Chapter Two
1135 Words
Brielle’s POV
"Hi, Brielle."
"You look amazing today."
"I like the touch of pink in your hair."
The chorus of greetings greeted me the moment I walked into school. It was still strange hearing my name from so many lips. Just a few months ago, no one even noticed me. Now, I was this weird mix of popular and out-of-place. My instinct was to keep my head down, but instead, I plastered on a fake smile and murmured, "Thanks," to anyone who stopped to compliment me.
This school was unlike anything I’d ever known. The students here came from families that had wealth etched into their DNA. Everything about them screamed money—the designer bags slung casually over shoulders, the polished shoes that cost more than my family’s rent, and the ever-present haze of expensive perfume that filled the air. I swore I could almost smell their privilege.
And the girls were like polished dolls. Perfectly manicured nails, glossy lips, and outfits that seemed tailored just for them. But underneath the flawless exteriors, there was something fake about them—like their smiles didn’t quite reach their eyes. They were the kind of girls who could destroy someone with a single whisper in the right ear. I knew better than to get too close. Well, except that I was now getting close to Savannah unintentionally. She seemed quite different.
Then there was me. Brielle, the scholarship kid. The one who didn’t belong but was here anyway. My uniform wasn’t tailored; it was borrowed. My sneakers weren’t designer; they were scuffed and well-loved. I might have been the only junior student who didn’t reek of wealth or entitlement, and everyone knew it. That didn’t stop them from noticing me, though. Apparently, being the odd one out made you interesting in a place like this.
* * *
Life at Manchester University would have been a total mess during my freshman year if I didn’t meet Harry. It’s funny how life works; sometimes, the person you need most walks into your life at the most unexpected moment.
It was a Friday afternoon, and I was sitting alone in the library, trying to make sense of calculus. Math had always been my Achilles' heel, and at this school, the pressure to excel was suffocating. I had my head buried in the textbook, frustration bubbling up as the numbers blurred together. That’s when I heard a soft cough behind me.
"Uh, excuse me? Are you using that?" a voice asked.
I looked up to see a tall guy with messy brown hair and glasses. He was holding a book, the title barely visible under his long fingers. His eyes were kind but hesitant, like he wasn’t sure if he should’ve interrupted me.
"This?" I asked, gesturing to the chair across from me. There was a surprising look on my face because no one had ever asked to sit next to me.
He nodded, his cheeks flushing slightly. "Yeah, if it’s okay."
"Sure. Go ahead." I replied, still looking at him to be sure he was going to sit there.
He slid into the seat, and for a moment, we both pretended the other didn’t exist. I went back to staring hopelessly at my textbook while he opened his. But after a few minutes, he spoke again.
"Calculus?" he asked, nodding toward my book.
"Unfortunately," I said, letting out a small laugh. "It’s like it’s written in another language."
He smiled, and it was genuine. Not the practiced, plastic smile I’d gotten used to seeing. "I’m pretty good at it. Want some help?"
"Seriously? You’d do that?" I asked, my voice louder than I expected.
He shrugged. "Why not?"
And just like that, Harry became my first and only friend at this school. He was different from everyone else—quiet and thoughtful, with an easygoing nature that put me at ease. He didn’t seem to care about the social hierarchies or the unspoken rules that governed this place. Instead, he focused on what really mattered. Over time, I learned that he’d always keep to himself. His family was wealthy but he didn’t like to be as flashy as the others, and he seemed to be comfortable that way.
One afternoon, a few weeks after we’d first met, Harry and I found ourselves in the courtyard during lunch. The weather was perfect—sunny but not too hot, with a gentle breeze ruffling the leaves of the trees overhead. Most of the other students were gathered in their usual cliques, but Harry and I had claimed a quiet corner near the fountain.
"Do you ever feel like you don’t belong here?" I asked, breaking the comfortable silence.
Harry looked at me, his expression thoughtful. "All the time."
I laughed, but it wasn’t a happy sound. "It’s like everyone here has this invisible rule book, and I didn’t get a copy."
"Maybe that’s not a bad thing," he said. "Sometimes, not fitting in means you’re not meant to."
In that moment, I realized just how much Harry understood me. He wasn’t just kind; he was real. He was the one person who saw me for who I was and liked me anyway. And for the first time since coming to this school, I didn’t feel so alone.
* * *
“Brielle!” A familiar voice called, pulling me out of my thoughts. My chest tightened as I recognized the voice—smooth, confident, and edged with a teasing warmth. Adrian Avanzini.
I turned slowly, my heart skipping a beat when I caught sight of him. Adrian stood there like he’d stepped straight out of a movie—one of those heartthrobs who makes you question everything you thought you knew about self-control. His dark, tousled hair had that perfect just-rolled-out-of-bed look, paired with eyes so piercingly blue they could rival a summer sky. They were framed by lashes so unfairly long they should’ve been illegal on a guy. A smirk tugged at the corner of his full lips, the kind of smile that could melt glaciers—and apparently, hearts too.
He had the kind of jawline that could cut glass, sharp and defined, with a faint shadow of stubble that made him look effortlessly rugged. His olive-toned skin practically glowed under the streetlights, and the fitted black jacket he wore hugged his broad shoulders in a way that screamed power and perfection. Beneath it, his plain white T-shirt was just tight enough to hint at the lean, athletic frame. And his hands… God, his hands. Strong and elegant, one casually tucked into the pocket of his jeans while the other hung by his side, the veins on his forearm visible beneath his rolled-up sleeve.
“What’s been up with you?” he asked, his voice low and smooth.
- Writer
