Young-Love

CHAPTER 8: BELLA'S POV II

First day of high school. You’d think I’d be nervous or excited or whatever normal girls feel.

Not me.

I’m Isabella Lovereign — Bella, to the family. Queen B to everyone else. And today, I don’t walk into school… I arrive.

Carl tossed the keys up in the air and caught them like we were in some Netflix series. “We’re takin’ the Huracán,” he said, smirking like a kid choosing his favourite toy. Not the Maybach, not the Bentley—nah. My big brother had a need for noise today. And nothing screams Lovereign privilege like a matte black Lambo purring through the gates of Queens High.

Nico was supposed to drive us, but with that bullet still healing in his arm and Mom turning into an overprotective hawk, Carl got the green light.

He looked over at me before pulling out of the driveway. “You good?”

I nodded. “Always.”

Even though my stomach twisted a little. Not from nerves, just… tension. Something about this year felt different. Heavy.

We pulled away from the mansion, tires whispering against the polished driveway. I glanced at the rearview mirror. The majestic Lovereign’s estate towered behind us like a marble ghost over the Hudson River.

Carl bumped the volume, letting some trap echo through the cabin. “Let’s make it quick,” he said. “I’ve got senior flex today.”

“Don’t worry,” I muttered. “I won’t cramp your king-of-the-seniors vibe.”

He laughed and ruffled my hair. I rolled my eyes but smiled.

The closer we got to Queens High, the more the world shifted. Less marble, more brick. Less security gates, more public sidewalk. But even out here, we rolled like royalty. Heads turned at the sound of the Huracán’s growl. Kids pointed. Some just stared.

Carl leaned in as he slowed by the curb. “Show them who runs this place.”

I grabbed my phone, slid on my sunglasses, and stepped out. Game face on.

###

It’s always the entrance that matters most.

Carl stepped out first, dressed in a clean-cut black tee and tailored jeans, with a Givenchy blazer chain glinting in the light, sneakers fresh out the box. Then came me.

The door lifted open like the gates of a temple. I slid out slowly, heels clicking against pavement like punctuation. My designer dress hugged me just right, Versace sunglasses reflecting a distorted view of the gawking peasants—I mean, students. And behind me, my girls stepped out too, dripping in Prada and Chanel, forming the perfect diamond formation.

Everything about the moment screamed power.

But inside? Hollow.

Still, I reminded myself: image is everything. Weakness is ammunition. People don’t love the queen because she cries. They love her because she never bows.

Carl handed me my coffee, the one he’d ordered ahead, custom like everything else in our life. “Ready to reclaim your throne, Queen B?”

I took a sip, fixed my glasses, and smiled. “It never left.”

Phones were already out. Cameras flashing. Students whispering. Some tried to look like they weren’t staring. Others didn’t even bother. Jealousy looks good on them.

We walked through the main entrance like royalty. Carl bumped my shoulder playfully. “Try not to ruin too many lives before lunch.”

“No promises.”

There’s something about these halls — the way they echo when people stop walking as you pass. The way whispers curl through the air like perfume. I wasn’t just a student here. I was mythology.

“Queen B’s back,” someone muttered near the lockers.

A freshman tripped trying to get out of our way. Another girl clutched her books to her chest like I’d snatch her soul through her binder.

I walked slow. Deliberate. Every step calculated. Every hair in place. It’s not vanity — it’s armor.

Teachers? They didn’t even try to check me. One gave a stiff nod. Another adjusted her glasses and turned away. They all knew better. The Lovereign name bought silence in bulk.

We passed the drama kids, the STEM geeks, the t****k clout chasers — every clique fell quiet. Some looked at me with envy. Some with admiration. Some with hate so thick it could be scooped into a jar.

They used to ask how I did it. How I kept control. It wasn’t just the name. That was the seed. But I grew the kingdom with my own hands all the way from kindergaten.

I see familiar faces from middle school, most of them are still scared of me, but if they are then they gotta be ready for the beast I’ve become over the summer break.

Charm. Fear. Loyalty. Lies. Whatever will work. And if one tool dulled, I sharpen another.

My girls flanked me, not just for the look — they knew the playbook. Eyes always forward. No unnecessary smiles. Smile wrong, and people think you’re weak.

Everyone wants to be me.

But none of them are me.

They don’t know what it’s like to be paraded like a trophy, to be weighed against legacies, to be told you’re a mistake without ever hearing the words. They don’t know what it feels like when your grandfather praises your brothers like kings and looks at you like you’re a coin tossed in the wrong fountain.

But that’s fine. They’ll never see the cracks.

Not unless I want them to.

I reached my locker. Already polished and decorated in gold tones and marble texture wrap. My nameplate glistened: Isabella “Queen B” Lovereign.

Behind me, someone muttered under their breath. Something about money not buying class.

I turned just slightly. Enough for my glasses to slip down the bridge of my nose. I didn’t even need to say a word. The mutterer shrank away, face flushed.

Like I said. Image is everything.

And I’m damn good at mine.

I was organizing my locker, heels clicking against the pristine hallway tiles. Home issues echoing in my head but you bury that behind Fendi shades and a Valentino skirt. Weakness? That’s blood in shark water.

I stacked my notebooks, rearranged a Chanel pen case, then heard the voice.

“Yo, wassup, sis?”

I glanced sideways. Some girl had yanked open the locker next to mine. I raised an eyebrow. First of all, I don’t share locker space. Second, her outfit looked like a crime scene: an old denim jacket with a busted zipper, sneakers that screamed hand-me-downs, and a graphic tee faded beyond redemption. Hair frizzed out like she lost a fight with a blow dryer. From her hygiene alone, I assumed she hadn't met a bar of soap in about a week.

I smirked and muttered under my breath, loud enough to sting. “Your face must be as ugly as your outfit.”

The locker slammed shut with a metal bang.

“The f**k did you just say, b***h?!”

My eyes finally landed on her face. She had blue eyes, a light brown skin, puff curly brown hair. Her jaw clenched, brows furrowed like a damn storm. And loud. Too loud.

The hallway stopped. Like, frozen. You’d think someone pulled the fire alarm.

No one ever raised their voice at Queen B. Not in middle school. Not ever. But whoever this girl was… she didn’t get the memo.

“You heard me.” I clearly stood up against her.

“Then SAY-THOSE-WORDS-AGAIN, I fuckin’ dare you!!!” she replied her voice cold like a serial killer.

I didn’t respond, for the first time in my life I was actually frightened by another student. I just stared at her, cold and shook I swear I couldn't lay my finger on it but something about her looked so familiar like I've known her for a long time yet it was my first time seeing her.

Phones were already out. Videos rolling. Hashtags about to be born.

Carl showed up, slicing through the crowd like Moses parting the Red Sea. Behind him were his boys, seniors mostly, tall and dangerous-looking. His voice thundered down the hall:

“Woah—woah—woah, f**k is going on here?”

Before I could say a thing, the girl snapped towards me:

“Whatchu gon’ do now, huh? Stay silent, better watch your manners Cuz, a’ight!!”

“Hol’ up who are you talking to like that?” Carl stepped up, looking at the girl dead in the face. And he paused. Speechless. His jaw locked.

“And what’s your problem, nigga? This bitc—”

That did it.

Carl blinked back to life.

“What did you just call my sister?!”

The girl didn’t flinch. “You heard me, nigga. Get the f**k out my face. I ain’t talking wit you.”

Gasps. Literal gasps. Someone dropped their phone. The hall went from silent to fire.

Carl lunged and grabbed her by the throat, shoving her against the lockers.

The teachers did nothing.

That’s Carl for you. King of Queens High.

The girl, without skipping a beat, smashed a fist into Carl’s belly. He grunted, stunned. She jumped up, tackled him down. Punched. Again. And again. I swear, this girl had iron fists for hands, if it was me being hit, I’d be in the grave right now.

Well, this wasn’t just a fight.

It was a statement.

Carl. Was. Losing.

And to a girl.

The hallway was a war zone of screams, camera flashes, and stunned faces. Carl’s friends tried to step in but she had glued herself on him. The teachers — finally joined and assisted Carl’s friends to get the girl off. Two male staff dragged her off Carl, her eyes still blazing.

“Let me go! LET ME GO!” she screamed.

Carl was on the floor. His blazer ripped. Lip bleeding.

“You’re dead, b***h!” he yelled, struggling to get up.

The teachers yanked the girl down the hallway towards the principal’s office. She didn’t even look back. She kept shouting. Fighting.

“Don’t touch me! I swear to God, I ain’t done yet!”

I rushed to Carl. Helped him up.

His ego? Shattered.

His rage? Nuclear.

“She dead,” he muttered. “She’s fuckin’ dead.”

And I believed him.

Carl didn’t take humiliation.

He handed it back. With interest.

I helped him to the bathroom. He slammed the door, breathing hard.

“She touched me,” he growled. “That b***h laid hands on me. In front of the whole school—Doesn’t she know who I am?”

I stood silent.

He looked up at the mirror. Saw his lip. His shirt.

“f**k!”

He punched the sink. The porcelain cracked.

“Carl, let it go,” I said softly.

He turned to me, wild-eyed.

“Let it go? Let it go?! B, my reputation just got knocked the f**k out. On camera.”

I hesitated. “Everyone saw… but that don’t mean they’ll forget.”

He laughed. Bitter.

“She thinks she can walk into my school, swing on me, and leave? Nah. I’m pullin’ up.”

I grabbed his arm. “Please. Don’t.”

He shrugged me off and stormed out.

Carl was dangerous when angry. But this wasn’t just anger.

This was wounded pride.

And whoever that girl was — she had just made herself public enemy number one.