Return of the Billionaire's Ugly Wife

Brooklyn's pov

"Teacher f***er."

I heard it the second I walked through the doors of Westfield Academy. Nobody said it to my face. They never did. Just loud enough for me to catch it, quiet enough for them to deny it.

I kept walking.

Two weeks. That's how long this rumour had been following me around like a bad smell. Two weeks since someone decided that the only reason Brooklyn Lawson could possibly make valedictorian was if she got on her knees for Mr. Collins. Nobody stopped to think that maybe — just maybe — I studied while the rest of them were at parties. Nobody cared about that part.

I pushed into homeroom and dropped into my seat.

That's when I saw it.

A folded piece of paper sat on my desk. I already knew who it was from before I even opened it. I unfolded it slowly. It was a drawing — a girl with messy hair, a torn shoe, and the word SLUT written underneath in big capital letters.

I tore it in half. Then in half again.

"Like my art project?"

Emerson Weston leaned against the desk beside mine, arms crossed, smirking like he'd just said the funniest thing in the world. The whole row of seats around him erupted.

I looked up at him. "I'd call it ugly inside, ugly outside. Pretty accurate self-portrait, Emerson."

The laughter shifted. A few people snickered in his direction instead. His smirk didn't move but his eyes went flat.

He tapped the torn pieces of paper with one finger. "You know everyone's talking, Brooklyn."

"Let them talk."

"Valedictorian." He tilted his head, dragging the word out slowly. "I get that you needed the scholarship and everything. But the whole sleeping-with-the-teacher thing?" He clicked his tongue. "A bit played out now, don't you think?"

I felt my jaw tighten. "I didn't sleep with anyone."

"Sure."

"You probably started that rumour yourself." I stood up, because sitting down while he loomed over me wasn't happening. "Because you couldn't keep up with me academically and it was the only move you had left."

Something flickered across his face. Just for a second.

Then he smiled. "You're so cute when you're angry."

He pointed at my shoe. The sole was peeling at the front, flapping slightly when I walked. I'd been holding it together with a strip of tape since Monday. The whole class saw it. The laughter came back, louder this time.

My face burned.

"And Emerson?" I said, keeping my voice steady even though my hands were not. "You're so ugly it's practically a personality."

His smile dropped.

He stepped closer, close enough that I could see the irritation he was trying to hide behind that easy confidence. He pressed one hand flat against the wall beside my head, not touching me, just crowding my space. Everyone went quiet.

"You think you can beat me." His voice was low now, almost bored. "But this is my school, Brooklyn. My father owns this school. You'd do well to remember that."

I held his stare. "Kiss my a**, Emerson."

A few people gasped. Someone laughed nervously.

"Oh, Brooklyn." He stepped back and shook his head slowly, that horrible smirk sliding back into place. "I thought you only let the teachers do that."

The room erupted.

I grabbed my bag off the chair. "Get out of my way. I'm late for my new job."

I didn't wait for his response. I walked straight out of homeroom, down the hall, and out the front doors without looking back. Let them laugh. I had somewhere to be.

---

The walk home took twenty minutes.

I needed every single one of them to cool down.

By the time I hit the residential streets near our apartment, my hands had stopped shaking. I focused on the sound of my shoes on the pavement, the afternoon air, anything that wasn't Emerson Weston's face.

That's when I almost tripped over her.

A little girl, couldn't have been older than seven, was sitting on the edge of the sidewalk crying. She'd fallen near the curb, both palms scraped, one knee bleeding through her leggings.

I stopped immediately and crouched down beside her. "Hey. Hey, it's okay."

She looked up at me with wide, wet eyes but didn't say anything.

"Can I see your knee?" I asked gently.

She stared at me for a moment, then nodded.

I unzipped the front pocket of my bag and pulled out the small first aid kit I carried — a habit from years of being clumsy myself. I peeled open a plaster and pressed it carefully over the cut on her knee. She flinched but didn't pull away.

"There." I sat back. "All done."

She looked down at the plaster, then back up at me. Still no words. But the crying had stopped.

I was about to ask if she knew where she lived when I heard it — a sharp mechanical whirring from somewhere above and to my left.

I looked up.

A branch. Thick, heavy, already split from the trunk. The lawnmower on the slope above the embankment had clipped the base of a small tree, and the branch was falling — fast — directly toward us.