Sweetest Revenge

The first thing they hand me at Blackridge Academy is a shiny new ID card. It has my fake name printed neatly across the bottom: Eva Sinclair. I stare at the laminated rectangle longer than I should, pretending I’m checking for typos. The truth is, the sight of that name—this name I’ve rehearsed and memorized and practiced answering to—makes my stomach twist. Eva Sinclair. It sounds so clean, so polished. The kind of name that belongs in the marble hallways of this school, where the lockers gleam like polished silver and the uniforms look like they were tailored straight from a runway. A name no one will question, no one will dig into. But beneath the neat lettering, I’m still Ava Carter. The girl who lost everything. The girl who doesn’t belong here. I slip the ID into my blazer pocket and force my face into something calm. Collected. A girl with nothing to hide. The secretary beams at me like she’s handing me a future wrapped with a bow. “Welcome to Blackridge, Miss Sinclair. Y

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

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

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 slip of paper with Jace’s name burns a hole in my pocket all week.I keep taking it out when I’m alone—at night when the dorm is quiet, in the library when the silence swallows me whole—just to trace the neat block letters. Langston, Jace A. Disciplinary Report. April 14. The same week Noah vanished.It should feel like a smoking gun. Instead, it feels like a riddle.Because the more I watch Jace, the less he looks like the mastermind I’ve built in my head. Yes, he’s arrogant. Yes, he’s untouchable, the crown prince of Blackridge. But the way he carries himself—controlled, careful—feels less like a boy who orchestrates disappearances and more like someone covering cracks.Every time I catch his gaze, it’s too steady, like he’s daring me to flinch first. Every smirk feels rehearsed. And then there are the moments when he slips—when I see his jaw tighten, his eyes flick away, the weight he carries like it’s chained to his shoulders.What if I’m wrong about him?The thought makes me