CHAPTER 3

EMERSON

I find the locker assigned to me-#107-and spin the combination with more force than necessary.

The hallway is packed, bodies shifting and voices overlapping, but I can feel the weight of every pair of eyes on my back as I yank the door open and dump my bag inside.

They’re probably still processing the fact that I just told the mean girls to fuck off and didn’t even flinch.

Shocking, I know. Apparently, having a backbone is a rare and highly contagious condition around here.

God forbid a girl shows up who doesn’t immediately start kissing ass, fake-smiling at everyone, or folding herself into the nearest wall to make the popular crowd comfortable.

The collective shock is almost entertaining. Almost.

Give it five minutes. By lunch, half of them will have decided I’m either a psychopath, a complete bitch, or their new best friend. Possibly all three, depending on how bored they are.

Elite colleges like this have rules, after all.

Be pretty. Be agreeable. Know your place.

And whatever you do, don’t have a personality.

Wouldn’t want to cause a fucking crisis.

A few girls nearby suddenly straighten up like someone just flipped a switch.

“Oh shit, they’re here—”

“Is my hair okay?”

One of them is frantically checking her reflection in a compact mirror, dabbing at her lipstick like the apocalypse is about to start and only perfect lip color will save her.

Another is adjusting her top, pushing her chest out just a little more, as if an extra inch of cleavage might somehow improve her survival odds. And—because this place clearly has no limits—one girl actually lifts her arm and discreetly sniffs her underarm.

Nothing says “classy” like a last-minute pit check for reasons I haven’t even figured out yet.

I turn to see what everyone’s reacting to, and there they are—three guys standing at the end of the hall like they own the entire campus.

Apparently, the hallway has just received a royal procession.

I resist the urge to look around for trumpets. Or a red carpet.

Seriously, what is this place? Hogwarts for douchebags?

Girls straighten up, stick their tits out, and slap on their best seductive smiles. A couple of guys lean back against their lockers and casually drape arms over their girlfriends, staking their claim like dogs marking territory.

I roll my eyes so hard it almost hurts. If this is the daily show, I’m going to need stronger coffee. Or a transfer. Possibly both.

My eyes drift back to the three of them.

The first thing that hits me is how ridiculously good-looking they are. Not cute. Not handsome in the normal, harmless sense.

No.

These three look like someone deliberately designed them in a lab with the sole purpose of making teenage girls lose all common sense.

Of course. Football players.

Broad shoulders, solid frames, the whole “I could bench-press a small car and still have energy left to look down on you” package. Half the college is already orbiting them like underpaid extras.

Apparently, being six feet of muscle, arrogance, and expensive-looking hair automatically makes you campus royalty.

Great. Just what every college needs—three walking egos with enough testosterone to power the entire fucking campus.

The tallest one is watching me the entire way. He locked onto me the second he stepped into the corridor and hasn’t looked away since. It puts every nerve in my body on edge.

There’s something larger-than-life about him—sharp jaw, dark eyes that feel like they’re trying to pin me in place, the kind of intensity that makes it hard to look elsewhere even when I want to.

He moves with that lazy, arrogant swagger of someone who’s never once been told no, and the chip on his shoulder is practically radiating off him. Perfect. Another guy who thinks the world owes him eye contact and obedience.

The second one is right beside him—just as good-looking, loose tank hanging off a frame that makes it clear he’s packing serious abs underneath.

The third trails half a step behind, equally built, arms crossed, expression already bored like he’s seen this exact performance a hundred times and still finds it entertaining.

All three of them carry themselves like the rest of us are just background extras in their personal movie.

I hate the way they’re looking at me. Not curious. Not neutral. Like I’m fresh meat that just got dropped into their territory.

The kind of slow, assessing stare that makes my skin crawl and my jaw tighten. I already know the type. And I already know I’m not interested in playing whatever game they’re used to winning.

I force myself to stay where I am, one hand still resting on the edge of my open locker, and refuse to look away first.

If they want to stare at me like I’m some new cut of meat on display, they can deal with me staring right back.

Just when I think they might keep walking, all three of them change course and step right into my space—one on my right, one on my left, the third closing in just enough to finish the trap.

Close enough that the rest of the hallway disappears. The air feels thicker. Crowded.

Their shoulders form a wall, boxing me in against my locker like they’ve done this a hundred times before and always gotten the reaction they wanted.

I get the game immediately. Intimidate the new girl. Crowd her. Make her small. Show her exactly where she ranks in their little kingdom. It’s transparent, almost lazy. And it’s not going to work.

Cute tactic, though. Really original. I’m sure the last ten girls they tried this on folded like cheap lawn chairs. Spoiler: I’m not made of lawn-chair material.

I stay exactly where I am, chin up, spine straight, and meet all three sets of eyes without blinking. If they came over here expecting the usual shy transfer who stammers and looks at the floor, they’re about to be disappointed.