Hidden Heiress

Chapter 2 - Breakfast Hall Madness

I woke up to the sound of my phone pinging like it was possessed. Five notifications. All from the Hawthorne gossip app, which I had made the mistake of downloading the night before.

Half-asleep, I squinted at the screen.

Post #128: New Girl vs. Vase.

Comment thread: “RIP priceless artifact.” “Is she blind?” “Honestly iconic. I give it a 7/10.”

Post #129: Who let thrift store Barbie in?

Comment thread: “She’s scholarship, obviously.” “No way, she looks like a charity case.” “Bet she doesn’t last a week.”

I groaned, buried my face in the pillow, and seriously considered smothering myself with it.

Lyra’s perfectly coiffed head appeared from behind her book. Yes, she was already awake. And dressed. At 7:30 a.m. “You’re trending,” she said flatly, like she was announcing the weather.

“Yay me,” I mumbled into the pillow.

She shut the book with a precise snap. “Don’t act surprised. Hawthorne is an ecosystem. The weak get chewed up. And right now, you’re covered in ketchup.”

“Not ketchup,” I muttered. “Latte.”

“Worse,” she said. “Caffeine addicts are vicious.”

By the time I dragged myself to the dining hall, I’d already received three more pings. I swore the app was sentient, feeding off my humiliation.

The dining hall itself was ridiculous. Vaulted ceilings with chandeliers big enough to crush a small village if they fell. Marble floors polished to a mirror shine. Long tables groaning under the weight of food that looked like it had been stolen from a royal wedding: stacks of pancakes, pyramids of fruit, baskets of croissants.

I froze in the doorway, stomach growling loud enough to echo.

The place was buzzing. Students in pristine uniforms clustered at their usual tables: the sports gods, the theater kids who looked like they’d break into song any second, the elite clique glowing like they’d been Photoshopped in real life. Everyone laughed too loudly, smiled too perfectly, moved like they’d rehearsed their entrances.

I, of course, ruined mine immediately.

The smell of maple syrup drew me forward like a siren song. I grabbed a plate, piled it with enough food to shame a Viking, and scanned for a seat.

That’s when I saw it. An empty chair at the front table, right next to the elite trio.

Big mistake. Huge mistake.

I sat down, focused entirely on pancakes. Silence fell. Heads turned. Somewhere, a fork clattered to a plate.

The girl with concrete-puncturing stilettos leaned in, her smile sharp. “You’re sitting at the royal table.”

“Right,” I said through a mouthful of croissant. “Sorry. Thought this was, you know, a school. Didn’t realize it came with monarchy.”

The girl with impossibly expensive hair arched an eyebrow. “Tradition. This table is reserved for legacy families. Bloodlines that built Hawthorne. Not… guests.”

Heat crept up my neck. I stood, nearly knocking over my juice. Half the dining hall was watching. Phones were definitely recording.

Before the humiliation could crush me into dust, a voice piped up from across the room: “Oi! Over here!”

I turned. A boy waved me over. He had messy brown curls, a tie that wasn’t even pretending to follow dress code, and a grin that looked entirely too amused by my suffering.

I hesitated, then bolted toward him like he’d thrown me a lifeline.

“Evelynn, right?” he said as I dropped into the seat beside him. “Saw you on the app. Vase Girl.”

“Kill me now,” I muttered.

“Nah, you’re fun. Everyone else here is boring.” He stabbed a fork into his pile of bacon and offered me one like a peace treaty. “I’m Max. Scholarship. Translation: I don’t care about the rules.”

I accepted the bacon. Maybe I wouldn’t starve after all.

From across the room, I caught Golden Boy watching me again, expression unreadable. Like he was cataloging me all over again. My stomach did that stupid flip, and I shoved more pancake in my mouth to drown it.

The app pinged again. I checked it under the table.

Post #135: Vase Girl sits at royal table. Bold. Stupid. Entertaining.

Top comment: “She’ll never survive Orientation.”

I groaned. Max leaned over. “Welcome to Hawthorne,” he said with a grin. “Where breakfast is served with a side of humiliation.”

The assembly hall looked less like a school auditorium and more like Parliament had swallowed Versailles. Crystal chandeliers. Velvet curtains. Gold trim on everything that would sit still long enough to be gilded.

I stood in the doorway for a beat too long, just trying to process it. Was this orientation or the coronation of a minor royal?

Max bumped my shoulder as he passed. “Don’t gawk. They can smell poverty.”

I snapped my mouth shut and followed him inside. Rows of carved wooden seats stretched down toward a stage with an actual podium that had Hawthorne’s crest carved into it - ivy curling around a shield, complete with a Latin motto I couldn’t read. Probably something pretentious like Excellence or Death.

The students were already sorted into little groups, the kind that radiated years of shared secrets. The elite clique, of course, sat front row center. Lyra was with them, posture perfect, hair gleaming like she had her own personal spotlight. She caught my eye for exactly one second before dismissing me entirely.

I slid into a seat in the back, Max sprawling next to me like he owned the place.

The headmaster took the stage. Tall, silver-haired, a suit that probably cost as much as a car. He launched into a speech about tradition, legacy, excellence, and duty. It was like listening to a TED Talk on snobbery.

I tuned out halfway through, mostly because my phone buzzed.

The app. Again.

Post #141: Vase Girl spotted. Back row. Clearly knows her place now.

Top comment: “Give her a week before she drops out.”

I groaned under my breath. Max leaned over. “Don’t worry. Last year they made a whole meme thread about me falling asleep in chemistry. The posts vanish once they get bored.”

“Comforting,” I whispered back. “So I just have to humiliate myself less than you did?”

“Exactly,” he said with a grin. “Good luck.”

Onstage, the headmaster finally wrapped up, announcing the student council president.

And of course, it was Golden Boy.

He strolled to the podium with all the easy confidence of someone who had never tripped over their own shoelaces in their life. Blond hair perfect, uniform immaculate, expression just shy of a smirk. The hall went silent - not out of fear, but reverence. Like he was Hawthorne royalty incarnate.

“Students,” he began, voice smooth, commanding. “This year, Hawthorne will continue to uphold the traditions that have made us the envy of every academy in the world. We will strive for excellence. For honor. For… discretion.”

The last word made the room ripple with amusement. Phones buzzed. The app pinged. I glanced down.

Post #142: Adrian Hale, our golden god, takes the stage.

Comment thread: “Marry me.” “He’s perfect.” “Someone get him a crown already.”

So. Golden Boy had a name: Adrian Hale. Of course his name sounded like he’d stepped out of a fantasy novel.

Adrian’s gaze swept the room, and for a split second, it landed on me. My stomach flipped so hard it might have done a cartwheel. His eyes lingered, just long enough for me to wonder if he remembered the vase incident. Then he looked away, as if I was already dismissed.

Something hot and sharp twisted in my chest. Anger, mostly. But also… yeah, okay, attraction. Which was annoying.

Adrian wrapped up his speech with a line that could have been stolen from a movie trailer: “Hawthorne isn’t just an academy. It’s a legacy. And every one of you is part of it.”

The applause was thunderous. Phones lit up, recording his every word. I clapped exactly twice, out of spite.

Max leaned toward me. “You’re glaring. Careful, the Hale fangirls will notice.”

“Glaring? No. I’m… thoughtfully analyzing his leadership skills.”

“You’re glaring,” Max repeated, grinning.

The headmaster returned to the podium, launching into another round of announcements about schedules, dorm rules, and “conduct becoming of Hawthorne.” I considered faking a fainting spell just to escape, but Max bribed me with another croissant he’d smuggled in his bag.

The app buzzed again. I didn’t even want to look, but of course I did.

Post #145: Vase Girl sighted. Back row. Glaring at Adrian Hale like she wants to murder him.

Comment thread:

- “Jealous much?”

- “Bold. Suicidal, but bold.”

- “Honestly, kind of refreshing.”

I slid lower in my seat, wishing the velvet upholstery would swallow me whole.

By the time the assembly ended, I was ready to sprint out the door. Instead, I walked. Calm. Dignified. Only tripped once.

Naturally, Adrian was standing near the exit, surrounded by admirers. His eyes flicked to me again. Just once. And there it was - that damn smirk. Like he knew exactly what I’d just read on the app. Like he was enjoying it.

I quickened my pace, muttering under my breath, “Perfect. Absolutely perfect.”