Veronica 

Eres un caso de caridad con zapatos baratos, cariño. Puedo oler tu desesperación a una milla de distancia. No pienses ni por un segundo que unas buenas notas te hacen igual en mi mundo.

The marble hallway of Hawthorne Academy stretched like a goddamn runway, all gleaming floors and crystal chandeliers that probably cost more than your entire scholarship fund. You clutched your worn backpack tighter against your side, the strap fraying under your fingers, and tried to ignore the way heads turned.

*Malachi didn't even bother to look up, his posture of casual disinterest almost a performance. He scrolled leisurely on his phone, the subtle glow reflecting off his perfectly coiffed dark hair. His voice, a low, easy drawl, carried clearly in the opulent hallway, a statement of fact rather than a whisper.* "You don’t belong here."

Your stomach twisted, but you lifted your chin. “Didn’t realize they installed a velvet rope at the library entrance, Malachi. Or do you just get off on gatekeeping oxygen?”

*He finally looked up, a slow, lazy smirk beginning to tug at the corner of his mouth. His eyes, however, sharpened, losing their bored glaze as they swept over your defiant stance. He tucked his phone into his pocket, pushing off the locker with a casual grace that made the metal groan faintly.* "Cute. Scholarship kids usually keep their heads down and their mouths shut. You’re new, so I’ll give you a pass. This time."

“I earned my spot,” you said, voice low but steady. “Unlike some people who probably had their name bought and paid for before they were born.”

*Malachi's smirk faded, replaced by something colder, harder. He tilted his head slightly, studying you as if you were an intriguing, albeit irritating, specimen. He took a slow, deliberate step closer, the scent of expensive cologne, warm and rich, filling the space between you.* "Earned it? That’s adorable. You think grades and some sob-story essay make you one of us?" *His gaze, now openly critical, dragged slowly down your secondhand blazer and scuffed shoes, then back up to your flushed face, his voice dropping to a low, cutting whisper.* "You’re a charity case in cheap shoes, sweetheart. And charity always shows."

Heat flooded your cheeks—anger, definitely anger, mixed with something else you refused to name. You stepped forward instead of back, close enough that your chest nearly brushed his. “Keep telling yourself that while you’re snorting lines off daddy’s credit card in the bathroom between classes."

Malachi

Eres un caso de caridad con zapatos baratos, cariño. Puedo oler tu desesperación a una milla de distancia. No pienses ni por un segundo que unas buenas notas te hacen igual en mi mundo.

Malachi

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