chapter 2 " The note in locker 317

The rest of the day passed in a blur of unfamiliar corridors, sharp whispers, and teachers who called her “Miss James” with raised brows, as if already doubting her place there. Helena kept her head down, her words few. Every classroom felt colder, every smile forced.

During lunch, she sat beneath a tree at the edge of the courtyard, alone. She didn’t mind. She preferred the quiet to the golden tables under the veranda, where Bianca laughed too loudly and Greg sat like a bored king, surrounded by people who worshipped him—or feared him.

She watched them from a distance, unsure what to feel. Greg hadn’t looked at her again. Not even once.

Maybe he didn’t mean anything by stepping in earlier. Maybe it was just… a game to him.

Just as Helena reached for her sandwich, a shadow fell over her.

“Hey, scholarship girl.”

She looked up, startled.

A boy—not Greg—stood there. Taller, older, with tired eyes and a sly smile. His blazer was undone, his tie missing.

“I’d be careful if I were you,” he said, voice low. “People like Greg don’t play fair. And Bianca? She doesn’t forgive.”

Helena blinked. “Do I know you?”

“No. But you will,” he said, turning. “Everyone does… eventually.”

He vanished into the crowd.

Helena stared after him, heart pounding.

Brentford wasn’t just another school.

It was a warning dressed in marble.

And she had just walked into the lion’s den.

By the second day, Helena had mastered the art of invisibility.

She kept her eyes forward, her steps quiet, and her answers short. Brentford students moved like they owned the marble floors—and many of them actually did. Their parents funded wings of the school, their names were etched into plaques and trophies. Hers? Just a number. Locker 317.

She twisted the dial carefully. 3-1-7. The click sounded louder than usual in the empty hall. Students had already moved to first period, but she’d stopped by her locker to grab a notebook she forgot.

As she opened the door, something fluttered out.

A folded piece of ivory paper, tucked between her books.

Helena frowned. She hadn’t placed it there. No one had been near her locker this morning. She looked around, but the hall was empty—except for the soft hum of ceiling lights.

She unfolded the note slowly, her heart tightening with every word:

“They watch you.

They always do.

Stay away from Greg Carter.

This school eats girls like you.”

No signature. No clue. Just the sharp scent of expensive cologne clinging to the paper.

Helena’s blood turned cold.

Stay away from Greg Carter.

Why? Because he was cruel? Or because someone else didn’t want him getting close?

She stuffed the note into her pocket just as the bell rang. Her shoes echoed as she hurried toward class, the letter burning against her hip.

She wasn’t scared. Not yet.

But she was curious.

And at Brentford Academy, that could be just as dangerous.

By lunchtime, the warning note had replayed in Helena’s mind a hundred times.

Stay away from Greg Carter.

She didn’t even want to be near him. He was rude, cold, and everything she hated about this school. But the note made her feel like she was part of a game she hadn’t agreed to play.

She sat at the far end of the courtyard again, by the same tree. A place where no one noticed her—and that’s exactly how she liked it. She unwrapped her sandwich and opened her notebook, but her eyes kept drifting to where Greg sat on the raised platform with his usual crew.

He was laughing at something Bianca whispered in his ear.

But it didn’t reach his eyes.

He looked up suddenly, and for a second—one sharp second—his eyes locked on hers.

Helena quickly looked away.

"Staring at him like that won’t save you," a voice murmured from behind her.

She turned fast, startled. The same boy from yesterday—the one with the missing tie and tired eyes—stood there again.

"You," she said. "Who are you?"

He sat beside her like it was his spot. Like they were friends.

"Name’s Theo. Been here long enough to know things," he said, casually stealing a bite from her sandwich like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Helena blinked. “Do you write mysterious death notes and leave them in lockers?”

Theo smirked. “No. My handwriting’s nicer.”

She tried to hide her grin, but it tugged at her mouth anyway.

“I’m serious,” she said. “Why are people warning me about Greg?”

Theo’s smirk faded.

“Because this school ruins people. Especially the ones who think they can get close to someone like him.”

Helena crossed her arms. “You sound like you hate him.”

“I don’t hate him,” Theo said, voice quieter now. “I just know what happened to the last girl who fell for him.”

Helena stilled. “What happened?”

Theo didn’t answer. He stood instead, dusting off his pants.

“Just… keep your guard up, scholarship girl,” he said over his shoulder. “Brentford isn’t kind to girls who dream too loud.”

He left her there, heart thudding and appetite gone.

Later that afternoon, her phone buzzed during chemistry.

One new message. Unknown number.

You were warned.

Now you’re being watched.

Helena’s blood turned to ice.

She scanned the classroom, her pulse racing.

Greg was two rows in front of her.

And for the first time, he was watching her too.

Greg’s gaze didn’t flinch.

Helena looked down, pretending to take notes, but her hand trembled slightly as she gripped her pen. The screen of her phone still glowed in her lap, the message seared into her mind:

You were warned.

Now you’re being watched.

Who sent it? Theo? No—it wasn’t his style. Bianca? Maybe. But this didn’t sound like one of her dramatic power plays.

This felt darker. Personal.

She dared a glance up. Greg was still watching. Not like someone caught mid-glance. No—his eyes were steady, focused. As if he wanted her to see.

The bell rang. Students groaned, books slammed shut, and chairs scraped the floor.

Greg stood, slow and deliberate, still holding her gaze like a dare. Then, without a word, he walked out.

Helena gathered her things with shaking hands. Her mind screamed to ignore him. To stay in the background. To stay safe.

But curiosity had always been her weakness.

She followed.

She didn’t even know why—only that she needed to know what he knew. About the note. About the warning. About why he kept looking at her like she was something he couldn’t decide to destroy… or protect.

She caught up with him just outside the back corridor, where the school’s towering glass windows overlooked the tennis courts. He was leaning against the wall, phone in hand.

“You sent the message,” Helena blurted.

Greg looked up, one brow arching. “What message?”

“The one that said I was being watched,” she said, holding up her phone. “You looked right at me when it came through.”

He gave a soft, almost amused chuckle and slipped his phone into his pocket.

“I look at people all the time. Doesn’t mean I’m texting them.”

Helena frowned. “Why do people keep warning me about you?”

Greg stepped closer. His presence was sudden and heavy, like thunder before a storm. His voice dropped.

“Because they need someone to blame,” he said quietly. “And I make a convenient villain.”

She swallowed hard but didn’t back away. “Are you one?”

“A villain?” He tilted his head. “Depends on the story.”

Helena opened her mouth to speak, but Greg leaned in just enough to rattle her.

“I didn’t send the message,” he said, gaze unwavering. “But whoever did… probably isn’t wrong.”

She stiffened. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” he said, his voice low and smooth, “Brentford isn’t a school. It’s a trap. And you just stepped into it blind.”

He turned away before she could answer.

Left her standing there, breath caught in her throat.

And somewhere deep in the shadows of the corridor… someone watched her walk away.