CHAPTER FOUR

​The air in the bakery at 4:30 AM was thick with the scent of proofing yeast and the dry, white dust of flour. It was a familiar comfort, but today, the atmosphere was different. The silence I usually shared with Mr. Baker was shattered by the high-voltage energy of Sam Perez.

​"So, this is the recruit? My new right hand?" Mr. Baker asked, leaning over the counter with a skeptical squint. He looked Sam up and down—Sam was currently wearing a borrowed oversized shirt of mine and an expression of exaggerated readiness.

​"Yes, Mr. Baker," Sam chirped, snapping a crisp, military-style salute. "Sam Perez at your service. I can cook, I can clean, and I can sell bread like it’s the last food on earth. Just say the word, Chief."

​Mr. Baker let out a wheezing laugh that shook his flour-dusted apron. I couldn't help but smile, too. My own personality was a quiet, brooding thing—a product of years of survival. Sam, however, was like a sparkler in a dark room. He was loud, unfiltered, and vibrantly alive despite having absolutely nothing.

​"Alright, you're hired," Mr. Baker decided, his eyes twinkling. "Mostly because Harris looks like he hasn't slept in a week, and I'd rather have a noisy assistant than a dead one."

​"Thank you, sir! You won't regret it," Sam beamed.

​"I have to get to school," I interrupted, checking my watch. The transition from the warm, yeast-scented bakery to the cold, glass-and-steel world of Lavern Academy always felt like a plunge into icy water.

​"Wait, Harris," Mr. Baker called out. He reached under the counter and produced the familiar small bag. "Your lunch and snacks. Don't go thinking you can survive on textbooks alone."

​I accepted the bag, the warmth of the containers inside seeping into my palms. "Thank you, Mr. Baker. Truly. I don't think I can ever say it enough."

​"Go on, kid. Get out of here before the traffic starts," he said, shooing me away.

​"Wait just a second," Sam interjected, crossing his arms over his chest. "What about the new guy? Do I get the VIP treatment, too? Is the lunch and snack service included in my benefits?"

​We all laughed. "I’ll give you three loaves of bread a day," Mr. Baker joked. "And if you’re lucky, maybe a cup of coffee."

​"Only bread?" Sam cried out in mock despair. "I’ve been tricked! I’ve been bamboozled!"

​I left them bickering over the price of a turnover and stepped out into the early morning light. The walk to the academy was a time for me to mentally shift gears, to put on the mask of the stoic, brilliant scholar and hide the baker’s apprentice underneath.

​As I approached the school gates, a sleek, black sedan pulled up to the curb. The door opened, and Kelly stepped out. She looked radiant—her uniform was perfectly pressed, her hair caught the morning sun, and she carried a smile that seemed to ignore the existence of Monday mornings.

​"Hi, Harris!" she called out, waving. She was a burst of color in my gray morning.

​"Hi," I replied, my heart doing that strange, rhythmic skip it only did around her.

​"Can we walk together?" she asked, falling into step beside me. "I hate walking to the entrance alone. It’s so... solitary."

​"Of course," I said. As we walked, I reached out and gently took her designer shoulder bag from her. "Let me carry this for you."

​She froze for a second, her eyes widening as she looked at me. A slow, deep blush crept up her neck and settled in her cheeks. "Oh... thank you, Harris. That’s very... old-fashioned of you."

​"I prefer the term 'gentlemanly,'" I teased, and she giggled. "By the way, I realized I don't even know which section you're in. We always meet on the roof or at the gates, but I never see you in the halls."

​"Section D," she replied, her voice dropping a notch. "If you're wondering why a girl like me is in the 'struggling' section, it's pretty simple: my brain is slow and I’m far too lazy to spend my nights staring at equations. I’d rather be at a party or watching a movie."

​I looked at the way she tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, her honesty as refreshing as a cool breeze. "I think you’re being too hard on yourself. Besides, I think you're cute just the way you are."

​She blushed even deeper this time, looking down at her shoes. "Stop it. You're going to make me walk into a wall."

​As we crossed the courtyard, the whispers started. The social ecosystem of Lavern Academy was fueled by gossip, and we were currently the lead story.

​"Wait... is Harris actually courting Kelly?"

"Look at him carrying her bag! My heart is breaking!"

"Our 'daddy Harris' is officially off the market. This is a tragedy."

​Kelly let out a small, nervous laugh. "Your fans are crying, Harris. I think I’m officially the most hated girl in school right now."

​"And does that bother you?" I asked, looking at her directly.

​"No," she whispered, then quickly looked away. "I mean... you’re so handsome. It’s only natural that every woman here wants to be in my position."

​"And you?" I pushed, my voice low. "Do you like me, too?"

​The air between us felt thin. She laughed, a bit too loudly, and swatted my arm playfully. "Are you kidding? I just want to be friends with you! Don't get a big head, Mr. Genius."

​The word friends felt like a cold splash of water. I forced a smile, masking the sudden pang of rejection. "Right. Friends. Of course."

​We stopped in front of her classroom. The entire Section D class was staring at us through the windows. "Everyone is looking," she noted, her eyes sparkling with a bit of mischief.

​"Are you enjoying the attention?" I asked.

​"Being with you is like being with a celebrity," she giggled. "It’s a bit of a rush."

​"Then let's keep the rush going," I said, leaning in slightly. "Can I have lunch with you today? In the cafeteria?"

​She bit her lower lip, a gesture that I was beginning to realize meant she was thinking hard. "Yes. I’d like that. See you at twelve?"

​"I’ll be there."

​I watched her walk into her room, catching the faint, lingering scent of her perfume—something that smelled like vanilla and expensive lilies. It clung to my polo shirt, a ghostly reminder of her presence that stayed with me through my first three lectures.

​At noon, the cafeteria was a sea of noise and luxury. I met Kelly at the entrance, and we began the slow walk through the buffet line.

​"What are you in the mood for?" I asked.

​"Pasta," she said decisively. "Carbonara, specifically. I want something indulgent."

​"Why pasta? You’re so thin—don't you eat rice?"

​She shrugged, looking almost sheepish. "I’m terrified of getting fat, Harris. My parents have me on this strict 'socialite' diet. They’ve trained me to count every calorie since I was twelve. If I gain five pounds, I’ll never hear the end of it."

​"And you actually listen to them?"

​"Sometimes," she giggled. "But I have no willpower when the food is actually good."

​I went to pull out my wallet as we reached the cashier, but she stopped me, her hand resting on my arm. "Wait, what are you doing?"

​"I'm paying," I said.

​She stared at me, then burst into a fit of suppressed giggles. "Harris, they don't accept cash here. This is a cashless campus. You have to use your student ID card—it’s linked to your family’s account."

​I felt a cold sweat break out on my forehead. I had a student ID, but mine was for a scholarship account; it held no "credits" for luxury meals. My mind raced for an excuse.

​"Oh," she said, sensing my hesitation but completely misinterpreting it. "Never mind! It’s my treat today. Consider it thanks for carrying my bag."

​She pulled out a slim, gold-embossed card and tapped it against the sensor. "Two carbonara pastas, two apple juices, and... oh, give him the fried chicken with rice and vegetable soup, too. He looks hungry."

​"That will be one thousand, five hundred pesos, Ma'am," the cashier said.

​My heart nearly stopped. Fifteen hundred pesos. That was five days of work at the bakery. That was a week’s worth of groceries for me and Sam. And she had just spent it on a single lunch without blinking.

​"Kelly," I said as we sat down at a corner table. "That lunch... it’s way too expensive. We could have eaten at the rooftop."

​She laughed, waving a hand dismissively. "Are you kidding? Fifteen hundred pesos is pocket change, Harris. Don't be so dramatic. Just eat and enjoy it."

​I sat in front of her, feeling the massive weight of the fried chicken on my plate. It felt like I was eating gold. I tried to steer the conversation to something safer. "So... random question. What do you prefer: ice cream or pizza?"

​"I like both! Why are you asking?"

​"I just want to know you better. For me, it's ice cream. I can't stand pizza."

​"Why not?" she asked, mid-bite.

​"It’s too expensive for what it is," I said honestly. "A small circle of dough shouldn't cost that much."

​She looked at me like I had just suggested the earth was flat. "Are you actually afraid of buying expensive things? You're so strange, Harris."

​"I just value money differently," I said, my voice growing serious.

​"Well, I was raised to be 'classy,'" she said, her tone light but firm. "It’s just where I belong. You have to look the part to be the part, right?"

​The words where I belong felt like a physical barrier rising between us. I stopped eating, the appetite I’d had moments ago vanishing instantly.

​"Hey, are you okay?" she asked, tilting her head.

​"I'm just... I don't know what to say," I replied. "You belong to that world, Winslet. But I’m not rich. I’m poor."

​She paused, then let out a soft, knowing laugh. "Really? You're going to play that game?"

​"I'm serious. I have nothing."

​"Then what about your father?" she asked, leaning in. "The famous CEO. Everyone knows who he is. You’re his son, Harris. You’re a Hernandez."

​"We aren't close," I said, my jaw tightening. "I don't even talk to him."

​"It’s normal for rich families to be distant," she said, her voice full of a strange kind of pity. "But that doesn't make you poor. You have the name, you have the bloodline. You’re just going through a rebellious phase. I think it’s sweet that you want to be 'normal,' but you can't escape who you are. You’re a good man with a brilliant future because of where you come from."

​"You're misinterpreting everything—"

​Briiing!

​The bell rang for the afternoon session. Kelly jumped up, grabbing her bag. "Oh! We have to go. My professor is a nightmare if you're late. See you later, Harris!"

​She pulled me toward the door, and I walked her to her class in a daze. My head was pounding. She didn't believe me. She had created a version of me in her head—a "rebellious prince"—and nothing I said was changing her mind.

​If I told her the whole truth—that I lived in a one-room apartment with a homeless guy and worked in a bakery for 300 pesos a day—would she still look at me with those bright, admiring eyes? Or would she see a "nothing" person?

​I spent my last two classes staring at the chalkboard, not seeing a single word. I was caught in a lie I hadn't even started.

​At dismissal, I slipped out of the side exit. I couldn't face Winslet again today. I needed time to breathe, to figure out how to bridge the gap between my reality and her fantasy.

​The walk home felt longer than usual. The weight of my secret was heavier than any sack of flour. As I crossed the street near my apartment, a figure stepped out from the shadows of a convenience store.

​"Harris?"

​I froze. I knew that voice. It was a voice from the mansion, a voice from the life I had tried to burn down. I turned around, and my breath hitched in my throat.

​"Nathan?"

​Standing there in a pristine school uniform from an even more elite academy was my half-brother. The "legal" son. The boy I was supposed to have served.

​"Brother," he said, his eyes filling with a mixture of relief and sorrow. He stepped forward and pulled me into a tight hug. "I finally found you. I’ve been looking everywhere."

​My heart hammered against my ribs. The past hadn't just caught up to me—it had physically arrived at my doorstep.