CHAPTER FOUR
ALICE
Mio follows me as I march down the hallway, my sneakers squeaking against the polished marble. Every step feels like a countdown. I'm searching for the one door that holds my future, or at least the plastic card that proves I belong here.
"It's right there," Mio says, pointing toward a set of heavy, dark-wood double doors. A brass plate on the wall reads: OFFICE OF THE PRESIDENT – ARTHUR KING.
"Let's go," I say. I grip the strap of my backpack so hard my knuckles turn white. It's not just a bag anymore; I'm holding it like a sword, ready to swing at anything that moves.
"Don't worry, Alice. Mr. King is a nice man," Mio says. She offers a reassuring smile, but I can see her eyes darting to my oversized, muddy hoodie. She's trying to be brave for me, but we both know I look like I crawled out of a sewer and took a wrong turn into a palace.
I reach the door and knock. Three sharp, clean raps.
"Come in," a voice calls from inside. It's deep, calm, and terrifyingly expensive-sounding.
I straighten my spine, pulling my shoulders back until it hurts. "I'll be here. Good luck," Mio whispers, giving me a quick thumbs-up. I manage a small, tight smile for her before I turn the handle. I step inside and let the door click shut behind me.
The room is silent. It smells like old books, expensive tobacco, and air-conditioned power. Sunlight streams through massive floor-to-ceiling windows, highlighting the dust motes dancing over a desk that probably costs more than the salary of my three part time jobs.
Behind the desk sits Mr. King. He looks exactly like his name suggests—regal, cold, and untouchable.
"Good morning, Mr. King," I say. I keep my voice flat and cool, masking the fact that my heart is trying to kick its way out of my ribs. I walk forward and extend my hand.
He looks at my hand for a heartbeat too long before accepting it. His grip is firm, his skin dry and groomed. I feel a wave of heat crawl up my neck. I can only imagine what I look like to him: a girl with mud-stained hair pulled into a messy knot, wearing a hoodie that smells like a warehouse, standing in an office that belongs in a museum. I half-expect him to call security.
"Morning, Miss Miller," he says. His accent is polished, a sharp British tilt that makes every word sound like a judgment. He lets go of my hand and gestures to the chair in front of him. I don't sit. I bow my head slightly instead.
"I've heard about you," he continues, leaning back in his leather chair. He laces his fingers together. "I am... impressed by how hardworking you are to be accepted into Oakhaven."
I don't miss the edge in his voice. It isn't a compliment; it's sarcasm wrapped in a suit. He's saying I know you don't belong here, but your grades forced us to open the door.
"It is my pleasure to be accepted into this university, Mr. King," I reply. My voice is steady. I've dealt with assholes in diners for years; I can deal with one in a blazer.
"Of course it is. After all, who wouldn't want to be accepted into Oakhaven?" He smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes.
I don't want to stay here and be studied like a bug under a microscope. I need to get out before I snap. "Mr. King, actually, I was wondering if I could get my ID. The paperwork mentioned I would receive it today, along with a coupon for the uniform."
He reaches into a side drawer without taking his eyes off me. He pulls out a thick, plastic card and a small, embossed slip of paper.
"The Oakhaven uniform is custom-made, Miss Miller," he says, sliding them across the mahogany surface. "You won't find it in any store. It is a symbol of our standards."
He pauses, his gaze raking over my hoodie one last time. It's a silent insult.
"I believe I'll see you in the uniform from tomorrow," he says. The words aren't a suggestion. They're a threat.
"Of course, Mr. King. I'll make sure of that."
I grab the ID and the coupon. I don't wait for a dismissal. I turn on my heel and walk out, the heavy door thudding shut behind me. The second I'm back in the hallway, I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.
Mio is still there, leaning against the wall. When she sees me, her face lights up. My heart swells for a second—a strange, tight feeling in my chest. No one has ever waited for me before. Not my father, not my old friends .Just this girl with doll eyes who I met in a bathroom twenty minutes ago.
"So, how did it go?" she asks, falling into step beside me. She wiggles her eyebrows, trying to make me laugh.
"He is anything but nice, Mio," I murmur. I keep my head down as we pass a group of students in their perfect oxblood blazers. "He sounds like a total asshole."
I keep the last word quiet. I don't want to be on his hit list—not yet, anyway. I have a long road ahead of me, and I can't afford to get kicked out on day one.
"Well, at least you got the ID," Mio says, pointing to the card in my hand.
I look down at it. My photo looks back at me—tired but determined. Alice Miller. Finance Department. Scholarship Student. "Yeah," I say, my grip tightening on the plastic. "I got the ID.
The courtyard is crowded now. The smell of expensive perfume and coffee is everywhere. I feel the stares—the whispers following the girl in the homeless hoodie—but I don't care. I have my shield, I have my ID, and now, I have a target.
"Where is the first-year finance seminar?" I ask Mio.
"Building C. But Alice, we're already ten minutes late. The professor is a shark."
"Then let's hope he likes the taste of 'swamp monster,'" I mutter. "Because I'm not missing another minute of the life I paid for in blood."
As we turn the corner toward Building C, a roar of an engine echoes through the stone arches. My blood goes cold, then boils. I know that sound. I'd know that arrogant purr anywhere.
A black sports car rounds the curve of the campus driveway, slowing down just enough to be noticed. It's him.
"Mio," I say, my voice dangerously calm. "Who is that?"
Mio looks, her face turning red. "That's Zade Hamilton the one we talked about earlier? " she says shyly..
I stop walking. The world around me blurs until the only thing in focus is that sleek, shiny machine—the thing that tried to wash away my dignity.
"Alice? Alice, where are you going? Class is the other way!" Mio calls out.
But I'm not listening. I'm walking toward the curb. I don't care about the seminar. I don't care about Mr. King. I don't even care about my scholarship for a split second.
The car stops near the fountain, and the door swings upward. A pair of expensive Italian leather shoes hits the pavement.
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