Aria Moretti had learned to carry a careful armor of poise and composure. At Crescent High, it wasn’t enough to be intelligent or beautiful; every glance, every word, every subtle gesture could become ammunition in the ongoing battles of privilege, rivalry, and secrecy. But that morning, as she walked toward her first class, her armor felt shaky, frayed at the edges, and she didn’t know why.
Her mind replayed the events of the previous day: Damian’s half-apology, the way he had unsettled her without even trying, and that smirk—less teasing, more intentional—that lingered in her thoughts longer than it should have. She forced herself to focus on her schedule, on the stack of notes in her bag, but it was impossible to ignore the tension building in her chest.
“Aria!”
The voice was familia
