my bully loves me

Helena pressed her forehead against the cold windowpane of the bus, watching the skyline of her old city shrink into the distance. The rain blurred the streets like a watercolor running down glass—an accidental painting of a life she never got to finish.

Her fingers tightened around the strap of her backpack. It still smelled faintly of the lavender detergent her dad used. Used to.

Helena didn’t cry—not because it didn’t hurt, but because she had cried everything out the night she heard the truth.

Her parents' divorce hadn't been like those quiet, exhausted separations people talked about on TV. It hadn’t been about “growing apart” or “irreconcilable differences.” It had been messy. Ugly. And it had started with a name she didn’t recognize.

Madison.

She was just a friend, her dad had said. A business associate. But friends don’t leave lipstick on shirt collars or send texts at 1 a.m.

Helena had found one of those messages by accident. Her dad’s phone was charging in the kitchen, buzzing endlessly. She thought it might be urgent.

It was.

"I can't wait for the weekend. Does she suspect anything?"

She had stared at the message so long she memorized every letter. That night, everything cracked. Her mother screamed. Her father denied. Then, finally, silence.

A week later, the house was divided by cardboard boxes, angry footsteps, and muttered curses. Her dad moved into a condo with glass walls and empty promises. Her mom? She packed what little was left of their lives and said two words Helena never thought she’d hear:

“We’re leaving.”

The city of Levenon sounded like a joke at first. Helena had never even heard of it. A smaller town, less noise, more space. It wasn’t a fresh start—it was exile. But her mother, once graceful and full of light, now looked like a flickering lamp, desperate for a switch to reset the darkness. Helena didn’t have the heart to argue.

They moved into a modest apartment above a florist shop. The air smelled of damp petals and dust. The ceilings creaked when she walked. It was nothing like the glass house they’d left behind.

Then came the letter.

Brentford Academy.

She almost threw it out—another mistake, surely. But it had her name on it. Full scholarship. Sponsored by an anonymous donor.

Helena’s mom looked at the letter like it was a golden ticket. “They said it’s one of the best schools in the country,” she whispered, holding back tears. “You deserve this.”

But Helena wasn’t so sure. Brentford was a school for the rich, the polished, the perfect. And she was none of those things anymore—if she ever had been.

Still, on the first day, she tied her curls into a bun, wore the secondhand blazer the school had mailed, and took a deep breath. She was the scholarship girl now. The outsider. The girl with secrets no one could see.

As she stepped into Brentford’s stone courtyard for the first time, the weight of her family's shattered past settled in her chest. She didn’t know that behind those elegant pillars and perfectly manicured hedges waited more betrayal, cruelty—and a boy who once bullied her into silence… only to fall for her against all odds.

But that was still to come.

For now, Helena just wanted to survive.

The wrought-iron gates of Brentford Academy creaked open like something out of a gothic movie. Stone gargoyles watched from the corners of the entrance arch, their chipped mouths twisted into eternal smirks—as if they already knew she didn’t belong.

Helena clutched her blazer tighter around her frame as the black town cars purred past her, dropping off students in designer shoes and tailored uniforms. Her own skirt felt too long, the hem ironed but dated. She forced herself to stand straighter, even as her stomach twisted.

No one greeted her. No friendly welcome or staff smile. Just polished marble floors, gold-plated emblems, and eyes that skimmed over her like she didn’t exist.

“New girl,” someone whispered as she passed.

“She’s on scholarship,” said another. “Heard she’s from...Levenon.”

Like it was a disease.

Her locker was on the third floor, tucked between the art wing and a silent, echoing hallway that reeked of expensive perfume. She fumbled with the combination, trying to ignore the growing feeling in her gut that she was being watched.

“You’re in my spot,” a voice said behind her, sharp and sweet like poisoned sugar.

Helena turned.

A girl stood there in a skirt two inches shorter than regulation, blazer sleeves rolled up, platinum hair twisted into a flawless braid. Her lips curled like she smelled something unpleasant.

Bianca.

The name had floated around Helena's email threads even before term started. Head of the fashion committee. Daughter of a media mogul. Queen of Brentford.

“This locker,” Bianca continued, tapping her manicured nail against the metal, “was mine last year. So unless you want to make your first day your worst, I suggest you move along.”

Helena blinked. “But it’s assigned—”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Bianca interrupted, her tone dripping with mock sympathy. “I forgot how much you people love rules.”

Before Helena could answer, a smooth voice cut through the hallway.

“Bianca, give it a rest.”

Helena turned—and saw him.

Greg Carter.

The boy whose father owned half the oil fields in the East. The boy whose name came with a black card and a bodyguard. He leaned against the lockers with the kind of careless grace that only the absurdly rich could afford. Eyes dark. Jaw sharp. Tie loose. Trouble wrapped in a school uniform.

He didn’t look at Bianca. He looked straight at Helena.

“She’s new,” he said, voice even. “Not deaf.”

Bianca’s smile froze. “And you’re suddenly a gentleman?”

Greg shrugged. “No. I’m just bored.”

Then he turned and walked off, hands in his pockets, whistling like he hadn’t just disrupted the entire social order.

Bianca huffed and stalked away, her heels clicking like gunshots.

Helena stood frozen, heart racing.

What just happened?

That night, as she lay in her new bed above the florist shop, Helena stared at the ceiling and replayed the moment again and again. She didn’t know why Greg had stepped in—or why he’d looked at her like that.

But she did know one thing:

Brentford wasn’t going to be anything like she expected.

And Greg Carter? He was going to be a problem.

A dangerous one.