Semua Bab His Forbidden Muse: Bab 1 - Bab 8

I stare at the mirror, my reflection mocking me as I adjust the spare cheerleading top and the skirt Anna shoves into my hands. They're a little too tight and way too revealing for my liking, but at this point, beggars can't be choosers.The damp cardigan hangs limply over the bathroom stall door. I will never wear that again. No matter how much I adored that.Anna, meanwhile, is busy raving about Massimo like she hasn't just dragged me into a battlefield. Like I wasn't just publicly ridiculed by the very man she crushes over."I swear, Krystina, the way he fights? It's... so fine. Like, he's just so..." Her voice trails off, and she sighs dreamily."Annoying? A menace to society? A walking red flag?" I grumble, wringing my hair under the hand dryer. Almost tripping and hitting my nose on the sink.Anna rolls her light eyes. "Hot. The word is hot. Honestly, you're so dramatic."I look at her incredulously, towel-drying my bangs. "You do realize he humiliated me in front of the entire

I hate their eyes.I hate how they linger, how they undress, how they assume. How they dig under my skin like crawling insects, itching, burning and peeling every layer of me I've tried to build.It's suffocating sometimes.I've spent my entire life dodging attention, slipping through the cracks, becoming forgettable on purpose. But today?Today, I can feel them remembering me.The aftermath of Massimo's little show follows me like a shadow everywhere. In class. In cafeteria. In the washrooms. Girls glares me down.The boys? They don't even bother whispering.I can feel their stares dragging down my body in that lewd way that's making me want to crawl on Mama's lap and hide.And I want to vomit.Maybe if I claw at my skin hard enough, I'll peel away the layers of myself they think they know. The one they've crafted in their heads—the one he put on display.Massimo Bianchi.My tormentor. My scar. My personal curse wrapped in a leather jacket and an ego bigger than this entire campus.I

I can hear Papa snapping.He's so mad.And Mama—she's trying to calm him down, but it's not working. I can hear the strain in her voice, the way she's choosing her words carefully like she's walking on shattered glass.My room is close to the stairs, so no matter how quiet they try to be, I hear everything.I pull my knees closer to my chest, curling up tighter, pressing my face into the soft fur of my teddy bear. It's stupid, I know—holding onto something so childish at a time like this. But the weight of it in my arms is the only thing keeping me from shattering.I feel terrible.It's not my fault. I know that. But knowing doesn't make it feel any less like it is. I know that their anger has nothing to do with me. And yet—The guilt sits heavy on my chest.Like somehow, just by existing, I've caused this. If I never crossed paths with Massimo. If I never provoked him. If I never... wrote that letter.I squeeze my eyes shut.I hate this feeling.This crushing belief that I am the pro

I should've known better.Shame is a living thing. It slithers under your skin, curls tight around your ribs and squeezes the air from your lungs. It tastes bitter and feels like acrid acid burning the back of your throat.I swallow the lump in my throat as my fingers twitch against the cold linoleum floor.The laughter swells around me. I can hear everyone making fun of me. Some are outright crackling, others whispering behind their hands. Eyes gleam and peel my layers harshly. I can even see the phone flashes. They're recording me.I swallow again, and this time, I'm sure I'll end up crying. I press my palms down, willing myself to move.I can do this. Just get up, Krystina for god's sake.But my body won't listen.My muscles are locked, frozen in space between silence and chaos. I can't quite name it. Humiliation? Fear? The deep, clawing certainty that no matter what I do, won't change anything.I barely blink when I see them.A pair of black, polished leather boots. Something that