardly registered it. “Why the hell is he staring at you like that? Or should I say glaring?”
My eyes bounced between Isaiah’s, the ice-blue color summoning me to submit. Submit to what? I wasn’t sure. But I felt my legs shaking underneath the table. My heart skipped a beat, my stomach somersaulting to the point that it was convulsing inside my body.
A harsh ring sounded out around my ears, and it quickly took me out of the stupor. I jerked back, my head snapping back down to my oatmeal. Sloane’s hand fell onto mine, “Come on. It’s time for class.”
My movements were jerky. I was shaky when I stood up from long bench, the sturdy wooden legs scraping slightly along the intricate tiled floor. My fingers clutched around my notebook as my paper schedule crumpled between my fingers.
“Are you okay? That was weird, right?” Sloane asked, weaving her arm back through mine like before. Relief settled in my bones as she pulled me along because I wasn’t sure I could walk straight, and also, I was so glad to be out of Isaiah’s grasp.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I answered after peering behind my shoulder. I braced myself for the pair of piercing blue eyes again, but Isaiah was gone.
Chapter Five
Isaiah
My jaw ached from clenching it every few seconds. I narrowed my eyes on the petite, chestnut-haired girl running her deft fingers over the drawing pencils with a laser-like fascination. The muscles along my forearms bounced as my fists squeezed tighter, hot blood soaring through my veins.
“Fuck. She is hot as hell. Who cares if she spilled the tea? We usually welcome the talk.” Brantley’s voice was low, a grumble almost, as he stared at Good Girl—who apparently wasn’t as good as I had pegged her to be.
The little snitch.
Let’s go back to two hours ago, when my uncle called me into his office at the crack of fucking dawn.
My hair was still damp from my shower as I wrapped the maroon tie around my neck, not bothering to tighten it around the collar of my white dress shirt. I knew my uncle would look at me disapprovingly, but I truly didn’t care—and not just because it was well before the sun had even peeked through the gloomy clouds. In general, I just didn’t give a fuck.
The hallway was silent as I swiftly made my way to his office, the door slightly open with a faint glow coming from the heirloom lamp on his desk.
His head popped up as I stepped through the threshold. I hoped he could sense the irritation coming off me in thunderous waves, but like me, he most likely didn’t care about my feelings toward him.
“Isaiah.”
“Uncle,” I said in the same tone he used as I threw myself down into the seat I’d occupied no less than twenty-four hours ago when he’d caught me with Ms. Glenburg, who—I’d noted—had already left the premises. “Is this my real punishment for almost fucking a teacher? I told you I’d get my shit together. No need to drag me out of bed at six in the morning.”
My uncle sighed, clearly annoyed. He leaned back in his leather chair and steepled his fingers together. “The SMC has called for a meeting.”
“Okay, so?” I said, flicking my eyes down to my uncle’s coffee cup that was steaming above the brim.