He had him questioning his sexuality. He always hated and bullied gay students. But how can he one?

“Zen, wake up! We’re gonna be late!” I groaned into my pillow, hoping Ryan would magically disappear. No such luck. The next thing I knew, a blast of freezing water hit me square in the face, soaking through my blanket and slapping me awake like a bucket of humiliation. “RYAN STAR!” I sprang up, coughing and sputtering like a wet cat. My best friend stood by my bed, holding an empty cup and looking way too proud of himself for someone who still couldn’t beat me at Call of Duty. “Good morning, sunshine,” he grinned. “Figured the ice water was more effective than yelling.” “You figured wrong,” I muttered, yanking off my blanket and chucking a pillow at his smirking face. He ducked. “You’re welcome. Now get up. You’ve got five minutes to look less like a wet raccoon.” “I hope Skylar breaks up with you,” I growled, sliding off the bed. “Bold of you to assume she hasn’t already,” he called, sauntering out. I groaned again and dragged myself to the bathroom. First day at Greenwich High—elite private school, rich kids with egos bigger than their cars, and students who probably thought the real world came with a personal assistant and a trust fund. Great. I wiped my face with a towel, glaring at my reflection. Short black hair sticking out in every direction, half-lidded eyes, hoodie already slung over my shoulder. I could pass for a guy—again. I didn’t really try. But I didn’t stop it either. My name is Zendaye Egan. Everyone calls me Zen. The only daughter of Thomas Egan—CEO of Egan Enterprises, the richest man in the city—and the youngest of five kids. I’ve got four older brothers: Zain, Zachary, Zayden, and Zavier. Sounds like a boy band, I know. They’re strong, competitive, arrogant, and the best guys I know. I spent my whole life trying to keep up with them. And I did. Scratch that—I surpassed them. In most things. Growing up with them meant dolls were replaced with dirt bikes. Lipstick was for graffiti. Pink was a trap. Mom tried, bless her heart. Amberlyn Egan is the picture of grace and style, the kind of woman who could walk through a hurricane in heels and come out without a hair out of place. Too bad she gave birth to me. “You know, Zen,” she said as I passed the kitchen, “you could at least try a little color.” “Black is a color,” I mumbled, grabbing a slice of toast. She raised a perfectly plucked brow. “So is lavender. So is blush. I bought you that pastel set—” I kissed her cheek. “Thanks, Mom. I’ll save it for my debutante ball.” “That’s not funny.” “It’s a little funny.” My dad looked up from his newspaper. “She looks like a warrior. Leave her be.” Score one for Dad. --- The garage at the Egan estate looked more like a luxury showroom than a parking space. Ryan leaned against his car like a GQ model, waiting for a photo shoot. And of course, his girlfriend Skylar was already there—posing by the car like it was a commercial. “About time,” she said, flipping her hair over one shoulder. “You know Greenwich has a late bell, right?” “And I care… why?” I said, sliding into the front seat of my matte black Porsche Taycan Turbo S—courtesy of my overcompensating father. Ryan revved his vintage silver Aston Martin DB11, sunglasses perched low on his nose. “Let’s make an entrance.” We tore out of the estate like a scene from Fast & Furious: Elite High Edition. Our convoy included Ryan, me, and a few other legacy kids rolling up in everything from Bentleys to Lambos. As we sped through the tree-lined streets toward the school gates, I could already imagine the heads turning. And boy, did they. Greenwich High was… excessive. Grand stone archway, ivy-covered buildings, golden school crest shining on a black iron gate. The kind of place where blazers were monogrammed and the lunch menu had truffle options. As we pulled into the front circle, students gathered in clusters, all eyes on the arriving fleet. “Who’s the new guy?” I heard someone murmur. “Must be legacy. Look at that car.” “Is that… Zendaye Egan? I thought she was a girl.” Bingo. I stepped out slowly, hoodie on, black jeans, combat boots, minimal expression. People parted as I walked through, like the Red Sea. Ryan caught up to me, Skylar clinging to his arm like a purse. “You sure know how to make an entrance.” “Let ‘em stare.” He grinned. “The whole school was expecting a girl.” “They still got one,” I said, smirking. “Just not the one they imagined.” --- We stopped at the admin office, where a tight-lipped woman handed me my schedule and dorm key. Greenwich had a ‘live on campus’ policy for upperclassmen, which meant I was stuck sharing space with strangers. “You’re in Dorm Hall West, Room 202,” she said, eyeing me suspiciously. I caught her glance and smirked. She wanted to ask. She wouldn’t. “Thanks,” I said, and we turned to leave. That’s when I saw him. Broad shoulders, designer varsity jacket, two girls hanging off each arm. He had that smirk—the one that screamed I own this place and everyone in it." I knew the type. Alpha male. Golden boy. Entitled heir. Brian Carter. Football captain. Billionaire heir to the Carter estate. Greenwich’s crown jewel. He looked at me. I looked right back. And smiled. It wasn’t a polite smile. It was the kind of smile that said I’m not here to impress you. I’m here to beat you. He raised an eyebrow. “You lost?” “Nope. I'm just scoping the competition.” His smirk twitched. “You play football?” “If I did, you’d cry.” Ryan choked beside me. Brian laughed, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Welcome to Greenwich, tough guy. Hope you can handle the heat.” “I bring the fire,” I said, walking past him. Behind me, I heard someone whisper, “Who is that?” I didn’t turn around. Let them wonder. --- By the end of the day, I had two rumors, three nicknames, and a challenge invitation from the school’s reigning basketball MVP. Apparently, I made an impression. In the girls’ bathroom, I heard someone say, “The new kid’s kinda hot. Is he single?” In the boys’ locker room, they were already placing bets on whether I’d survive the next football tryout. Ryan just laughed his way through it all. “You’re a walking plot twist.” “Good,” I said. “They won’t know what hit them.” ----