The Social Blackout at Northcrest Academy didn't just feel like silence anymore; it felt like a physical weight. As I walked through the glass-domed quad, the student body parted like a sea of navy blazers and expensive perfume, leaving a ten-foot radius of isolation around me.
I could feel the stares. The Studio Incident hadn't made the tabloids yet—Marcus was too good at his job for that—but the rumors had leaked through the staff. The word difficult was being whispered in the hallways. Unstable. The Angel with clipped wings.
I kept my head down, my fingers tracing the strap of my bag. Underneath my skin, I could still feel the phantom heat of Roman’s hand on my wrist from last night. “Don’t trust me if you don’t want to,” he’d said. “But don’t you dare trust him.”
"Well, if it isn't
