Novels by Papilora

Rule number one: don't flinch.It's the first thing Noah taught me when he dragged me along to those debate practices, when he made me stand in front of the mirror and spit fire at my own reflection. Don't flinch when they laugh at you. Don't flinch when they call you wrong. Don't flinch when the truth cuts close enough to bleed.And especially don't flinch when your enemy thinks they've won.That mantra beats in my head the morning after the party.Everyone's still buzzing about it. The kiss. The dare. The fact that the mysterious transfer girl got pulled into the spotlight and came out branded with Jace Langston's name. I hear it whispered in the halls, in the cafeteria, echoing off the lockers. Some people smirk when they look at me. Others look me up and down like I've been marked.It should bother me more. Maybe it does. But underneath the humiliation, underneath the humiliation of being played like that, there's something sharper. Determination.Because Jace thinks he's untoucha

The Langstons don't throw parties. They host kingdoms.At least that's what it feels like when I step through the arched stone entryway of the Whitmore estate, one of the sprawling mansions perched just outside town where the Blackridge elite gather to gorge themselves on excess. Music thunders through the walls, bass rattling the polished floors. Every chandelier drips crystal light across velvet curtains and marble staircases. The air smells like money and champagne and the faint trace of something burning.I don't belong here. Which, apparently, is exactly why Liam insisted I come."It's practically mandatory," he'd said earlier that day, bouncing on his sneakers while I frowned at my locker. "Everyone goes. Even the ghosts.""Lucky for me, I'm not a fan of crowded rooms and overpriced cologne."But he'd given me that pleading look—the one I hadn't known he was capable of—and I caved. Because disappearing on party night would have been just as suspicious as showing up.Now I weave

The next morning, Blackridge feels colder than usual, even though the sun filters pale and gold through the tall glass windows. Maybe it’s me. Maybe I’m too wired, too restless from the little sleep I managed after what I found in the archives. My mind keeps replaying Noah’s name stamped in black ink, those photographs of him hunched over files, the way the doorknob twisted like someone was about to walk in.Now every locker clang, every laugh, every echoing footstep feels sharper, like the whole school knows I’ve seen too much.I walk faster, clutching my bag against me, rehearsing calm in case anyone looks too closely. When I reach my locker, the hallway is already buzzing, a tide of designer shoes and whispered gossip. I spin my combination, the metal stiff under my fingers, and tug the door open.Something slips out.At first I think it’s just one of my notebooks, but then I see the stark white sheet flutter to the ground.I pick it up.The words are typed, blocky and precise.You

The library at Blackridge is too quiet. Not the hushed, scholarly quiet you’d expect, but the kind that presses on your eardrums, reminding you that you don’t belong. Even the fluorescent lights hum in disapproval.I don’t come here for books. I come here because rumors say Blackridge’s archives go back decades—records of students, files, disciplinary notes, even police reports tied to “incidents” that happened on campus. The kind of things most schools would burn. Blackridge hoards.It takes three wrong turns and one awkward encounter with a librarian who clearly doesn’t want me here before I find it: a door tucked behind rows of leather-bound yearbooks. “Archives” stenciled in peeling gold paint. My heart kicks against my ribs.I glance over my shoulder. Empty hallway. No cameras, at least none I can see.The knob is stiff, but it turns.Inside, the air smells like dust and ink. Shelves sag with old boxes, stacked haphazardly, labels curling at the edges. Some marked by year, others

I tell myself I won’t look at him again.But of course I do.Every few minutes, my gaze flicks across the cafeteria, drawn like a magnet to where Jace Langston sits at the head of his table. He doesn’t laugh the way the others do. He doesn’t throw his hands around to make his point. He just sits, quiet, the storm in the middle of their sunshine. And somehow, that silence makes him more dangerous than any of them.I try to force myself back into the conversation with Liam, nodding as he explains which teachers hand out impossible essays and which ones couldn’t care less if you sleep through class. But the back of my neck prickles, like someone’s watching me.By the time I glance up again, Jace is gone.My stomach lurches. The chair he’d occupied is empty, the space around Victoria already filling with her laugh, her careful distraction.I scan the room, but he isn’t in it.Relief washes through me, followed by a sharp sting of disappointment I refuse to name. Because I’m not here to fe

By the time lunch rolls around, I already know two things about Blackridge Academy.One: the food here looks like it belongs in a five-star restaurant, not a school cafeteria.Two: everyone knows exactly where they stand—and more importantly, where everyone else does.The cafeteria is less a room and more a stage. Glossy floors, round tables, walls of glass overlooking manicured lawns that make the whole place feel like a resort. And the students? They’re the actors, walking into their parts without needing scripts.I pause just inside the doors, tray balanced in my hands, and let my eyes sweep across the room. The seating chart isn’t written down anywhere, but it might as well be engraved in stone.In the center sits the crown jewel: a long table where the most polished students laugh too loudly, toss their hair too perfectly, and check their phones with the kind of careless entitlement that comes from knowing your last name could buy someone else’s future.The Blackridge Elite.That