Chapter 2
1624 Words
The boys had always been jealous of the mysterious new racer.
They couldn’t stand how the girls screamed his name whenever he arrived, how every engine roared louder when he revved his bike. His presence alone sent the crowd into a frenzy.
But unlike the others, I liked him.
There was something different about him—something quiet, distant, troubled. He never cared about the prize money they offered, never slowed down to entertain the girls who practically worshipped him. He just appeared, raced like he had demons chasing him, and disappeared again into the night.
I always thought he came here for the same reason I did—
To clear his head.
To breathe.
To escape.
Tonight, though… something felt off.
I overheard a few guys whispering near the sidelines, glancing at the mysterious racer with bitterness etched across their faces.
“Let’s humble him tonight.”
“Yeah. Show him this isn’t his stage.”
“Once he falls, he’ll stop acting like a king.”
They thought I didn’t hear them—but I did.
And the moment I heard the loud THUD and a girl’s scream from across the track, I knew something had gone terribly wrong.
I sped toward the sound on my bike. Dust flew everywhere, and the crowd rushed backward, creating a circle around the scene.
There—lying on the road—was the “mysterious guy,” bike skidding meters away from him, sparks flying as metal scraped asphalt.
He held onto the motorcycle like it was a lifeline, fingers clenched so tightly around the handlebars that his knuckles were white. Anyone could see the sabotage. Anyone could see the pain.
I jumped off my bike and started running toward him—
But then I heard it.
“Urrgghh… f–fuck these guys!”
A girl’s voice.
Pained, angry, breathless.
My feet halted mid-step.
I looked around, expecting to find another girl nearby, but… there was no one else on the ground.
Only him.
Only the fallen racer struggling to breathe.
I stepped closer—slowly, cautiously—and the streetlights hit his face.
I froze.
Long, silky black hair spilled across the pavement like a river of ink.
Her skin was pale and smooth, glowing even beneath the gritty dust of the track.
Her lashes, long and curled.
Her eyes—large, stormy, and mesmerizing—looked like they could see straight into someone’s soul.
And her lips—pink, soft, heart-shaped—looked like they could quiet any storm with just one kiss.
She didn’t look human.
She looked like a painting.
Like snow-white beauty carved into real life.
If I were a girl, I would stay far away from her—out of fear she’d steal my boyfriend without even trying.
If I were a girl, I wouldn’t even want to be her friend.
She was too beautiful.
Intimidatingly beautiful.
So the mysterious “guy” everyone adored was actually a girl—a breathtaking one at that.
But then the real question hit me:
Who is she?
She groaned as she tried to get up, her face twisting with pain. She managed to lift herself halfway before collapsing back onto the ground.
Her left arm dangled awkwardly—clearly dislocated.
Her right leg looked swollen, possibly fractured.
Her motorcycle was badly damaged, and from the way she hissed, she was in agony.
I wanted to run to her.
I wanted to help her stand, take her to a hospital, clean her wounds.
But I was afraid.
Afraid that if I intervened…
I would never see her again.
So instead, I followed her—quietly, secretly—as she limped away from the track, dragging her broken body and pushing her damaged motorcycle inch by inch.
It took her almost thirty minutes to reach the neighborhood. Another ten to turn down the long driveway.
And then she stopped in front of a mansion.
A mansion I recognized all too well.
The Caden mansion.
“Why would she stop here? Is she… related to the Cadens?” I whispered to myself, hidden behind a tree.
I stayed and watched until her silhouette disappeared behind the enormous front doors.
So the mysterious girl was… a Caden.
---
Later That Night — Michella’s POV
I limped into the house, dragging one foot behind me, my other hand gripping my dislocated arm. Dirt covered my clothes, my hair was tangled, and several cuts stung across my body.
Mum and Dad were in the living room, waiting.
The second they saw me, their eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets.
“Geez, Ella! What the hell happened to you?” Dad burst out, jumping to his feet.
I ignored him completely.
I turned toward the stairs, each step feeling like a blade slicing through my leg. My arm throbbed with every movement, and my head pulsed with the memory of the bike crash.
“Michella! Get back here!” Mum snapped. “You start school tomorrow, and you walk in here looking like you’ve been run over by a truck!”
Still, I said nothing.
I didn’t have the energy.
Or the patience.
Or the desire to speak to the two people responsible for this mess.
I slammed my bedroom door shut behind me and went straight to my mini fridge. I grabbed a bottle of whiskey, twisted the cap off with my teeth, and took a long, burning sip.
Then another.
Then another.
I turned my music up so high the walls vibrated.
And eventually… I passed out on the floor.
---
BACK TO PRESENT
I woke up nauseous. My head was spinning violently, like the room was rocking on waves. Every bone in my body screamed in protest. I wasn’t sure which hurt more—the crash or the alcohol.
Probably both.
I was holding my head when I heard a knock on my door.
“Hey, Mich,” my older brother Bryan’s voice floated in. “Mum says you should be downstairs in five. She doesn’t wanna come up here herself.”
I groaned into my pillow.
Dragging myself out of bed felt like lifting a mountain. I took the quickest shower I could manage, slipped into ripped black jeans, an oversized blue polo, and my white-and-black Jordans. I couldn’t pack my hair—it hurt too much—so I left it hanging loosely down my back.
When I made it downstairs, Mum was already glaring at me, tapping her watch like her life depended on it.
“Wow, Michella,” she scoffed. “You never cease to amaze me. Late on your first day of school—and we still need to get you bandaged.”
---
I stood in front of the school gates like I had been sentenced to death.
Hamilton High.
The school I hated more than anything in New York City.
A school where rich kids ruled.
Where bullying was practically encouraged.
Where scholarship students were treated like gum on someone’s shoe.
Where girls competed over who had the richer parents and the bigger designer bag.
I hated this place.
The moment I stepped through the hallway, time seemed to freeze. Students turned their heads in slow motion, eyes widening, lips parting.
A new girl…
With a cast on her arm.
A bandaged leg.
Crutches.
And a face as emotionless as winter.
Whispers burst around me like fireworks.
“Who is she?”
“She’s gorgeous.”
“She looks like Snow White.”
“She looks like trouble.”
I ignored every single one of them.
Their opinions meant nothing to me.
I walked to the principal’s office, pushed the door open, and approached the secretary.
“Miss Caden?” she asked.
“It’s Michella. Ella. Or Mich.” My voice came out flat, cold.
“Right. Head inside.”
The principal was overly cheerful—too cheerful to be real.
“Ah! Miss Caden! Welcome to Hamilton High! Your mother told me so much about you. We’re thrilled to have you.”
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes.
She was still talking when someone knocked.
A tall, dark-skinned woman entered the office.
“Miss Collen! Perfect timing,” the principal chirped. “Meet Miss Caden. She’ll be in your class.”
---
On our way to the classroom, Miss Collen wouldn’t stop talking. About school rules, expectations, her teaching style—blah blah blah.
I finally muttered under my breath, “These teachers really know how to bore someone to death.”
She didn’t say another word after that.
Good.
When we stepped into the classroom, conversations died instantly.
“Quiet down,” Miss Collen said. “We have a new student. Introduce yourself.”
I stepped forward, unfazed by the thirty pairs of eyes staring at me.
“I’m Michella. Ella or Mich. I don’t intend on making friends.”
Gasps rippled through the room.
A guy in the front snorted. “What crime did you commit? Looks like you got bullied real bad in your last school.”
“And what public school did you transfer from? Scholarship student?” another sneered. The class erupted in laughter.
I inhaled sharply, ready to roast them—but Miss Collen jumped in.
“That’s enough. Miss Caden didn’t transfer from any school, nor is she a scholarship student. Take the last seat at the back, please.”
“My name is Michella,” I snapped. “Stop calling me Miss Caden.”
The room fell silent.
I hissed, grabbed my crutches, and walked to the last seat, pain throbbing through my leg with every step.
“Jason,” Miss Collen said stiffly, “show her around the school later.”
Then she left.
- Writer
