Chapter Seven
"Desmond Wright, welcome to Briarwick Academy," Miss Claudette announced, her tone clipped but courteous. "We don't usually take after resumption transfers, but I'm told there are… special circumstances."
Desmond grinned, adjusting his collar. "Yeah, royalty and all that."
"Please don't make jokes," she snapped.
Desmond straightened quickly. "Right. Sorry, Miss."
The class murmured, curious eyes flicked toward the door and back to him.
"Would you like to introduce yourself?" she asked.
"Uh, sure." Desmond cleared his throat. "I'm Desmond Wright. I transferred in today. I'm from West Borough. I like tech, football… uh, late-night shawarma, and not dying in chemistry."
Scattered laughter.
Miss Claudette blinked. "Thank you for that last detail."
Just as Desmond opened his mouth again, the door burst open.
"Sorry! Sorry, I'm here!" a girl panted, stumbling into the room with a faded backpack swinging wildly off one shoulder.
Miss Claudette turned slowly, unimpressed. "You are, ?"
"Francisca Adebayo. Frankie. I was told directed here, took me over thirty minutes to locate this class. Year 13, right?"
The class stared.
She was breathless with wild hair and a string from her too-tight backpack tangled around her arm. The skirt of her borrowed uniform didn't quite match the blazer. She fiddled with the buttons nervously, trying to tame her curls with one hand and breathe with the other.
"I just got the uniform this morning from the tailor. Sorry I'm a mess."
Laughter broke out around the room.
"God, did she just say tailor?"
"Did she stitch it herself?"
"She looks like she ran here from 1920."
Frankie ignored them and walked straight to Miss Claudette's desk.
Leo's heart thudded, hard. A deep, deliberate pounding that didn't feel natural. Not the usual stir of attention he got when someone admired him, or the ego-tickling flutter that came when girls whispered his title with a giggle. This was different. This was deeper, like something old and buried had suddenly stirred awake inside him.
He didn't understand it. This girl hadn't said more than two sentences, she wasn't polished to his taste. Leo looked at her head to toe, her shoes were scuffed, her backpack hung off her shoulder by a single strap, and her curls looked like they'd been thrown into a bun mid-run. Her blazer didn't even fit right. But the moment she walked in, a storm of quiet chaos, and met his eyes across the room, everything inside Leo paused.
The air around him seized and all of his thoughts just… stilled.
Her gaze didn't waver. She didn't look at him the way others did. There was no awe, no intrigue, no flirty attempt at charm.
He gasped, quiet but real, as if someone had gripped his heart from the inside. His fingers tightened around the edge of his desk. He kept his face still, fighting the heat crawling up his neck, but the thump of his heart echoed louder and louder in his ears. He wanted it to stop. He wanted her to stop looking at him like that. Like she could see through every mask he'd ever worn.
He tried to convince himself it was annoyance. That he was just irritated by her late arrival, her disheveled appearance, her disruptive energy. But that wasn't the truth. The truth was that something about her presence set off an alarm inside him.
He hated it.
He hated how she hadn't shrunk when the class laughed at her. Hated that she didn't try to correct her appearance or explain herself away. Hated that she didn't care about their judgement. She stood in front of the room like she belonged, not because she was polished or invited, but because she had earned her place and refused to be embarrassed about it.
And more than anything, he hated the way his chest still ached just from the memory of her looking at him.
He tried to look away, blinked tried to focused on the whiteboard or on the laughter. But it was too late, the moment had already branded itself into him.
Frankie froze as soon as her eyes caught his, his, the golden-haired boy sitting two rows ahead like he owned the air around him.
Wait.
'Isn't that the crown prince?' she thought 'The one from the newspapers? The one who made headlines for… something stupid?' She couldn't remember.
But what in God's name was he doing here? In this school?
And more importantly, why was he looking at her like that?
His expression, frozen, unreadable, wasn't curiosity or interest. It wasn't the kind of look someone gives a stranger walking into a room.
He looked at her like she was a riddle he hated knowing existed.
Frankie shifted uncomfortably, suddenly all too aware of the state she was in, hair a mess, blazer slightly crooked, the hem of her skirt too short on one side. Is he judging me? She thought, heat crawling up her neck. Do I smell? Did something rip? Is there a literal dagger in my hand I forgot about?
She gave herself a discreet sniff.
She looked back at him. His eyes were a shade of hazel that caught the light, but right now they burned with something she couldn't place, confusion? Anger? Horror?
Oh, screw this.
Her brows furrowed. Just like that, irritation bloomed in her chest. Who did he think he was? Staring her down like she'd trespassed into his private temple. He was in a blazer like everyone else. Sitting in a classroom like everyone else. What, did he want her to bow?
Frankie looked away, jaw tight.
Whatever.
She'd grown up on council estate streets where looks like that got you slapped. She'd faced teachers who sneered when she couldn't afford textbooks, neighbours who thought ambition was a disease, and boys who only respected you when you raised your voice.
He could choke on that stare.
"You're late," Miss Claudette said flatly.
"Yes, ma'am. My blazer wasn't ready till dawn. I took two buses and had to walk from the South Gate. I know it's not ideal, but, " Frankie caught herself immediately from her thoughts
"That's enough," the teacher said, raising a hand. "We'll discuss punctuality later. Introduce yourself to the class."
Frankie turned slowly to face the sea of judgment.
It wasn't subtle, brows were raised at her and the whispered side comments wasn't actually whispers. Every face in that room was painted with some version of disbelief, amusement, or disdain. Like she was a walking punchline to a joke they hadn't even told yet.
She stood tall, voice clear. "I'm Francisca Adebayo. But you can call me Frankie. I just got a scholarship here to complete Year 13 and continue into uni. I attended Forcado's High School before this."
A few students blinked like she'd just said she came from another planet.
"But I'm here to learn," she added, pausing for a second to scan the room. "That's all."
The silence that followed was long enough to be a reply.
Then,
"What in God's name is Forcado's High?" a girl in the front muttered under her breath, but loud enough to carry. Her voice was dripping in mockery, every syllable smooth and sharp like she'd been trained to cut people just by speaking. "Isn't that that... makeshift school or something?"
A boy lounging by the window muttered without even looking up from his phone, "So we've got charity cases now?"
And just like that, the spell broke.
The class erupted in laughter, sharp, cruel, delighted. The kind of laughter that didn't ask questions or seek understanding. The kind that ganged up. The kind that dared her to speak again.
Someone started a slow clap, like she was a court jester who'd just finished her act.
Another girl whispered, "She looks like she ironed that blazer with a frying pan."
Leo glanced across the room.
Frankie's eyes caught his again, and he looked away, jaw clenched.
Desmond leaned over to Miss Claudette. "Where should I sit?"
"You'll share a desk at the back. Row four. With…"
She scanned her list.
"Miss Adebayo."
Frankie turned, blinking. "We're seat partners?"
Desmond grinned. "Guess we're in this together."
He walked over and slid into the seat. Frankie followed, quiet.
At least one person didn't look at her like she was gum stuck to the soles of designer shoes.
Desmond glanced up as she slid into the seat beside him, giving her a warm, easy grin that instantly defused the tight coil in her chest. "Nice to meet you, Frankie."
She blinked at him, surprised. "You too," she said quietly, still adjusting her bag. "Thanks for not acting weird. Or, you know... like a total twat."
"Please," Desmond snorted. "You haven't seen weird. I've lived with it. Woken up next to it. Had breakfast while it monologued about swordsmanship and politics."
Frankie gave him a confused side-eye. "Is that… metaphorical?"
He leaned closer and stage-whispered, "I live in the palace."
Her brows lifted. "Palace? As in the royal one?" she didn't believe it.
He nodded.
Frankie smiled faintly, her shoulders dropping a little. "Is it going to be like this always?"
"Yep." Desmond didn't sugarcoat it. "Rich kids love making people feel smaller than their wallets. It's a game. And you just became the new toy."
Frankie's lips curved, but her eyes didn't smile. "Well, they better stay far away from me then. I'm not one of those types that turns the other cheek. I bite."
Desmond chuckled. "Yeah, I picked that with your boldness despite their countenance"
Frankie relaxed a little more, glancing around the class. Most of the students had stopped pretending not to listen and returned to their muted group chats and eye rolls. But a few still snuck glances, the quiet kind. The calculating kind.
Leo, two rows ahead, gripped his pen tighter until his knuckles went white.
He hated Frankie and could smell that she was going to take Desmond away from him.
She was poor, out of place, wild-haired and bold, but he had no idea why she rattled him so much.