Sugar Coated Bullets

3. Charlotte

“They’re okay actually haha…they gave me enough…you know, opportunities and shelter…”

A flicker of something dark and sharp crossed Desmond’s features at her words. He heard the quiet resignation tucked beneath her soft laugh—the absolute absence of expectation from a girl who had spent her whole life learning not to ask for too much.

He knew how high-society adoptions worked in circles like theirs. To the Charlotte family, an adopted daughter at sixteen wasn't about nurturing a child; it was an accessory, a neat little addition to check off a social box or fill a quiet, empty estate when they grew tired of pure business. The bitter irony of it tightened his jaw. They had bought themselves a lovely, compliant ornament, completely blind to the genuine warmth of the girl sitting beside him.

"They gave you a roof and opportunities," Desmond repeated quietly, his dark eyes fixing on hers with a piercing intensity that saw right through the polite defense she was putting up. "Is that all you think you're worth, Aurelia? A logistical arrangement?"

He picked up his silver fountain pen, turning it slowly between his fingers before setting it down, his voice dropping an octave, steady and unyielding.

"Don't ever talk about yourself like you're something they just happened to display on a shelf," he said, the protective edge in his tone leaving no room for argument. "The Charlotte family is lucky to have your name attached to theirs. Not the other way around. If they ever make you feel like you're just a decoration, you let me know."

The homeroom teacher cleared their throat loudly at the front of the room, tapping a stack of attendance sheets against the podium, but Desmond didn't blink. He angled his chair slightly closer to hers, subtly shielding her from the prying eyes of the rest of the class.

"Now," he continued, a softer, teasing warmth bleeding back into his voice as he nudged the blank notebook closer to her. "Since you're here and the curriculum at Lavalton is mostly nonsense designed to stroke rich kids' egos, let's make sure you actually learn something useful today. What's your first class after homeroom? Tell me you didn't get stuck with Mr. Harrison for advanced literature."

“Hahaha I’m good I’m good! I don’t want to talk about that hahaha”

Desmond didn’t even need to turn his head to feel the heat of that glare burning a hole into the side of his skull. The air a few desks away felt practically toxic, radiating pure, unadulterated venom.

Without breaking stride in his conversation with Aurelia, Desmond slowly raised his eyes, fixing a cold, level stare straight at Bianca. It wasn't an angry look; it was the chilling, clinical gaze of someone watching a minor insect skitter across a clean floor—a look that silently reminded her of the real estate audit he had promised just moments ago.

Bianca’s breath hitched. Her shoulders stiffened, and with a furious, face-contorting flush, she violently jerked her head away, snapping back to whisper frantically to the lackeys beside her.

Desmond let out a quiet, dismissive exhale, his gaze instantly softening the moment he looked back down at Aurelia. The tension melted away from his expression as if the school's reigning queen bee didn't even exist in the same atmospheric pressure.

"Good," Desmond murmured, a faint, genuine smile touching his lips at the sound of her laugh. He tapped the edge of the blank notebook with his pen, playing along with her deflection. "We won't talk about it. But if anyone tries to hand you a fake-smile brochure about school spirit today, you have my official permission to throw a peppermint at their forehead."

“Huh? Hahahah omg you’re so funny! Throwing candies at them?? Adorable aggressively attacking??”

A low, resonant chuckle vibrated in Desmond’s chest, the sound entirely foreign to the cold, austere walls of Lavalton High where humor was usually reserved for dry corporate jokes or cruel gossip. He leaned his weight back against the mahogany chair, resting one arm casually along the back of Aurelia’s seat, completely unbothered by the collective, stunned stares still bleeding from the surrounding desks.

"Aggressive hospitality," Desmond corrected, his dark eyes glinting with a rare, quiet amusement as he watched the genuine, carefree color rush back into her cheeks.

"It’s a revolutionary tactic. Highly effective against institutional snobbery. Though I suspect Bianca’s skull is thick enough that a hard peppermint might actually shatter upon impact, causing structural damage to the candy rather than her ego."

Across the room, catching the tail end of his posture and the easy, unguarded expression on his face, Bianca Will looked as though she might actually combust. Her white-knuckled grip on her silver pen threatened to snap the barrel in half, her chest heaving with silent, sputtering rage. For the undisputed monarch of Lavalton’s social hierarchy, watching the school’s most untouchable apex predator laugh—truly laugh—with an adopted orphan whose name hadn't even graced the society columns two weeks prior, was an existential crisis unfolding in real time.

Desmond didn’t spare Bianca another glance. His attention remained entirely anchored to Aurelia, drinking in the bright, unfiltered warmth she brought into a room that usually smelled of designer cologne, ambition, and quiet desperation.

"Besides," Desmond continued, his voice dropping into a softer, more confidential register as he subtly tilted his shoulder to block her from the lingering, hostile glares of the surrounding cliques. "You’ve spent your entire life sharing what little you have with people who needed it more. Turning that around and weaponizing your sweets against the self-absorbed elite feels like poetic justice. Consider it community service."

He reached out, his long fingers lightly tapping the edge of the notebook he had slid over to her earlier, nudging it closer to her hands. The silver fountain pen caught the pale morning light streaming through the arched gothic windows.

"Now, before homeroom ends and we’re subjected to whatever tedious announcements the headmaster has cooked up about the annual charity gala—which, ironically, your adoptive parents probably sponsored—are you actually prepared for whatever schedule they handed you? Because if you have Mr. Harrison for history, I feel it is my moral obligation to warn you that he grades entirely based on how thoroughly you praise his mediocre self-published memoirs."