Chapter 3

“Miguel!” the girls squealed from the back of the room, their voices high-pitched and breathless like they’d been waiting all morning for his entrance.

Steve, standing tall and cocky, turned with a smug smile. “Miguel!” he cooed mockingly, then reached for Miguel’s arm, gripping it possessively while glaring daggers at Drake. “He needs to know his place. He dared to mock me.”

Miguel didn’t react right away. His eyes slid over Steve with ice-cold detachment, then shifted to Drake, his gaze unreadable.

When he finally spoke in an audible voice, though his voice was low, calm, and deadly. “Don’t put your filthy hands on him again. You’re hurting the fellow. And it wouldn’t look nice if a guy had to beat up a lady.”

The classroom erupted with nervous laughter. Some of the students gasped, others giggled like they weren’t sure if they should. Drake’s ears burned. His stomach turned, not at the insult, but at the fact that Miguel had just referred to him as a lady.

The laughter stabbed sharper than any punch. After everything he’d been through, after his parents were murdered in front of him, this moment somehow scraped closer to the core.

Steve scoffed, letting go of Drake’s school bag with a sneer. “Thank your wretched stars for saving your ass. You might not be so lucky next ti—”

WHACK!

WHACK!

The classroom froze.

Before Steve could finish, Drake’s left palm landed hard across his cheek, once, twice, clean and swift. Gasps broke out. Time seemed to hiccup.

Drake adjusted his glasses, his fingers steady, voice sharp. “I might be broke, but I’m not weak. Thank you.”

The room fell into stunned silence. Even the snickering crowd now watched with wide eyes, unsure what side they were on.

Drake turned to leave, but then Xander stepped in front of him.

Another breath caught in the room.

Drake’s chest tightened. Xander leaned in close—close enough to feel his breath. His eyes flickered downward, pausing on Drake’s chest, before lifting to meet his gaze.

“I take back the dressing joke,” he murmured, lips barely moving. “You’re… really something. And I like something real.”

Drake blinked in confusion, his face flushing with heat. He pulled away instinctively and stepped around him without saying a word. His pulse thundered in his ears.

As he left, he told himself one thing: he proved a point to Miguel Sanchez. He wasn’t some delicate thing to be mocked. It struck him. What did Miguel whispered to Steve?

Behind him, Steve stood frozen, one hand pressed to their burning cheek, eyes darting to Miguel, Xander, and Marcia, waiting for one of them to speak up in their defense. But none did.

Marcia bent down and picked up her own bag. “I guess not everyone’s into your chaos,” she said softly.

Miguel followed, brushing imaginary lint off his jacket. “Let’s go. This place reeks of unwashed underarm.”

Steve trembled, not from the slap, but from the humiliation. His eyes landed on his friend, Gerald, who looked just as stunned. No one had ever dared humiliate Steve Moore in public, let alone at Brian’s Academy, and especially not in front of the golden trio.

When the last of the students filtered out, the sound of pings and gasps spread like wildfire. CWA Undressed, the school’s notorious private portal for leaked secrets and scandal, had just uploaded a clip: "Scholarship Boy Bitch-Slaps Steve Moore."*

Within seconds, students were scrolling, watching, whispering.

As Steve moved to storm out of the classroom, his shoe hit something. He glanced down. A slim notebook with a cracked leather cover.

The journal.

Steve’s eyes narrowed. He’d seen Drake scribbling in it earlier like it held his entire brain. His foot hovered over it, temptation buzzing.

He picked it up but didn’t open it.

Instead, he shoved it into Gerald’s hand. “Keep it,” he said sharply. Gerald tucked it into his bag without question.

Outside, their sleek black car purred at the curb. Their driver opened the door without a word, and they vanished into the tinted luxury of their empire.

**

Drake shoved the rusted key into the broken lock, the metal door creaking open with its usual shriek. A rat scurried past his foot.

“Not like there’s anything here for you either,” he muttered.

He stepped into the cold, cramped apartment and tossed his bag onto the floor. Kicked off his shoes. His stomach growled.

He hurried to the kitchen, but it was empty. Not just of food, the entire microwave tray was missing.

“Seriously?”

That’s when he heard the dragging footsteps.

His neighbor. Jude.

Stumbling through the door reeking of cheap whiskey and unwashed clothes, Jude collapsed onto Drake’s thin mattress, throwing up every drink he had in the floor.

“Jude!” Drake snapped, exasperated.

“Shut up,” Jude slurred. “Get me food. I’m starving.”

He yanked the sheets off like he owned the place.

Drake clenched his fists, jaw tight. His eyes watered, but he blinked it away. “Can’t you at least try to be a decent human being?”

Silence.

He cleaned up the mess without another word, changed into his convenience store uniform, and slipped back out into the night.

“You’re late again, Drake,” his manager grunted.

“Sorry—my neighbor—”

“Your drunk neighbor again?” The man rolled his eyes. “Drake, you’re not a baby. You’ve got to start choosing the life you want.”

Drake sighed. “We’re not doing this right now.”

The bell above the door jingled.

“Welcome,” Drake said automatically, but then froze.

It was a girl from his class.

She grinned like a shark. “Hey, our fighter,” she teased. “You look even good in that uniform.”

Drake blushed. “You’re such a perv.”

“It’s Drake. Not your fighter. Not Mr. Thrift Store either. Get it right.”

She raised her hands playfully. “Chill. Just saying. You really slapped him with your left hand? That was hot.”

Drake frowned. “What’s your deal?”

“To be honest? I hate Steve. Always have. Props to you for standing up to him. But between you and me…” she leaned closer, “you’ve got fire. I like that. And bounce in your shirts. That too.”

He blinked, unsure if she was flirting or mocking him. Probably both.

“But here’s the real kicker,” she added, grabbing a soda. “You slapped the son of the woman funding your scholarship.”

Drake’s blood iced over.

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope. Steve Moore is the director’s son. Welcome to hell, Drake.”

Drake swallowed hard. Everything around him felt like it was sinking.

“Wait,” he called as she started walking away.

She turned. “What’s ‘wait’?”

“Can you… help me?” he asked, voice low. “I really went through hell to get this scholarship. I can’t lose it. Please.”

“Seriously?” she scoffed. “All that fire earlier and now you’re begging?”

“Please…” he whispered.

She studied him for a beat. Then smiled.

“Let’s strike a deal.”

“What kind of deal?”

She tilted her head,

eyes glinting.

“I help you. But you do whatever I say from now on.”

Drake hesitated.

He had no idea what he was agreeing to.

But he nodded.