Sugar Coated Bullets

5. Restroom

The porcelain tiles of the Lavalton High restroom seemed to amplify every jagged whisper, bouncing the cruel, melodic laughter off the walls like the ricochet of live ammunition. Inside the furthest locked stall, Aurelia sat rigidly on the closed lid, the plastic wrapper of the fresh sanitary pad clutched so tightly in her trembling fingers that the crinkling sound echoed in the small space.

Outside the heavy wooden stall door, the conversation flowed with the effortless cruelty of teenagers who had never known a day of genuine hardship.

"Did you see the way she smiled? Like an absolute i***t," a high, nasal voice sneered, punctuated by the sharp clatter of a makeup compact hitting the marble vanity. "Holding out a bag of gas-station mints like she’s Dorothy stepping into Oz. My mother nearly spat out her coffee when she saw the society page announcement. A sixteen-year-old charity case? The Charlottes must be losing their minds or running out of tax write-offs."

"Honestly, what does Desmond even see in her?" another chimed in, her voice dripping with venomous disbelief. "She probably tracked some mud from the orphanage straight onto his boots and he felt sorry for her. Can you imagine dragging that around to the autumn gala? A walking, talking PR disaster wrapped in a second-hand skirt."

"Oh, she won't last a month," a third voice laughed, high and bright. "Once Bianca’s done dissecting her family tree—or whatever pathetic stump she crawled off of—the Charlottes will quietly pay her to disappear back into the foster system. They just wanted a living doll to show off at charity brunches until they get bored."

Aurelia’s breath caught hard in her throat, a sharp, suffocating band tightening around her chest. The words felt like physical blows, striking against the fragile glass wall of the new life she had tried so desperately to build. Every insecurity she had buried deep beneath her sunny disposition—the phantom weight of the orphanage register, the persistent, hollow fear that she was nothing more than an accessory, a temporary placeholder in a grand house—suddenly clawed its way to the surface.

She stared down at her hands, her vision blurring as hot, unshed tears welled in her eyes. Her fingers trembled so violently she could barely peel the adhesive strip. They were right, weren't they? To this world, she was just an interloper, a charity case wearing borrowed clothes and a fake last name, trespassing in a kingdom built on wealth she couldn't even fathom. The warmth of Desmond’s defense in the classroom felt suddenly distant, a fleeting illusion that couldn't possibly withstand the crushing, systemic reality of a place like Lavalton.

She squeezed her eyes shut, pressing her forehead against her knees, desperately trying to muffle the hitch in her breathing so they wouldn't know she was listening, so they wouldn't have the satisfaction of knowing they had broken her before the first bell of her very first day had even finished ringing.

The heavy click of the bathroom door swinging shut behind the last departing girl left the room in a hollow, suffocating silence. Aurelia waited until the echoes of their designer heels faded down the corridor, her heart hammering frantically against her ribs like a trapped bird. Pushing open the stall door, she caught her reflection in the cracked side of the mirror—her face pale, lips pressed into a thin, trembling line, and her eyes swimming with unshed tears that she refused to let fall.

She couldn't stay here. She couldn't walk back into that classroom, couldn't face the weight of Desmond’s unwavering protection knowing how entirely unworthy of it she truly was. They were right. All of them. She was just a placeholder, a display piece in a house that didn't love her, trespassing in a world that viewed her existence as a joke.

Bursting out of the restroom, she sprinted down the silent corridor, her soft footsteps muffled by the polished marble floors. She threw open the heavy oak door of the classroom with a force that rattled the frame.

Desmond, who was still leaning against the front row keeping watch, whipped his head around. "Aurelia—"

Before he could push off the desk or finish her name, she dove past him like a frightened ghost. Her hands darted to her desk, sweeping her notebook, her pens, and the bag of peppermint candies into her leather satchel in one frantic, violent motion.

"Hey—wait, what's wrong?" Desmond pushed forward, his dark eyes widening in sudden alarm as he lunged to block her path, his instincts flaring.

"I-I forgot... I can't," she choked out, her voice cracking under the sheer weight of humiliation as she ducked past his outstretched arm, refusing to meet his piercing gaze.

"Aurelia, stop—look at me," Desmond demanded, his voice sharpening with rising panic as he reached for her wrist.

But she was already gone. She bolted through the doorway, her small frame vanishing down the hallway before anyone could react, leaving behind only the cold draft of air she had stirred in her wake.

Across the room, Bianca Will leaned back in her chair, a slow, triumphant, venomous smirk stretching across her face. She raised a hand to cover her mouth, sharing a sharp, gleeful laugh with her cronies as they watched the door swing shut on the empty corridor.

"Look at that," Bianca sneered softly, loud enough for the surrounding desks to hear, her eyes gleaming with malicious satisfaction. "The charity case couldn't even handle ten minutes. Someone go check the dumpsters outside; I think she dropped her crown."

Desmond stood frozen in the doorway, his chest heaving as the absolute fury surged through his veins. The suffocating chill in his eyes returned, deadlier than before. He didn't care about Bianca, didn't care about the giggling lackeys, didn't care about the horrified gasps of the class. Without a single word, he dropped his own satchel onto the wood, turned on his heel, and stalked out of the classroom after her, determined to tear down every wall she had just run behind.