My Dream, My Destiny:The heiress's second chance

Chapter 4

Later in the afternoon Jürgen found me before I'd made it halfway down the hall.

"Camilla!" He was jogging, slightly breathless. "I heard what happened."

"News travels fast."

"Please." He fell into step beside me, lowering his voice. "Stay away from him. Don't cross his path again."

"Why shouldn't I?"

"Because you will get into serious trouble. Ricardo isn't like other people here—"

"Jürgen." I stopped and looked at him. "Don't make me angry."

He pressed his lips together.

"Okay, ma'am." A pause. "What's your next lesson?"

I glanced at my timetable and hissed . "Science."

My worst subject, The reason we went to Ukraine

"That's my class too. Let's go."

The teacher was already inside when we arrived.

"Cam, come in, my dear," she said warmly then shifted her gaze immediately. "And you, Jürgen. Get on your knees."

I turned. "But we came at the same time. Why punish him alone?"

"You're a new student, so I'll forgive you this once. Now go in and sit down."

Jürgen squeezed my hand before I could argue further because he knew I will surely talk . A small, quiet squeeze that said let it go.

I exhaled. Went in.

Scanned the room.

One empty seat.

Of course it was next to Ricardo.

Our eyes met across the classroom — his flat and unreadable, mine deliberately unbothered. I lifted my chin slightly and walked over and sat down.

The girls nearby stared. Someone whispered something I chose not to hear.

I opened my notebook

"Oh. Lynda. It's you."

I'd turned slightly and found her two seats over, watching me with an expression like she'd bitten into something rotten.

"Yuck," she said. "You're such a brat."

"And you're a nuisance," I replied, turning back to the front. "So we're even."

"Hey!" The teacher's voice cracked across the room. "Young ladies to the principal's office, right now!"

"But ma'am—"

I started to stand.

And then I couldn't.

I tried again. Nothing. My shirt was stuck properly stuck — nailed to the chair behind me.

The laughter hit like a wave. The whole class. Loud and immediate and humiliating.

Something hot surged through my chest.

I stood up properly, tearing free, and turned around.

Ricardo sat behind me with that same unreadable expression. Not laughing. Just watching.

Which somehow made it worse.

My hand moved before my brain caught up with it.

The slap echoed.

The laughter died instantly.

Ricardo's hand came up slowly to his cheek. His eyes were cold fire.

"I know you did that," I said. My voice was steady. I was proud of that. "Next time you won't dare come near me again. Got that?"

"Do you have any proof," he said quietly, "that I did it?"

"And what if I—"

"Enough." The teacher was on her feet. "All three of you. Principal's office. Now."

We walked there in silence — me, Lynda, Ricardo with enough tension between us to power the entire school.

Mr. Scott looked up from his desk and sighed before any of us had said a word.

"Miss Lynda." He looked at her first. "I don't know why you felt the need to insult her. But Camilla" his eyes moved to me "you shouldn't have responded that way."

"Excuse me, sir." I kept my voice respectful. "I mean no disrespect at all. But why should I sit quietly while someone insults me? I'm sorry I genuinely am but I can't stay silent."

"And the slap? Without proof?"

"He was sitting directly behind me. He was the only one who could have done it." I paused. "I can't lie to you, sir I don't have proof. But I'm certain."

He studied me for a moment.

"Camilla. You must apologize to him."

I blinked.

Then I laughed — not meanly, just genuinely startled.

"Me? Apologize to him?" I shook my head. "No, sir. I can't."

"Miss Camilla. I'm asking you to do as I say."

"Sir." I looked at him steadily. "I respect you because you are my elder and because you deserve that respect. But I was not wrong. And I won't apologize for something I didn't do."

I walked out.

The rest of the school day passed in a blur of barely-contained fury and enforced solitude. I kept to myself, jaw set, replaying the morning on a loop. By the time the final bell rang I had almost talked myself into letting it go.

Almost.

I swung my backpack over one shoulder and headed for the parking lot.

I heard the crowd before I saw it students clustered in a loose circle, whispering, pointing.

That particular energy of people who'd witnessed something and were waiting for whoever it happened to to find out.

I pushed through.

And stopped.

My Lamborghini.

Stained. All over. Thick streaks of paint thrown across the hood, the doors, the roof deliberate and vicious and unmistakable.

The sound that came out of me wasn't a word. It wasn't anything polite.

I turned slowly.

Ricardo was standing beside his car a few spaces over, phone raised, taking pictures of mine. And he was smiling that controlled, satisfied smile of someone who'd planned something and watched it land perfectly.

The fury that moved through me then was white and clean and absolute.

I didn't think so.

I saw the metal rod. I picked it up. I walked.

CRASH.

The windshield of his car exploded inward.

Students screamed. Someone grabbed their friend's arm. The crowd lurched backward.

Ricardo spun around. For one single second, something cracked open in his expression pure, unguarded shock.

Then it closed again. His voice came out low and furious.

"How could you do that?!"

"How could you do that to me first?!" I threw back. My hands were shaking. I didn't lower them. "You painted my car!"

"First you slap me, and now you destroy my car"

"Do you really think," I said, stepping forward, "that I am afraid of you?"

The answer, clearly, was no.

"Both of you. My office. Now."

The principal's voice cut through everything. I turned. Mr. Scott stood at the entrance to the parking lot, expression thunderous, looking between us like he was reconsidering every decision that had led to this moment.

Ricardo and I looked at each other.

The hatred between us in that glance was fresh and sharp and mutual.

We turned and walked toward the office without another word.

But I felt it at my back the whole way the weight of his stare, the promise in it.

This wasn't over.

This had barely started.

And something told me in that particular way that warnings arrive too late to be useful, that Ricardo Salvador was not the kind of person who let things go.

Neither, for the record, was I.