Rivals and Roses

I never asked to be the son of a billionaire. But somehow, that’s the first thing people know about me. “Ethan Hale, heir to Hale Tech,” they say, like it’s some sort of royal title. As if my life is all parties, private jets, and gold-plated cereal spoons. Truth is, the only gold I’ve seen is the one that hangs on my dad’s wrist — and even that’s old. The Hale Mansion sits on the edge of the city like it doesn’t want to be there. Modern glass walls, quiet halls, a kind of silence that makes you hear your own heartbeat. My dad says peace is priceless. I say it’s lonely. That morning, I was in the kitchen, stirring my cereal and pretending I was normal. Dad came in, sharp suit, expression unreadable, holding his tablet like it was an extension of his hand. “Ethan,” he said, without looking up. “Lockwood’s term starts tomorrow. Packed?” “Mentally, no,” I said. “Physically, yes. Unless they’ve changed the uniform to tuxedos again.” He gave me that half-smile — the one that means, you’re funny, but I’m still disappointed in you. “You’ll survive,” he said finally, sitting across from me. “That’s all you need to do at that school. Survive. Don’t get dragged into drama. Don’t try to prove anything. Just… survive.” That was his advice every single year. He didn’t say, make friends or enjoy yourself, just survive. You’d think the son of a tech mogul would be homeschooled with robot tutors or something. But no. Dad believes “real experience” builds character. Which is ironic, considering Lockwood Academy is a school where people build empires, not character. “I’ll try,” I said, spoon clinking against the bowl. “But what if survival requires sarcasm?” He sighed. “Ethan.” “Just asking.” He shook his head and went back to scrolling. “Your mother would’ve—” He stopped. He always stops there. I looked down, feeling that familiar ache crawl up my throat. Mom had been gone six years, but some days it felt like six minutes. She used to be the balance between us—his logic, my chaos. Without her, the mansion just echoed more. Dad cleared his throat. “Your driver leaves by eight. Don’t be late.” “Got it.” As he walked out, his words echoed in my head: Just survive school. Sounded simple. Too simple. Especially for Lockwood. I went upstairs to my room, grabbed my backpack, and stared at the mirror. Tall, messy brown hair, half-tucked shirt, and that face people said looked “trustworthy.” Maybe that’s why I got away with so much. I wasn’t a troublemaker—just allergic to boredom. And Lockwood was the perfect allergy trigger. Before leaving, I stopped by the family library. Mom’s picture sat on the shelf—her laugh frozen mid-smile. “Wish you were here,” I muttered, brushing dust off the frame. “Dad’s still pretending feelings are optional.” Outside, the morning sun hit the long driveway, and the chauffeur waved. “Morning, Master Ethan.” I groaned. “We’ve talked about this, James. Just Ethan.” “Of course, Master Ethan.” He grinned. The man enjoyed torturing me. The car rolled through the iron gates, and the city opened up like a movie scene—glass towers, honking cars, people rushing everywhere. My classmates probably spent the summer in Paris or Bali. I spent mine helping in Dad’s company for “experience.” Which basically meant sitting in meetings pretending to understand financial projections. The ride to Lockwood took an hour. Enough time to imagine all the new faces, new rules, new chaos waiting for me. Lockwood Academy wasn’t just a school—it was an ecosystem. A jungle disguised as marble hallways. By the time we arrived, the place was already alive with noise. Expensive cars lined the parking lot, students laughing, snapping pictures, dragging luggage. The gates were tall, gothic, with the school motto carved across: Veritas et Valor — Truth and Courage. “Yeah,” I muttered. “And cash. Don’t forget cash.” As I stepped out, I spotted familiar faces—Lila and Madison waving from the steps. My partners in sarcasm and the only two people at Lockwood who actually liked me for me. “Ethan Hale!” Lila called, tossing her curls. “Look who finally decided to show up.” “Traffic,” I said. “Or destiny. Take your pick.” Madison smirked. “Or fear. Heard there’s a new transfer student already causing waves.” “Transfer student?” I raised a brow. “What’s so special?” Lila leaned in like it was classified info. “Her name’s Ava Rossi. Came from Roseland Academy.” I blinked. “The Roseland? The school that screens its students like FBI recruits?” “Exactly.” Madison’s eyes twinkled. “Rumor says her family’s loaded.” “Perfect,” I said dryly. “Just what we needed—another rich mystery girl.” The bell rang before they could say more. Students swarmed the courtyard, and I looked up at the tall towers of Lockwood, glass windows catching sunlight like fire. This was my battlefield for the next year. I tightened my grip on my bag and smirked. “Alright,” I whispered to myself. “Let’s survive.” Just as I started toward the main hall, a voice boomed across the courtyard. “Ethan Hale! Back again, huh?” It was Mr. Donovan — the school’s head of discipline, otherwise known as the dream killer. He had a bald head that shone like polished marble and an expression permanently set to disappointed father. “Yes, sir,” I said, flashing my most innocent grin. He squinted. “Try not to pull any stunts this year, Hale. The last time you ‘accidentally’ turned the sprinklers on during morning assembly—” “It was hot, sir. Hydration saves lives.” “Detention saves yours.” He pointed two fingers at his eyes, then at me. “I’m watching.” “Always an honor,” I said under my breath. Lila snickered behind me. “You’re on his hit list again, congratulations.” I shrugged. “At least someone cares enough to remember my name.” We entered the grand hallway — marble floors, hanging banners, portraits of old founders who looked like they’d never laughed in their lives. Students moved everywhere, carrying tablets and iced lattes like they were attending a stock exchange. Lockwood had two types of students: those born into wealth, and those pretending they were. Either way, you had to act like you belonged. As I made my way to the notice board to check class assignments, I overheard someone whisper, “That’s him — the Hale boy.” I didn’t even have to look. I just smiled. “Yes, it’s me. No autographs today.” A few people laughed. Others just stared like I’d spoken a foreign language. That’s Lockwood for you — too elite to have a sense of humor. My dorm room was on the east wing this year — the quiet side. I dropped my bag, opened the curtains, and looked out at the sprawling campus. Beyond the sports field and glass library, I could see a line of luxury cars pulling in. Then I saw her. A black car stopped by the fountain. A girl stepped out, tall, calm, wearing the Lockwood uniform like it was made for her. Long dark hair tied loosely, face unreadable — the kind of calm confidence that made the air around her feel charged. A few students immediately turned to look. Whispers began. That must be her. The transfer. Ava Rossi. She didn’t smile or wave. She just adjusted her bag and started walking — like she already knew exactly where she was going. Something about her made me pause. Not because she was pretty (she was), but because she didn’t try. Everyone else at Lockwood moved like they were on stage. She moved like she didn’t care who was watching. For a second, I wondered what “survive school” meant now. Because something told me — surviving Ava Rossi might be harder than surviving Lockwood itself. I exhaled, running a hand through my hair. “Alright, Ethan,” I muttered. “Let the game begin.”